Insanity's Children

by Rolf Nelson

  A week, Sanjay had said. Not a lot of time, but at least it was known… unless it changed.

  With Harbin knocked out by the meds, “sleeping” peacefully while the doctor continued to coax the robo-doc into fully analyzing all damage and do what he could, Helton set to work with Nesbit and Moffet to gain access to more of the ship systems, while Kaminski proceeded with training, now that they had a tentative deadline and expected battle type.

  Nesbit and his hackers went at the newly available systems with gusto, hoping to recover from their embarrassment at seeing common criminals of Moffett’s squad draw first blood in the unofficial competition between the two teams. Their work was soon rewarded when they managed to get into the basic on board life-support system, and were able to get ship schematics and interior images from the security cameras for all rooms and passages, revealing the contents of every room, hall, and closet.

  Helton and Moffett watched over Nesbit’s shoulder as he gave them a quick tour of the ship. “More space suits there. Food supplies off that corridor where you’ve been working on.” He smiled like a cat with a canary in its mouth at Moffett. “Fat lot of good that would have done us, genius… Weapons are forward, there.”

  “Can you zoom in any on those?” Helton inquired, pointing at one of the rifle racks.

  “Can do.” Nesbit twiddled the controls and brought up a much closer image. “What do you think?”

  “I think… that Mr. Smith will want to get his hands on those soon. Look like integrated electronics model, not sure what they’ll let us do. The sooner we know, the sooner we can plan. Can you unlock any of the doors?”

  “Not yet. Trying to figure that out,” Nesbit replied.

  “If we can get at them, I’m sure we can disable the electronics,” Moffett added confidently.

  “But then it won’t work,” Nesbit objected.

  Helton and Moffett glance at each other, then the computer whiz. “It’s a mechanical system. Trust me, it can be made to fire if we can get at them,” Moffett assured him.

  “But that’s illegal!”

  Moffett snorted derisively, and Helton chuckled. “Let us worry about those little details, my friend, and see what you can do about getting us in there.”

  “But making an illegal gun would get us thrown in jail!”

  “You’re hacking into military systems, after being given a virtual death sentence in uniform, and you’re worried about additional jail time?” Moffett asked, incredulous.

  Helton nodded agreement and looked to the guns on the screen. “That way lays offense and escape. Doing what they tell you will get you prison or dead… Your only way out, our only way out, is forward. Through enemy lines. To do that, we need those guns.”

  Chapter VIII

  Back From the Dead

  Harbin walked through the hatchway into the cargo bay, movingly stiffly. He looked sore and scary. His eyes were still bloodshot, and while the swelling had reduced greatly there was still enough to make his head looked misshapen and lopsided. The still fresh cuts and recent scars stood out clearly. His uniform was a bit small, fitting more tightly than it should, making his broad shoulders and hard muscle readily visible. Kaminski, leading the two companies in calisthenics, saw him and paused, grinning broadly before walking over to greet him, calling “Take five!” as he went. The formation fell silent, physically relaxing, but looking apprehensive, particularly the men of Mike Company who had encountered him in the holding cell.

  “Good to see you again on your feet!” Kaminski enthused. Harbin accepted the proffered hand with a single shake, grunting a taciturn acknowledgment. “You up for leading things, yet, or still itchy and dry-mouthed like the robo-docs make me?”

  Harbin raised one healing eyebrow slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward at the small joke. He looked over the formation critically. “Only days? With this?” Kaminski shrugged a reply. “Fresh out of miracles.” Harbin spoke quietly through swollen lips.

  One of the younger men nearby heard and caught his meaning, and took exception to it. “Hey, what do think you are saying? We took you down!”

  Harbin eyed him a long moment, inscrutable. “Want a medal?” he asked flatly.

  “We’re tougher than you think!” one of the Mike Company men shot back.

