The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology)

by Craig Martelle

  “Ha! Fat chance of them taking you,” Tasha said.

  As in zero chance. The Valkyrie Brigade was a top-of-the-line, professional company, but one that only accepted female apprentices. They were expensive, but claimed they were worth it. Maybe they were. They boasted a superb win-lost ratio, at least. Isaac hadn’t been overjoyed when he found out the GMI had hired on the Valks for this trial, but if he’d refused to fight, he’d lose his union card. Lose the card, and not a single Tier 1 company would hire him, leaving only the gray-market companies, which fought nasty, semi-legal trials in the shitholes of the world.

  “Skipper, I’m counting a full platoon coming up the west side of our pos,” Tasha said into her throat mic.

  “A platoon? Shit,” Jorge said as he overheard her. “Where’s Lettie?”

  “Charging the beast,” Isaac said.

  At least, that was what he hoped she was doing. Military Engineer 3 Lettie Patel was young, gifted, and very aggressive. She had a habit of pushing the envelope, which had paid off so far. But living on the razor’s edge meant failure was only a millimeter away, and that failure could be catastrophic.

  “The skipper says hang tight,” Tasha, their team leader, relayed.

  Debris showered them as automatic rifle fire ate up the edge of their fighting hole. Tasha’s snakeyes took a direct hit, flinging the top portion to the rear of their fighting position.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” she snarled, pulling it in and examining the ruined lens. “A hundred-and-a-half BCs gone.”

  Tough on Tasha’s pocket. More pertinent to Isaac was that now they had no eyes on the Valks unless they exposed themselves. Each of the three had the latest and greatest helmets from Anodyne, and they should protect their heads from whatever the Valks could throw at them, even their J4, but should was the operative word. Two missions ago, Kofi Ocloo had taken a .221 round that cracked his helmet and ghosted him. “My bad, so sad,” was crux of the Anodyne rep’s response to the union complaint.

  Their position was rapidly becoming untenable. Gryphon Company’s 2nd Light Chasseur Platoon was trained for quick, rapid movement. Comprised of smaller miltechs, chasseurs were lightly armed and trained for hit-and-run action. They were not organized nor trained for static warfare, and Isaac hadn’t liked being split up and on their own in what was essentially a three-person observation post. With a Valk platoon on them—and from the chatter of the big J4 gun, a heavy dragoon platoon—the three of them didn’t stand a chance unless Lettie came through. Despite sticking up for her a minute ago, Isaac was beginning to wonder if this time she’d gone too far and left them hung out to dry. PrimeMil didn’t have a rep for wasting techs, but sacrificing three to score a win over the Valks might pencil out, especially with regards to booking future trials.

  “Hey, PeeEms!” a voice shouted out from below them. “I hope your union dues are paid, ‘cause you’re about to get ghosted.”

  “Did you hear that?” Jorge said, firing another wild burst over the edge of the fighting hole.

  “The bitches are just trying to panic you,” Tasha told him.

  “They’re doing a good job at it,” he muttered.

  Isaac glanced at his wristcomp, checking the time. Surely the beast’s capacitors were charged by now. But nothing, not even a hint.

  What’s Lettie doing? She’s got to see what’s happening.

  The longer this went on, the closer the Valks came to overrunning them, and the more being a sacrifice sounded like the game in play. That sucked big time. Within the union, there was an unofficial policy of limiting casualties when all was lost, but the Valks had a reputation of going all out all the time. Isaac had almost saved enough to buy into the navigators’ guild, and getting zeroed would set him back to square one. He was getting too old for this shit, so getting zeroed might be all she wrote with his career.

  “Princess Lettie’s finally over-reached. Too bad it’s you grunts who have to pay the price. Come on, just surrender. We promise we won’t hurt you,” the voice called out.

  “Much, that is,” another voice, sounding very young, shouted out as laughter rolled up the hill—laughter that was getting very close.

  Jorge looked at the other two. Surrender would forfeit their union cards, never to work again. But they wouldn’t be zeroed. They could simply cash out. Isaac was tempted, but Tasha’s scowl made her opinion known. Besides, although time was running short, Lettie could still save their asses.

