The familiar pain, for the fifth time in two hours, sixth time today, wracked his body.
How . . . ?
The beast was out of power. Lettie hadn’t been able to port the entire company, which was why they were in this mess. She had mismanaged the power consumption while the Valk ME had calculated hers correctly. But there was no doubt about it. Somehow, he was porting.
He felt a surge of relief, then guilt. He might survive the fight, but that was not going to change the inevitable, only that he would still have his bank account. His fellow miltechs would suffer.
An instant/eon later, he coalesced under the bright Wyoming sun.
“Take them out!” Abodaca passed on the net. “All of them!”
Isaac turned around. Ten meters away, a very surprised J4 crew looked over their shoulders as six chasseurs appeared. A hundred meters down the ridgeline towards the falls, six more from the platoon had ported by the second gun.
Isaac didn’t need a a repeat order. He moved before he consciously thought to, covering the ten meters in a second. The Valk gun crew were all big women, as were most Valks. But these weren’t the Valk shock troops, used to close-in fighting. The six Gryphon chasseurs hit them hard, using anger and days-upon-days of training, their instincts taking over. They were not a unit, operating in conjunction with each other, but were rabid dogs, ready to rend and tear.
The gunners didn’t have a chance. Isaac threw himself at the woman who had a moment before been firing a steady stream of rounds into the company—his company—below. He came in low, swinging his empty Compton up, the stock hitting her in the chin and dropping her bonelessly to the dirt. He looked for the next one, but the other three were already down: unconscious, for sure, ghosted possibly.
Isaac stood there, breathing heavily. His Compton, never designed for hand-to-hand combat, was demolished. He let it drop to the deck.
“Turn the guns on the Valks!” Adobaca shouted over the net.
Hell, of course!
Isaac pushed his victim out of the way and took her place. He’d never fired a J4 before, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. He swung the muzzle to aim down at the advancing Valks, then depressed the trigger, sending a stream of rounds high.
“Lower,” Tasha said.
The shoulder support was set for someone a little taller than him, but he stepped up on the body of the Valk he’d taken down, depressed the muzzle, and fired again, this time sending a stream of fire into the enemy. One, then another, and then a fourth J4 opened up, tracer fire reaching out and touching the Valks who dove for cover. But where the PimeMils had been in the sparse trees by the falls, giving them a tiny bit of cover, the Valks were out in the open. From above, they were totally exposed.
A shout that grew into a roar reached up to them, overpowering the sound of the falls. From the downed trees, from the nooks and crannies, Gryphon Company was rising and charging. These were the dragoons. Isaac was proud to be a chasseur, but there was something awe-inspiring seeing the heavy infantry charge.
The four J4s continued to wreak havoc among Valks. Their advance was broken, and with the charging Gryphons, a handful started to retreat. A few tried to form a line to stop the charge, but Isaac and at least one other J4 pounded them. More Valks began to retreat, and that trickle became a torrent. But by running, they lost whatever slight cover they had, and the four J4s extracted a heavy toll. Isaac saw them drop, yet he still fired. There were too few Gryphons there to oppose the Valks, so it was up to the teams on the four guns to keep them from realizing it.
His J4 clicked empty, and he called out “More ammo!” when the blessed recall sounded in every miltech’s earbud. Isaac could hear if from the earbud of the Valk he was standing on as well.
The battle was over. Somehow, someway, the Gryphons had pulled it off despite Lettie’s blunder. Training and force of will had saved the day.
Tasha pulled him off the Valk, and brought him in for a bone-crushing hug, laughing so hard she was crying. Jorge hit them like a bull, almost knocking them over.
“We won. We fucking won!” Jorge said. “I swear, I thought we were goners, for sure!”
“Me, too, Jorge. Me, too,” Isaac said, just letting it all sink in.
***
Four hours later, they were pulling into the old Yellowstone Lodge. Chairman Waanstadt himself was there, along with Director of Strategic Planning Lim and other bigwigs Isaac didn’t recognize. All wanted to be part of this. On the ride over, the driver had said the ratings were off the charts, and he asked for autographs. This was a big win, no doubt, one that would raise PrimeMil’s reputation (and fees).