  Harbin turned his head, slowly, to look the man up and down, then right in the eye. “Really? You knocked me out… In a cage match outnumbered fifty to one… and lost nearly half your men in the process.” The younger man was about to reply again, but bit off his comeback. “And I’m twice your age… was drunk off my ass… drugged… and after I’d chased off a press gang, and took down half the reinforcements they called…. They were a little testy about that.” The younger man realized just how minimal his claim was, and looked down, suddenly ashamed. “And in spite of all that, you still managed to not only not kill me, you didn’t even break a single bone in my body, beyond knocking out a tooth.” He flexed and stretched gently, carefully, but still revealing some of the power and grace his long training had given him. “Two days ago, I was all but dead. Think you could take me now, here?” The question was soft, rhetorical, not a challenge, more a statement of fact. “Not saying you don’t have potential. But. We have a few days, and you are in poor shape, with little training, mental discipline, or relevant experience. And we have no details about who or where we’ll be fighting.”

  “So it’s… it’s hopeless?” quavered a voice from the back row.

  “Didn’t say that either. You may be as useless as a high school marching band during stealth infiltration maneuvers. But the other guys are just as pathetic, maybe more so. And they don’t have us. We’ll do what we can.”

  “Who are you, really?” Moffet queried, his curiosity piqued. He respected the obvious quiet strength and competence the First Sergeant exuded.

  Kaminski spoke up. “I’m a Plataean sergeant with a freelance company. Sort of ended up here by accident.” He indicated Harbin with an elbow. “He outranks me in every meaningful way.” A small commotion broke out at the revelation.

  “Then… who’s Mr. Jones? What’s his rank if he’s in charge?”

  The two Plataeans exchanged glances, before Kaminski spoke. “He’s just a guy that… has a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Keeps life interesting.”

  Sixth squad ran by, a rag-tag gaggle of sloppy uniforms. They were flushed-faced and sweating profusely from both the drugs they’d consumed to make them “battle ready” and exertion. They jeered at the resting squads, making catcalls about their lackadaisical workout routines and excessive sleep. As they passed Harbin, one of them threw a punch at his shoulder as he stood, seemingly casual and disinterested, letting them run past behind him. Seeing the last-moment swing with his peripheral vision the First Sergeant made a simple brush-aside block with a minimal shoulder twist and dodged the blow. His attacker, meeting no resistance, overbalanced and stumbled, falling forward awkwardly to the deck. Harbin said nothing, and acted as though nothing happened when the man jumped back up and got in his face, snarling and all but spitting in anger. Harbin’s attacker paused, out of breath from screaming him, while the First Sergeant stood with a calm expression on his countenance.

  “Finished?” the older man inquired blandly. With the other men of sixth squad came back and were forming up a cheering, jeering squad in a semi-circle around the two opposite the much larger group of rifle-squad men. The now silent recruit took a big haymaker swing that was easily ducked. His next swing Harbin brushed aside as he dodges slightly, making the attack look slow and clumsy. And still Harbin just stood there, all but unmoved, expression neutral. Another roundhouse swing, another simple and minimal dodge and slight turn of his body. A sweeping left hook was avoided with a slight step back. The larger rifle squads stood and started to cheer them on, some because they had taken a dislike to the obnoxious sixth, some just because it’s a fight and they hold no particular like of either combatant, having been on the recei
ving end of Harbin’s fists before. Harbin’s almost casual side-steps and turns were all defensive, and his seemingly passive demeanor enraged the younger man all the more as he keeps swinging and missing. Stepping back a bit, breathing hard, he roared as he spread his arms wide and lowers his head to rush forward and grapple.

  Harbin side-stepped, leaving one foot extended to trip, and grasped an outstretched hand, twisting and bending it back into a vicious arm-bar, pulling hard around and folding it up the wrong way behind the man’s back as he followed him falling to the ground. The sound of snapping bone and dislocating shoulder as the elbow was bent in ways it didn’t normally go was loud enough to echo, and Harbin’s extra weight on his shoulders propelled the recruit’s face into the steel deck plating forcefully, smashing nose, jaw, and face, with Harbin’s coming down in his back. Gripping pinkie and ring finger in one hand, index and middle in the other, the recruit’s left hand was wishboned down through the carpals with a hard sideways yank. All the drugs in the world couldn’t prevent instant unconsciousness from such a facial impact, and even the pain from having his arm destroyed couldn’t wake him up.