  “Think Beaker Ag will pull the plug?” Jorge asked, his voice hopeful.

  “We’re the only ones in contact, Jorge,” Tasha said. “They aren’t going to give in to GMI that easily. ‘Sides, they haven’t tallied up much in broadcast credits yet.”

  The financial incentive for a company or state to order a stand-down was significant. The fewer miltechs wounded, the less they’d have to pay for medical treatment and rehab. Even with the miltechs themselves contributing their entire savings, costs almost always exceeded that by far. More than a few companies and/or their insurance companies had gone bankrupt after keeping a hopeless fight going too long. But the corporate or government heads were humans, with all their foibles, and some just couldn’t bear to see a hated rival win. So they made stupid decisions . . . and the miltechs in the field paid the blood price.

  “So, we can crouch here like cornered rats and wait, or we can go out with a bang,” Tasha said. “Maybe get the fan vote.”

  “Why the hell not?” Jorge said with a sigh. “Might as well give it a shot.”

  “OK, then. Let’s kick a few asses. On three: one . . . two . . . THREE!” she shouted as she popped up along with Jorge and Isaac.

  With most of the fire coming front the front and keeping the three pinned, eight Valks were moving quietly out in the open on their left flank to envelope them, not 20 meters away. The shock on their faces was almost comical as they dove to get out of the line-of-fire, but they were too close to miss.

  “Get some!” Jorge shouted as he sprayed fire on them.

  Isaac was a little more deliberate, targeting vulnerable legs. He hit a Valk in the back of her knee as she ran pell-mell back down the slope. She tumbled spectacularly, ass-over-head before sliding to a stop a good ten meters from cover. Isaac let her be as she curled into a ball, clutching the back of her leg. He followed union practices, even if rumor held the Valks did not.

  Two rounds hit him from the Valk base-of-fire, one pinging off his helmet, the other smacking him right in the chest. Luckily, neither were fired from the Valk’s JP4 machine gun, and the smaller rounds didn’t penetrate his armor, but they were enough for him to duck back down into the fighting hole.

  “Oh, man, did you see them?” Jorge said, breathing heavily as he laughed like a maniac. “Running like rabbits. That might be enough for fan favorite, don’t you think?”

  Isaac didn’t think. Sure, it could hit the highlight reels, but it probably wouldn’t be enough. Not that he wouldn’t appreciate it if it did get the vote. Ten-thousand BC’s was nothing to sneeze about, and that was untouchable even if they did get zeroed. But he nodded and said “Sure.” Jorge was flighty as a butterfly, going from despair to exultation in the space of a few heartbeats, but at 5’4” and 131 pounds of solid muscle, he was one of the more physically imposing members of the platoon and could be a good soldier when they were in the shit.

  “How many did you get?” Tasha asked, ever the professional.

  “One for sure. Took out her knee,” Isaac answered.

  “I got three or four,” Jorge added.

  Which wasn’t true. Isaac had seen only one Valk go down. Jorge might have hit three or four, but body shots that didn’t penetrate their armor meant nothing. He didn’t say anything. Better to have Jorge on a high.

  “Medivac!” a Valk’s amplified voice rolled up the hill.

  “Five minutes!” Tasha yelled back, relying on pure lung power.

  All three popped their heads up to watch, hoping to better spot the disposition of the Valks faci
ng them. Only two appeared, rushing out to the Valk Isaac had shot. Her groans were clearly audible as they lifted her, one on each side, clasped hands making a seat. Within a few moments, they had carried her out of sight where she’d be shot up with painkillers and left until the end of the battle. No one would be wasting power to get her off the battlefield before then.

  “Honor to you,” the voice called out again, the standard thanks for the truce, and the signal that it was now over.

  “See anything?” Tasha asked the other two as they slid back into their fighting position.

  “Just those three,” Isaac said.

  “Yeah, I got her good, didn’t I?” Jorge said, slapping the stock of his Compton. “That’s what you get when you take on PrimeMil, bitches,” he added, drawing out the “beetches.”

  “Think they’re going to try a frontal assault again?” Isaac asked Tasha, ignoring Jorge.