A team from Beaker Ag was there, too, all smiles as they shook the hands of each MilTech as they exited the bus.
“Think we’ll get a bonus?” Jorge whispered as they filed through the impromptu receiving line. “Look at all of them. If they do, I’m gonna get me that new Razorback coupe.”
“What about your exes?” Tasha asked.
“Screw them.”
“That’s what go you into your mess in the first place,” she said with a laugh.
They went through the line of bigwigs, then formed up out-of-the-way on the side of the lodge while the next bus pulled up. A MilPrime flunky met them, all smiles.
“OK, if you can listen up for a moment, I’ve got some word to pass, then we’ve got a nice spread inside the lodge for you.”
Isaac’s stomach growled. They didn’t take food into battle. Extra weight and all that. Always on a strict diet, weighed every three days by the nutritional staff, an eating binge after a win was tradition and one of the things that kept them going.
“First, Beaker Ag has authorized a 15% bonus,” he said to the cheers of group. “In addition, they will not be attaching anyone’s personal account for medical care.”
“What’s the count?” someone behind Isaac asked.
“Well, it looks like twenty-nine Class 2 or higher,” he said, his enthusiasm toned down a few notches.
“Could be worse,” Tasha whispered to Isaac.
“How many ghosted?”
The flunky brightened and said, “None. No one!”
Isaac was shocked. Relieved, but shocked. When the J4s opened up, he’d seen miltechs fall, and he’d been sure some had died. Immediately after recall, the air ambulances had arrived and bodies loaded, Valk and PrimeMil alike.
“And more good news. The ratings were through the roof. Best in a year. Most were mid-joins.”
Which meant the word was being passed through the ethernet that a good fight was in the works.
“No word on the fan favorite, of course, but I’m sure it’s going to be from PrimeMil.
There was more good-natured cheering, then a voice called out, “Where’s the food? We’re starving!” to even louder laughter.
“OK, OK. You need to turn in your weapons at the armory truck parked in the lot, and then come back to the side entrance. Your dinner should be ready in another twenty minutes or so. If any of you need to see a medic, one will be there as you eat.”
Everyone was feeling good, more than good, and no one really minded lining up to turn in their weapons. Some bitched because it was a God-given right, even expectation, for soldiers to do so, but their hearts weren’t into it. Isaac gave his ruined Compton to MA4 Tong, expecting a rebuke, but the normally surly man said nothing as he entered the return into the system.
Along with Tasha and Jorge, he walked back around the lodge to where a line was already forming for chow. They joined the tail end, Isaac’s mouth watering as the smell of BBQ filled the air.
“Hey, look,” Jorge said, pointing back to the front of the lodge where the VIPs were still waiting for the last of the miltechs to return. “She’s got some balls to show up like that, after all she fucked up.”
ME3 Lettie Patel was rolling up on her chair, tiny body held in place by straps that crisscrossed her torso. Without them, she couldn’t sit upright. With all the Gryphon mil
techs being in superb physical condition, and where fitness was almost worshipped, it had seemed odd to have someone with an untreatable condition in uniform with them, but as a Military Engineer, all she needed was a sharp mind, not a robust body. And until today, she had proven not only to be up to the task, but to be an expert.
As she rolled up, all of the VIPs turned to her, gathering round. People posed for holos as if she was a star. Maybe she was. There were enough fanboys and girls who followed the trials that they knew the MEs, but the VIPs, those used to the rich and famous, were fawning over her.
“Don’t they know she almost cost us the win?” Jorge asked. “Look at them.”
The chow line finally started to move as the VIPs still crowded Lettie. It wasn’t until the next bus arrived that they broke off, reluctantly, it looked, to go greet the returning heroes.
Just before the three climbed the steps into the lodge, a single person who’d been waiting at the fringes of the VIPs, stepped up to her, a woman in a Valk uniform with the white engineer tab on her shoulders.