  A stunned silence fell, followed momentarily by the sound of a couple of men, unused to the sights and sounds of violence, vomited at this first up-close exposure. Relaxing with a sigh, Harbin dropped the destroyed limb onto the deck, before standing up slowly.

  “Uncivilized, emotional violence loses to controlled, trained, civilized violence. Pray our enemies are like him.” He flexed his hand carefully, examining at it closely as the recruits stood still. He mused, “Hand still hurts, maybe fifty percent. I didn’t want to hit him and re-injure it.” He looked over to Helton. “Sorry for the mess.”

  “It’s more his problem than mine. Sixth Squad! Grab your man, haul him down to the robo-doc tank! Clean up that deck! Kamin… Mr. Smith, entertainment time is over, time to work on coordinated maneuver drills and field communication!”

  With nervous looks cast Harbin’s way, the men started to bustle about following orders, Kaminski bawling out directions for squads to go in various directions. Part of sixth squad picked up the limp form of their fallen squad-mate, and the remaining few argued over who had to do what on clean-up duty. Helton led the Sixth Squad to the robo-doc tank to make sure they did nothing else stupid, and to talk to Doctor Sanjay.

  While four men carefully deposited their damaged and floppy squad-mate’s body into the tank, the oldest ones examined the torn hand on the broken arm he’s carrying before putting it in too. “Man, that’s messed up. He was out cold already.” His voice was somber, not quite matching his still flushed and damp face.

  “Conscripts like you are trained for show. They train you just enough to perform, and hop you up, then roll camera for the media crews and throw you in there. Blood, gore, and wild aggression sells. Politicians say everyone has got to support the troops. We rattle our saber, they rattle theirs. We take Hill A, they take Hill B. Both sides get to brag or beg according to the needs of the moment.

  “But Plataeans train to win. Little guys hire them to survive, big guys hire them when they really need something done, or done outside of official channels when they don’t trust their own guys enough to do it.”

  “But did he have to do that? His hand, I mean.”

  “Yes. Because now you believe.” The man looked at Helton in surprise. “You’ve heard the stories. But those are just words. Now, with your own eyes, you’ve seen. Two days ago, we dropped him in this tank all but dead. Now…” he gestured to the motionless body before them. “You believe.” Helton closed the lid on the robo-doc and pushed the diagnostic button, filling the room with a quiet whirring as the initial scan started. The others stood silently, alternately looking at him and the wall displays, expressions uncertain.

  A small man standing in the far corner of the room spoke up cautiously. “So why do they follow you? Are you even tougher than him?”

  Helton smiled wearily, and gave a dry chuckle. “No, he could kick my ass every day of the week with both hands behind his back. But… he believes in my… karma? Or something like that, I guess. It just seems to work out. Not pretty, not easy, not simple, but at the end of the day we walk away alive and the universe is a better place…. Maybe that’s not much, but it’s enough. I’m pretty sure he never wants to recover consciousness with me ever again, though. At least this time we weren’t dumped in a desert.”

  The others shuffled uneasily, shifting weight from one foot to another, almost starting to say something before halting uncertainly. The overhead screen lit up with the image of Commander Sanjay, looking curiously at off-screen readouts.

  “Hi, Doc. Got another one for you. Training accident. Tried to test out your work the hard way.”

  As the scan reached the hand, Sanjay’s expression grimaced. “That’s going to be a hard repair.” His face gets more concerned as the details of the arm appear before him.

  “Unknown has a firm handshake.”

  The doctor realized what Helton meant and looked at him accusingly. “He should still be resting, not exerting himself. He’s got a lot of recovering to do, and he can’t do that if he… oh. Good God. How did that happen to his face?”

  “Deck plating. He had an assisted fall. Don’t worry, Unknown didn’t get hurt or pull anything. Just one simple throw after a few dodges. You do good work, he’s feeling much better.”

