“Why?”
Bjorn looked seaward. “Because crabs hate chlorine.”
Alaska, Then
“What happened?” Bjorn managed to croak. His mouth was dry, and he was vaguely aware that pain circled like hungry dogs, probably kept at bay by drugs and nanites. As his hearing returned, Bjorn could make out the tell-tale beeps of medical monitors. He cracked his eyes, squinting at the sterile brightness.
“Thank Frigg!” His mother came to his bedside. “Sweetie, can you hear me?”
Bjorn nodded weakly. “Where am I?”
“Providence Medical in Anchorage.”
A few disjointed memories returned. “There was a bear.”
“Not anymore,” Bjorn’s father rumbled from the door, filling the frame. “You blew his fucking face off.”
“BJ.” Short for Bjorn Junior, mom was the only person who could get away with calling Bjorn’s father that.
His father rolled his eyes. “He’s not ten. If a Kodiak couldn’t kill him, an f-bomb from his old man won’t. While I was trying to get off my ass out of the snow, you pulled your sidearm and shoved it under the bear’s chin while the damned thing was trying to eat you. You put three rounds into the sonavabitch’s skull. I’m proud of you, son.”
It only took getting mauled by a bear to hear his father say that.
“And I’m sorry, son. If I hadn’t fallen, if I’d been paying attention…”
“BJ, it was an accident. Trip knows that.” Trip had been Bjorn’s nickname from his mother, after Bjorn the Third.
Bjorn tried to flex his fingers. He felt his right ones budge, but not his left. Then he realized he couldn’t feel his left arm. It seemed like every part of his body was a dull ache but the left arm. “My arm?”
“Don’t worry, son. You’re getting the best care credits can buy.”
Now
Bjorn pulled his motorcycle up alongside the black and gray command rumbler, an eight-wheeled multi-terrain armored fighting vehicle that served as his mobile HQ. He absently rubbed the tarnished Thor’s hammer pendant that hung on a synthleather cord with a half dozen bear claws. Dropping the kickstand and killing the engine, he swung off the motorcycle. He thumped up the ramp into the mobile command post, reaching for the locker that held his haptic suit.
“Commander.” Captain Hawkins didn’t salute Bjorn per combat protocols. Never give a sniper intel on who he should shoot. Hawkins had been with him for as long as Bjorn had been in the Berserkers.
“Bill, what do you have for me?” Bjorn watched the screens come to life as he shucked his leather jacket, then boots. He kept undressing down to his boxers, heedless of the rumbler’s hatch being open. Modesty was a luxury, and he didn’t have the time or give a shit.
“Five objects made it through the defensive batteries and splashed down five clicks east of the beach. Based on optical and radar, it looks like they are Xiq’tal drop pods.” Maps and images flashed up on the Tri-V screens.
“Fucking crabs. I thought so.” Bjorn stepped into the haptic suit which would let him pilot his CASPer battle armor. He struggled a bit with the magnetic zipper, another side effect of a long garrison stint. Once this was over, he’d need to up his PT regimen, maybe put in some time working out alongside the troops. “This means it’s a first wave. Someone else is planning on joining the party once the Xiq’tal have shaken things up and worn us down.”
Captain Hawkins nodded as he scrolled through the data on his slate. Out of all the mercenary races, the Xiq’tal were reputed to be one of the dumbest, but they were almost as good as Tortantulas as shock troops and far less expensive. They were amphibious, which made them particularly useful for assaulting coastal targets. Called crabs for their resemblance to the Terran creatures, the typical Xiq’tal trooper was two meters wide, with six legs, a pair of fighting arms ending in large claws, and a pair of manipulator arms. Real nightmare fuel. Add to that a weapon pod wired into their nervous system, and fighting a crab was like fighting a small armored vehicle that wanted to eat you. “They’re watching for emergence signatures and scrambling orbital patrols.”
“The same bozos that missed the crabs coming out of hyperspace to begin with? Someone’s ass is getting docked a shit-load of credits.” Another merc outfit handled orbital and emergence point defense; the Berserkers’ flying assets were recon and assault transport only.