  Tasha was a MT-3 with 18 campaigns under her belt. She’d been zeroed three times and was considered a hard-ass soldier. This was only Isaac’s seventh campaign, third with a Tier 1 company, and he respected his team leader’s experience.

  “I don’t know,” she said, eyebrows scrunched up as she thought about it. “They’ve still got that JP4 with them to provide a good base of fire, but it would still be costly. They might bring a squad, but the power draw . . .” she trailed off.

  “Could they bypass us?”

  “Sure, and maybe they will. But with the other five teams, they need to take some of us out before they go after the skipper and the rest of the company. And I think we’re the most vulnerable.”

  Isaac had been afraid of that, but it was still sobering to hear Tasha confirm it. While the two forces felt each other out, the Valks hadn’t revealed enough yet for the skipper and Lettie to know what they were up to, but it was obvious that they’d have to take out at least a couple of the OPs. The fact that the platoon facing them had a JP4, with all the weight penalties that entailed, was proof enough that the Valks knew that, too.

  The Yellowstone Military Arbitration Reservation was noted for peaks and long fields of vision, and with Lettie emplacing six teams into selected high grounds, the advantage had shifted slightly to the PrimeMils. Great for the company, not so great for the 18 miltechs of the 2nd Chasseur Platoon who manned the positions.

  Most companies would have played it safe, keeping the unit together while each side feinted and probed until an opening presented itself, but most companies didn’t have Lettie. “Princess Lettie,” the Valks had called her with disdain—but Isaac knew with more than a little jealousy, too. Lettie had hit the scene on the run, with six impressive victories in a row. Isaac thought that this time, however, she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

  “Skipper,” Tasha asked MT 6 Merrill Listrom, their company commander, “I don’t think we can hold on much longer. Anything from Lettie?”

  Tasha bled PrimeMil black-and-copper, so for her to even ask was telling. She listened to the reply, for a moment, then placed her hand on her throat mic and told the other two, “He’s checking, but he said Lettie’s not keeping him in the loop.

  The skipper was a Level 6 and technically the commander, but he was still a MT like the rest of the miltechs. Lettie was only a Level 3, but she was an ME, a military engineer, so once the battle commenced, she had all the power—literally, as well as figuratively.

  Tasha’s eyes lost their focus for a second as she listened, and then she asked, “OK. Understood. Can you at least tell us what the Valks are doing?”

  It wasn’t the skipper who answered but rather the Valks. The J4 opened up again, chewing at the top of the fighting position, showering the three miltechs with dirt. Isaac tried to scrunch his 5’2” frame even deeper into the bottom of their position. Over the din of the firing, they heard the unmistakable pop, pop, pop of displaced air on the backside of their position, in defilade to the incoming Valk fire.

  “How many?” Tasha shouted as all three spun around to face the rear. “I counted nine.”

  “I got ten,” Isaac answered, his Compton raised, ready to engage the first head that appeared.

  Which probably meant a Valk squad of 13 had just appeared on the other side of their fighting position.

  “Come on, Lettie!” Jorge shouted.

  The incoming fire ceased, and Tasha said “Get ready to ghost the assholes.” A Valk J2 Carbine, held aloft, appeared over the edge of their fighting hole and fired, hitting the dirt walls just over their heads. “Jorge, right; Isaac, left. Don’t let them enfilade us.”

  Isaac swung his Compton to the left, ready to fire at anyone who came into his field of view. More J2’s popped up in front of them, once again without the Valks wielding them exposing more than their hands, firing without aiming. But an unaimed round sucked just as much as an aimed one if it got lucky and hit them.

  An undulating battle cry sounded from the right, designed to instill fear—and doing a pretty good job at that—as the Valks commenced their final assault . . . and pain wracked Isaac’s body, as the very atoms that made him were torn apart.

  “About fucking time,” Jorge shouted, firing a final burst from his Compton.

  Through his agony, Isaac barely registered the Valk who appeared at his side of the firing position, J2 raised to fire at him as his world went dark . . . before coalescing again a microsecond later—or an eternity (he was never able to decide on which)—in the same body position as if still in their fighting position. But instead of on the military crest of the high ground they’d been occupying, they were down on the banks of what had to be the Yellowstone River.