  “Thank you, but this will be difficult. There is a lot of broken bone. I may have to induce a medical coma, and it’s unlikely he’ll be out of the tank in less than a week.”

  “Do what you can. I hope we don’t have any more. Anything new on the casualty expectation front?”

  “Nothing really. Something about treatment of drowning, another refresher on traumatic amputations…. Are you sure this was only one impact?”

  “Quite. Hmmm. Drowning? Interesting. Well, we have things to do. Hopefully I won’t have to bring you anyone else.”

  The doctor nodded absently in reply, focused on the scans in front of him, and set to work repairing the damage done minutes before. Helton motioned to the men, shooing them out and back toward the aft section of the ship. The man in the lead paused as he got to the hatch, foot on the edge of it as he turned tentatively back. “Is it… I was wondering if, well, you know-“

  “Is it too late to change your mind?” Looking rather hang-dog and guilty, three of them nodded agreement. “They say it’s never too late to ask God for salvation. Switching teams isn’t quite the same, though. I’ll see what the others think. Maybe… for those who don’t cause any more problems.”

  Chapter IX

  Getting to Gamma

  Allonia was napping on a cot in a small room, next to a desk surrounded by screens full of text and maps, when Sharon walked in. “Catch the latest news about Gamma?” she asked, waving to a wall screen to bring it up. One of the local stations popped up with a travel advisory, declaring that due to increasing hostilities travel to and from Gamma was restricted. Travel about it was also being limited to those with proper approval. Allonia opened her eyes and sat up abruptly, wide awake.

  “Damn,” she muttered softly. “That complicated things a bit.” Stretching as she rose, she glanced over the mass of displayed data, then back at the news story and its accompanying map. Pointing to the south coast of Gamma continent, she explained to Sharon the problem. “Rally point sigma is there, two cities down the coast, across from the last island in the chain. It’s also not far from where things have been heating up on the war, because of that mountainous region to the east is full of platinum-group metals, and the plane to the west has high concentrations of rare earth metals.”

  “Why fight over stupid stuff like that? Don’t the terraforming machines extract enough of it?”

  “The TFPs are not very efficient at those elements, and they aim mostly for silicates and carbonates for oxygen and carbon dioxide, so people still have to mine some things.” She paused and studied the images on the news report more cl
osely. “We’d picked it because it had been quiet for a while, big enough to hide in and small enough we thought we could slip in or out under a false flag and find each other. But if it’s going hot, people will be paying attention.”

  “So… Any word from Helton?”

  Allonia shook her head, then took a seat and started skimming though the recent updates. “Nothing. We’ll…” she paused as a thought occurred to her. “I bet that’s where they are going.”

  “Where? Why would they want to land in a war zone?”

  “Conscripts, remember? I’ve talked a lot with Dorek. Usually conscripts picked up like that are considered expendable. Trained briefly, drugged up, and dropped with minimal instructions beyond what direction to attack, sent to fight for the cameras, little more than a media props for political consumption. Sometimes they fight pros, but Plataean contracts usually exclude fighting pressed conscripts. We’ll have to get word to them.”

  “You are paranoid! They would never just throw lives away like that!”

  Allonia looked at the woman she’s stranded with, smiling sadly at her naiveté, knowing she was much the same a year earlier. “I’d like to think so, too, but I’ve been dealing with it first-hand for a while, now. We need to find a way to get there, find out exactly when they’ll be landing, and find a way to get word to Tajemnica to meet us.”

  “Didn’t you just say there was no word from them? Aren’t you afraid they are, well, you know… like Skelton said?”

  “They’d be laying low. Quiri won’t leave without Helton, and-”

  A knock at the door interrupted her. Before she could answer, it opened and in walked Skelton, who froze two steps in upon seeing the business end of Allonia’s 10mm pointed straight at him. “Damn, lady! Put that thing away before you hurt someone!”

  “The point of knocking is to announce your presence and ask permission to enter. Not just barge in and hope to get a lucky eyeful,” she replied tartly, holstering her sidearm.