Hawkins nodded, continuing to parse data and cast the most important ones to the Tri-V displays. “They probably dropped running silent, coasted in, and course-corrected halfway from the La Grange point. Most of the time they would have shown up on sensors as small carbonaceous asteroids, maybe a meteor shower.”
“I bet the crabs jumped the gun, probably got fucking hungry. Someone should have known better or thought they’d wreak enough havoc it didn’t matter.” Bjorn slid on the headpiece and made sure the contacts aligned with his pinplants. “What’s the civilian sitrep?”
“Civil authorities are clearing the beach and trying to get civilians off of the streets. They are evacuating the neighborhoods adjacent to the beach.” The beach and the port were the only parts of the land mass that sloped down to the ocean. The rest of the shoreline was a cliff that rose up to the plateau. “The seaport has been closed, and incoming vessels are being waved off. Fortunately, most of the aqua-agriculture boats are already out to sea. Non-essential personnel are being cleared out of the industrial complex.”
Bjorn looked at the displays one more time before climbing down and striding toward the next rumbler in line. Captain Hawkins fell into step, continuing the briefing and reporting on the disposition of various units as they arrived at their assigned zones.
“Owlbear already has flyers and UAVs watching for incursion attempts along the cliffs as well as watching for the Xiq’tal to surface.”
Bjorn nodded. Captain McCain commanded Owlbear, the scout company. He was a veteran from when Bjorn’s father ran the Berserkers and a survivor of Moloq. He knew his business when it came to running the recon company so Bjorn let him do his thing. The last thing Bjorn needed to do was gum up the works by making competent officers wait on his go-ahead to do their jobs.
Two small reptilians peered around the back of the rumbler, elSha armorers. They were responsible for working on Bjorn’s CASPer, Left Hook, named for the augmented left arm structure. The meter-tall aliens scampered ahead of Bjorn up the ramp into the rumbler.
“Everything good to go, boys?”
Both lizards nodded their green heads and gave Bjorn a thumbs-up. While they understood Human speech, they needed vocal-translators to render their hisses and clicks into something the Humans could understand.
“Left Hook load out per Bjorn Boss instructions,” one of them said through the translator. He had given up trying to tell Hek and Vek apart, though somehow Hawkins always knew which one was which.
Bjorn looked over the Binning Mark 7 before turning around and going through the contortions required to climb through the clamshell hatch into the battle armor. Once in and the system confirmed connection to his haptic suit, the hatch closed and his Tri-V HUD lit up, creating a virtual view around his CASPer. He felt the slight buzz as his pinplants linked his mind with the on-board computer. He swept through the status displays for his suit, then mentally shrank them to one corner of his field of view.
“Bruin Command Actual, on line.” As Bjorn received his comm check confirmation, he brought up the battlespace display. “Bettie, can you read me?”
“Loud and clear, Bruin Command.” Bettie was the battlefield tactical computer. Most decent-sized merc units had a battlefield tactical computer. “Updating your battlespace and networking all company commanders for sitrep.”
The captains of the other five companies reported in, all were already standing by. Like Bjorn, the captains of Kodiak and Grizzly companies were in CASPers, the other captains in their command vehicles.
“You all have the reports on the Xiq’tal. They aren’t here to capture an objective,
they’re here to fuck shit up and chow down on us dirt-monkeys.” Bjorn brought up the map, highlighting areas as he gave commands. He’d been pissed about the pinplants when he first found out they’d been installed while he was hospitalized, but now they were invaluable, and using them had become second nature. “Grizzly Company, you’re in charge of protecting the seaport and the industrial complex, Ursus Company you’re supporting them from their left flank. Owlbear will have eyes on the right flank to make sure the crabs don’t try to get creative on the cliffs there.
“Kodiak, you’re holding the beach, Polar, you’re supporting them from the wall along the promenade avenue.” Bjorn was thankful for the short front the terrain created. When the crabs hit, they’d hit hard and try to push through to get into the urban area behind the beach and the industrial area past the port. Crabs didn’t like shooting matches, even with the weapon pods they had glued to their carapaces. They liked up close and personal fights where they could be terrifyingly effective, especially against unaugmented opponents. Unlike Tortantulas, though, they wouldn’t fight to the last. Like most aliens, once a fight became unwinnable, they’d roll over and live to eat you another day.