“I think that’s the Valk ME,” Isaac said, elbowing Tasha.
“I bet she’s pissed. She did it right, but we won,” Jorge added. “I wonder if she’s gonna punch Lettie.”
Isaac didn’t think so. The Valk ME had the slumped shoulders of the defeated, not the carriage of someone about to go to town on someone, even someone confined to a wheelchair.
“Next, let’s move it,” the woman at the door said. “People are waiting.”
Something kept Isaac back, though. He looked at the two ME’s deep in conversation. He wondered what the Valk had to say to Lettie. To his surprise, the Valk shook Lettie’s good hand, then leaned in to hug her. Valks and PrimeMils might not be enemies in the old sense, with countries going to war with each other, and they both belonged to the same union, but Isaac was not about to go seeking out Valks to hug them for a battle well fought.
And Lettie hadn’t fought well. The Gryphons had won despite her.
Then it hit him. The VIPs. The Valk ME. How they seemed to defer to her.
No, not won despite her. Because of her. He was sure of it. Lettie had planned it all. She knew how the game would play out, using feint within feint to get the Valk ME to act as she wanted her to. The grand chessmaster had moved her pawns around the battlefield, always thinking five moves ahead. In the end, checkmate had been a surprise, not only to the Valks, but to the PrimeMils.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he said, quietly to himself.
Isaac was smart. He was brave. He was in tip-top condition. But he knew his place in the company. He was a pawn. A well-paid pawn, but a pawn, nothing more. The real warrior was the young woman over there, trapped in her chair. She was the chessmaster, the one who determined if they won or lost, if they got paid a winners share, or if they got zeroed.
If he was going to be a pawn, he’d just as soon it was Lettie making the moves.
As if feeling his thoughts, she lifted her head and turned to him, catching his eye. She smiled and gave him a slow, deliberate wink.
Isaac drew himself up to his full 5’2” and saluted.
“Hey, you going to eat or not?” the woman at the door asked. “If you ain’t, then let the others go past you.”
Lettie gave him a nod before someone else came up to shake her hand. Behind her, in the distance, Old Faithful started its show, just as it had done for centuries. Isaac smiled, then turned to go through the door.
“No, I’m going to chow down. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”
Author Jonathan P. Brazee
Jonathan Brazee is a retired Marine infantry colonel, now a full-time writer with over 70 titles published. He is best known for his military SF, but he also writes paranormal, historical fiction, military fiction, and non-fiction. Published in The Expanding Universe 3, his novelette “Weaponized Math” was a 2017 Nebula Award Finalist, and his novel Integration was a 2018 Dragon Award Finalist.
He is a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the Disabled American Veterans, the US Naval Academy Alumni Association, and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, where he is the chair for the Professional Education Committee.
Jonathan lives in North Las Vegas, Nevada, with his wife Kiwi and three cats, and is getting ready to welcome twins after the start of the New Year.
You can find out more about him at: http://jonathanbrazee.com.
Breaker
By David VanDyke
When the most notorious freedom fighter in human space is captured, his mission is over. Or is it?
“Why did you decide to rebel again, Assault Captain Straker?” Inquisitor Lazarus poised his elegant stylus over the sheet of hardcopy, an intimidation by script.
“That’s Colonel Straker, you piece of shit clone. Or you can call me Liberator.” Straker flexed his big hands within the manacles as if to reach across the table to strangle the man before him. A system of chains on his feet and hands prevented him, attached to a stun-belt.
Two muscular, pebble-skinned Hok guards moved forward and lifted prods. Lazarus raised a forestalling hand. “No need for insults, Straker. You gave yourself promotions, but they were never confirmed by any legitimate government. Nor was your popular title, Liberator. But let’s put that aside.” Lazarus took out a pack of smokesticks and offered it, lighting one when Straker declined.
After a deep drag, Lazarus spoke again. “I return to my question. Why did you rebel against your government?”