  The intense pain was gone, as if it had never happened—“ghost pain.” Isaac sprang to his feet, orienting himself as Tasha and Jorge scrambled up beside him, Comptons at the ready.

  “Nothing like cutting it close,” Jorge said, his voice sharp and angry. “I was already shitting myself.”

  “Stop bitching. Just be grateful that she got us out of there,” Tasha said, breathing hard from the adrenaline rush. “Either of you hurt?”

  Isaac had to check, remembering the flash of the Valk’s muzzle just as he ported. He patted himself down, relieved to find nothing. Jorge was fine, too, if still fuming.

  “So, what—” Isaac started to ask before Tasha held up her hand to stop him.

  Isaac never understood the company policy of limiting comms to command freqs. If Tasha went down, his comms would kick in the command nets, and the skipper could pass to all hands when he wanted, but for the most part, the grunts were kept in the dark, relying on team leaders to pass the word. Before he’d made the jump to PrimeMil, he’d been with Absolute Military for four battles, a third-rate outfit at best, but they’d all been on connected nets during a fight. There had to be a reason that PrimeMil did things differently. But he was damned if he knew what it was.

  “OK, we’re to stand by,” Tasha relayed to them. “The Valks just ported half their company to Fountain Flats, like we thought they would.”

  First Dragoon Platoon had been emplaced at the edge of Sentinel Meadows where they had extensive fields of fire for their Sakura .30 cal heavies, the most powerful weapon in the Gryphon’s arsenal for this mission. Lightweight for their punch, they still took an exorbitant amount of power to port, so once emplaced, they tended to stay put until the battle was over, and they tended to attract a lot of attention as a target. Only this time, they were a feint. The platoon’s position was good, but not optimal, and the Valks probably thought they saw an opening in an unmarked trail that paralleled the treeline.

  The skipper and Lettie had decided to sacrifice the two real guns there to entice the Valks to expend power porting one or both heavy platoons to Fountain Flats. The other two Gryphon Company guns were elsewhere, being held in reserve for the actual Gryphon assault. When the Valks hit the platoon—which was more of a squad playing the part of a platoon--Lettie would port the miltechs out but leave the power-sucking guns behind.

  “T
hat’s right,” Jorge said. “Keep porting all around the reservation. Use up your power while we dance around you.”

  Angry just minutes before, Jorge had undergone another sea change, as usual. Isaac suspected that had a direct correlation to his money woes. Going from the possibility of getting zeroed to a nice winners’ share had that effect on someone.

  “Any indication on which options we might take?” Isaac asked Tasha.

  “Not a one.”

  Which was to be expected. The company had been given a detailed operations order, as usual, by PrimeMil’s Director of Strategic Planning herself, which was not the usual for a one-company job. The board was probably foaming at the bit with the opportunity not only to win one over the Valks, but at their share of an expected inflated viewer royalty pot as well. Given by the director or not, no ops order Isaac had ever received survived past first contact. Too much in any fight depended on the maneuver/counter-maneuver by the MEs.

  “Don’t matter none. Lettie’ll take this one to the bank,” Jorge said, walking to the edge of the river while unclasping his armor codpiece and opening his fly.

  And the agony of porting hit him again, the second time in less than ten minutes. The experts said that multiple ports over a short period of time didn’t intensify the “discomfort,” as they referred to it, but miltechs swore just the opposite. The “discomfort” set every nerve in his body alight and as the beam took hold and broke him apart. He knew he’d forget the pain as soon as he arrived, but that didn’t affect the here and now, and he wanted to scream. Of course, he couldn’t. He was frozen in time and space as the beast disassembled him at the river, then . . . the pain was gone as he was reassembled, good as new, as if the agony had never happened.

  Tasha was beside him, and a few feet away, Jorge was still answering the call of nature.

  “Hell, that wasn’t cool, Lettie!” he shouted to the sky as he fastened his fly.

  They weren’t alone this time. The entire platoon, not only the six teams that had been sent to man the OPs, were materializing around them in a clearing, surrounded by evergreens, the crisp smell banishing even the ghost pain out of his thoughts.