“Auggies need to bear the brunt of the attack.” Augmented infantry were those using battle armor like CASPers. The Berserkers were equipped with a mix of Mark 6 and Mark 7 suits. Not top-of-the-line, but a lot less expensive since the Mark 8s came out, and more than capable of standing up to Xiq’tal troopers. “The rest will provide support fire; make sure everyone knows to treat the Xiq’tal as enemy vehicles.”
The crabs’ carapaces would stand up to small arms fire and were naturally refractive to energy weapons, but enough brute force would crack their shells, and enough joules of energy would burn through. That meant using anti-vehicle weapons and munitions, which greatly limited the amount of useful weapons and ammo among foot infantry. Bjorn dismissed the conference to let the company commanders relay orders and deploy their troops.
“Captain Hawkins, make sure Bruin Charlie and Delta are ready to swing to either front.” The rumblers in those platoons were Combat Assault Systems Vehicular, nicknamed Casanovas, armored fighting vehicles. They would be able to quickly reach the beach or the port from Bruin Company’s position.
Alaska, Then
“I can’t play football?” Bjorn’s voice had returned over the past day, which he had spent sleeping and learning about the extent of his injuries and the ensuing treatment. He was only alive because his father had been carrying his military trauma kit and had been able to call a med-flyer to evac them. The nanites in the trauma kit had stabilized Bjorn enough to survive until they reached the hospital. Part of him wished he had died out in the snow with that fucking bear; his life was over.
“I’m sorry son. I know how much that means to you.” His father actually sounded sincere.
“Just focus on your recovery, sweetie.” Bjorn’s mother had always encouraged Bjorn’s athletic aspirations, in part because she didn’t want to see her only child die on some alien world. Sure, that meant that when Bjorn’s father was done running the Berserkers they’d have to sell out rather than passing it on to Bjorn, but all the credits in the galaxy couldn’t replace your child.
“Look on the bright side, son.” His father’s smile tugged at his beard. “After you finish physical therapy, you can still take your VOWS. You’ll still be eligible for mercenary work once you get back on your feet and back up to snuff.”
Bjorn tried to clench his left fist.
Now
Half an hour had been spent watching the battlespace update as units moved into position. Data from those units, as well as previously deployed scout units, fed into the computer, which was watching for the first signs of the Xiq’tal scuttling out of the deeps.
Finally the first tell-tales appeared on the map as crabs swarmed out of the water around the piers in the port. Some of them doubled back onto the piers to attack the mercenaries firing down into the water while others tried to make their way towards the manufactories in the industrial complex.
Bjorn watched the updates as his men engaged the Xiq’tal. “Bettie, what’s the latest feed from the beach units?”
“Last incoming feed was updated 15 seconds ago. No change, no enemy contact.”
There had to be more crabs than this. A pod, which acted as a combination dropship and submarine, typically carried 100 Xiq’tal troopers. Bjorn scanned the battlespace, checking the units engaged on the piers. All were augmented infantry, the unaugmented troops providing fire support from the defensive walls surrounding the industrial zone. Bjorn would rather be on offense, looking for the weak point or lynch pin in the opposing force, like when he used to hunt down opposing quarterbacks. But for now he’d have to look for the blitz.
“Grizzly, don’t let them pin you down on the piers, they’re trying to break through to the industrial complex.” He sent a mental instruction to Bettie to highlight the relevant zones on the map. “Be advised, Owlbear reports some of the crabs are carrying ack-ack pods, so you’ll need to do this the hard way.” Jumping over the Xiq’tal would normally be the fastest way for the CASPers to get across the battlefield, but the flying armor would be easy targets in the sky if they stayed up for more than a few seconds. They had already lost a handful of UAVs and a flyer that didn’t get out of the firing envelope fast enough. The last thing they wanted to do was get brought to ground among the crabs, even in a CASPer. While the battler armor was tough, the crabs loved trying to pull the suits’ limbs off.
The beach was still quiet. Bjorn didn’t like it. “All you guys chilling on the beach, keep your eyes peeled. Hawkins, send Charlie and Delta to hit the crabs at the piers, Zones 5 and 6, try to give those CASPers an opening to push out.”