“You’re twisting everything, as usual. I opted out. I didn’t rebel. I was loyal.”
“To what?”
“The Earthan Republic—which I helped create.”
“But you and your troops refused to stand down. Straker’s Breakers didn’t disband when ordered to. You escaped to the frontier worlds and hired yourselves out as illegal mercenaries.”
“You can spin it how you want. I’m not playing your games. Put me back in my cell.”
The Inquisitor’s smile would have done a lizard proud. “Not just yet. Let me try a different tack, then, Liberator. Tell me what you did in your own words. Characterize it how you wish.”
“No more bullshit?”
“Simply…tell me a story. Or would you rather be back in solitary?”
“Guess not.” Straker extended, double-handed, for the smokestick pack. Lazarus pushed it across the steel table with a fingertip, making sure not to come within reach of the prisoner’s manacled hands. Straker took one, but merely toyed with it. “It’s pretty simple, really. I united humanity, freed slaves, ended a two-century civil war, and fended off a genocidal invasion by two alien species.”
“Such hubris! ‘I did this’ and ‘I did that.’ You had a lot of help.”
“The history books say ‘Napoleon took Moscow.’ They don’t belabor the obvious that he had armies.”
“You see yourself as a Napoleon?”
“Up until he crowned himself Emperor, perhaps. I made a different decision. I handed power back to the civilians.”
“Or you were forced to, in order to get the military budget you needed for your warmongering shipbuilding program.”
Straker’s eyes radiated disbelief. “The Opters had already attacked us once. Our intel proved they were getting ready to invade the Republic—and they did. Without that shipbuilding program, we’d have lost the war.”
“So you say. Or maybe you set up the war in the first place in order to make yourself indispensable.”
“People like you,” Straker said with disgust, “people who can’t conceive of doing the right thing for its own sake, always believe others have ulterior motives.”
“Perhaps.” Lazarus inhaled, blew out smoke to the side, inundating one of the stoic Hok. “Back to the question at hand. If you really handed power over to the civilians, why didn’t you comply and stand down?”
“Because they’d already gone back to their usual corruption. The straw that broke the camel’s back came when the Republic I saved wrote me ou
t of the Constitution.”
Lazarus waved his smokestick. “What does that even mean? Constitutions don’t designate individuals. Their purpose is government by laws, not persons.”
“See, twisting again. You know I meant they wrote my title and position out. Liberator.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard.”
Straker snorted. “Sure. Anyway, the position of Liberator was supposed to be a lifetime appointment by the Senate. A form of constitutional monarch. The conscience of the Republic, above politics, with limited but real powers. That’s what was needed—an impartial hand, firm but light. Without it, look at yourselves. You’re already devolving into a police state run by a kleptocracy. No wonder we left.”
Lazarus brushed a bit of ash off his tailored silk jacket. “More likely you just couldn’t stand it when you weren’t allowed to be a tyrant.”
Straker snorted louder. “That didn’t bother me. I could stomach an ungrateful government. It was when you scumbags tried to arrest all of us that I realized we had to leave.”
“It wasn’t arrest. It was detention pending a hearing. When you were convicted, internal exile would have been the worst result.”
“When we were convicted? Now you’re betraying your collectivist roots, Lazarus—guilty until proven innocent, right? And nobody’s ever innocent.”
Lazarus ignored the jab. “You would have been settled on a comfortable planet. Faced with that, you claim your only choice was to run?”
Straker laughed, an evil chuckle that actually gave the Lazarus clone pause. “No. We had two choices. Run—or do what we’d done before.”
“Which was?”
“Liberate humanity once again.”
“Try to overthrow the legitimate government, you mean.”
“Once a government ignores its own highest laws, silences opposition by force and takes political prisoners, it’s no longer legitimate. And make no mistake—I’d have done it.”
It was Lazarus’ turn to snort. “Please. Three hundred soldiers against a thousand worlds?”
“Three hundred soldiers once changed the course of human history.”
The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology) Page 6