The units barring the way to the manufactories had started taking casualties, but not heavily. They were well placed and started pouring fire as soon as the crabs were in range. Bjorn watched the enemy rate of attrition versus the pace of their advance. On the other side of the battle, the CASPer units on the pier pushed into Zone 6 en masse, not only blunting the crabs’ charge but pushing them back into Zone 5. Tell-tales appeared in the battlespace as commanders gave their troops their orders and targets. The Casanovas got into position and opened up on Zone 5, their magnetic accelerator cannons pouring a deluge of armor-piercing rounds into the massed Xiq’tal, punctuated with the occasional missile explosion.
Then a wave of crabs burst from the surf along the beach, water spilling off their grey carapaces. Half again as many as the invaders that had hit the port, this force had to scuttle from the water across an expanse of open sand. The Berserkers used that opportunity to pepper the crabs with missiles and MAC fire. Unaugmented infantry stationed along the promenade wall and on top of the buildings closest to the beach fired squad support machine guns and portable missile launchers into the crabs further back in the surge.
The crabs responded with flechette launchers and propelled acid grenades. Neither were long-range weapons and posed little threat to the CASPers at the forefront of the fight, but the closest unaugmented infantry, hunkered down behind the wall behind the beach were susceptible to acid grenades popping off over their positions. Fortunately, automated anti-ordnance weapons were picking off most of the Xiq’tal grenades in mid-flight, raining acid down on the beach but not the unprotected troops.
Bjorn spared a glance at the seaport fight. The crabs had tried to pinch off the CASPer units before they could get off the pier but had reacted too slowly and suffered heavy losses from the Casanovas. Now the CASPers were hitting the rear of the Xiq’tal, breaking up the crabs’ assault and wreaking havoc. The Xiq’tal liked to use their largest fighting claw as a shield, which they couldn’t when attacked from behind.
Several blinking icons along the beach front drew his attention. Another wave of crabs had emerged from the water near the beach, one of them notably larger than the others. Upon the arrival of the larger Xiq’tal, several crabs simultaneous
ly peppered the unaugmented positions with grenades. Guns began to go offline as acid misted down and corroded sensor elements and tracking gimbals. The crabs surged forward, ignoring the threat posed by the CASPers; several Xiq’tal were killed while their comrades clambered past. Bjorn had the best video feed of the fight zoom in on the new arrivals.
“Fuck, a king crab.” Bjorn knew they were rarely deployed; whoever had hired the Xiq’tal would have paid a premium. Their presence made the Xiq’tal more coordinated and much more deadly. In the battlespace, he flagged the new arrival ‘QB,’ “Get the unaugmented infantry back out of range of those grenades, now!”
With a thought, Bjorn’s CASPer detached from the rumbler’s umbilical, switching to its own power and comms. With a whine of servos, Left Hook rose from its cradle and trod down the ramp, armored boots clanging. Immediately, the CASPer platoon of Bruin Company formed up, awaiting orders.
The front along the beach was in danger of buckling as squads heavy on green troops tried to fall back in an orderly manner while faced with voracious armored aliens. A few life sign indicators winked out as the leading edge of the crabs’ surge contacted infantry too slow to get back. Bjorn didn’t need to see the video feeds to know what was happening. Xiq’tal were infamous for dismembering and eating their victims.
“Bruin Command Actual to Polar Alpha.” Captain Wirth would be pissed about Bjorn going straight to one of his lieutenants, but there wasn’t time for chain-of-command delays. “Do you read, Lieutenant Sanchez?”
“Sanchez here,” came the hurried reply after a brief delay. “I am cut off from most of my platoon, I can’t raise my sergeants. Position is being overrun by hostiles.”
“Bettie, sitrep on those squads?” Bjorn knew Bettie could sort the data faster than he. Since she was privy to his feeds, she knew what units he had been looking at without being told. The updates flashed across his field of view through his pinplants. Sergeants for those platoons showed as out of commission or no life signs. Bjorn cursed Loki; losing all three of those sergeants in the space of minutes was a kick in the nuts that endangered that whole front. As he glanced across the listings of the corporals for each squad, a name caught his eye. Bjorn mentally sent comm orders to Bettie, pushing the half dozen channels he had been monitoring to the back of his mind and isolating a single channel.
A Fistful of Credits: Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 5) Page 12