Turning Point (Galaxy's Edge Book 7)

by Jason Anspach

  The sergeant major went off Dog Company’s L-comm to yell at the tactical overwatch and alert them to whoever it was that was about to get flanked by the zhee.

  Besson and two other legionnaires rooted around in the destruction, looking for something. Huzu stood watch near a small staircase that led down into the trenches toward the left flank. If the zhee counterattacked the bunker in order to retake the ground, they’d come from there.

  “Found it, sir,” announced one of the legionnaires. Besson moved low, avoiding windows of fire that would have allowed the zhee to shoot down into the blasted bunker. Off in the distance, another massive explosion rocked the trenches, and the sergeant major was back over L-comm wondering who that was. He finished off with a “Hope it’s one of ours gettin’ their objective!”

  Besson came over the L-comm. “We’ve found the access passage that should take us in under the second ring. There’s a good chance the zhee didn’t have time to figure out the bunker system and these lower tunnels, but that doesn’t mean it’s unguarded. The original intent of the designers was to build a tunnel system by which some new drones and bots they were developing could be moved forward as the lines collapsed. The idea was to allow the drones to pop up behind the enemy and—”

  “Thought war bots were illegal now,” interrupted Sergeant Davies.

  “They are, son,” said the sergeant major, his band saw voice winding up to override further discussion. “But that don’t mean the House of Reason and the Legion don’t stop playin’ around with the idea of ’em. Off-book development and all that spooky stuff. Them big brains do like to invent new Frankenbots to play with all the time, no never mind who has to go out and fight ’em.” He turned to address the captain. “Any indications, sir, of what kind of bot we’ll be fightin’? Ran into a re-purposed THK once and chewed up half the platoon trying to put the thing down. And can you believe it, it had only one arm. Musta been blown off at the Sayed Massacre and someone left it for junk. Then probably found its way onto the black market.”

  “None, Sergeant Major,” said the captain. “And there’s still a chance we might meet some zhee down there. So, men, we’re leaving First Team here to watch the assault lane and move forward to hold the line with the elements on our flanks. Reinforcements are coming up through the trenches as we speak. I’ll take Second Team down in there, and we’ll move forward under the next set of defenses. There’s a route map appearing in your HUDs now. Anything happens, stay on mission and reach our objective marked Oscar Whiskey. Tie in on main L-comm and provide cover fire for the assault on the base main entrance. Got it?”

  All the leejes in Second tapped their buckets, and Besson set to organizing an order of march while the sergeant major redistributed charge packs and fraggers.

  “We’ll need all your ear-poppers down there more than the fraggers,” MakRaven said. “Bots don’t like ’em and neither do the zhee.”

  Captain Besson switched channels to command and linked direct with the old sergeant major.

  “I’d like you to stay with First, Sergeant Major—”

  “No, sir,” interrupted the sergeant major genially enough. But his tone was clear, and Besson knew that what a senior NCO of the rank of sergeant major suggested wasn’t really a suggestion. Good officers took their suggestions as orders. “I think it might be a good idea to go down there with you if you are so inclined,” MakRaven continued. “The team leader for First is a platoon sergeant anyway. And he can keep ’em moving alongside the advance line. But it’s probably going to get hairy down there, and you seem the type of officer that likes to try to do everything himself. Which is the kind of officer that gets killed a lot—y’know, because he’s doing everything. And far be it for me to stand in the way of a fine officer like yourself leadin’ by example, but in the more than likely chance you do manage to get yourself kilt, these boys will need my calming influence to keep them on mission down there. Tunnel work, even for leejes, sir, is what separates the crazy from the sane. Different kinda work altogether, and it can make a man crazier faster than a tyrannasquid can drag you down and crush you in the dark. And, I further suspect that if the donks have a clan of Crimson Knives in the mix, well, those slippery little suckers will have found a way down in the dark where they like to work. And they can be a bit tricky, sir, which is about as mild an understatement as this senior NCO is willing to make at this time.”

  The captain was silent for a moment, weighing the sergeant major’s words and reaching a decision. When he knew there was no decision to reach. It had been made the moment the sergeant major had inserted himself into the equation.

  “Crimson Knives?” asked Captain Besson.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a donk secret sect of deadly assassins that specialize in blind fighting. In fact they are actually blind. They rely on something the donks mostly forget that makes them far superior to us: sense of smell and hearing. And they got ways to knock our systems and detection out before they attack. So if it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like to attend that little soiree. I feel I might be of substantive use.”

  Again Besson was silent. Second Team was all stacked and ready. One of the legionnaires, Turnbull, had his cutting torch out, ready to cut the tunnel cover off and reveal the dark depths of the system that ran beneath their feet. A system possibly crawling with deadly bots and murderous zhee.

  “I think that’s a good idea, Sergeant Major. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. But if you don’t mind the correction, it is in fact a terrible idea for one who is most likely to retire after this little conflict, as I was plannin’ on doin’. Still, until then, it is my job to keep you boys alive, or at least from unduly hurting yourselves. And I have learned a thing or two, mostly the hard way, in my many years as a hard-chargin’ legionnaire.”

  21

  “It’s tight down here,” said Davies over the Second Team L-comm as they followed the captain into the darkness. Low-light imaging revealed little more than a dark tube of silent gloom. From above their heads came the occasional distant heavy boom of an explosion, reminding them that the tunnel could collapse on them at any time.

  “War is dangerous,” opined the sergeant major after a particularly loud explosion. “That’s why we get paid every month, young troopers.”

  No one murmured a reply over L-comm, though the sense of impending doom was palpable. Not that anyone, or even Davies, was complaining. But Davies was carrying the N-42. So he grunted a little bit more than the others as they duck-walked forward.

  “You let me know if that big ol’ blaster gets too heavy for you, young legionnaire,” chided the sergeant major from the rear. “I ain’t too old to hump the pig.”

  “What’s a pig, Sergeant Major?” asked Davies as the squad hooked to the right to follow a new tunnel into further darkness.

  “Pig’s what we used to call the N-60. Fine weapon. So good at killin’ donks that the House o’ Reason reasoned it was an unfair advantage that affected the ‘Tribes of Peace’—as they were calling ’em that year—disadvantageously. It was like a lighter version of the N-42. Barrel did have a propensity to melt down though. But if you knew what you were doin’, you could make it work.”

  “Sounds nice,” grunted Davies. “Especially the lighter part.”

  “I say again, young leej, I ain’t too tired to carry—”

  “Got it, Sergeant Major. Wouldn’t want you to throw your back out.”

  The sergeant major muttered curses and promises, telling Davies once this op was done they would see whose back was out after a nice long run through the desert for some counseling PT. Davies remained silent after that. Every legionnaire had lived long enough to know that however old and broken they thought some NCO was, he could most likely run them into the ground for hours on end and not break a sweat.

  “Got two bots ahead,” whispered the captain over L-comm.

  “Can you identify type, sir?” asked the sergeant major with unusual succinc
tness.

  “Other than that they look like mech versions of thermascorpions… negative. Maybe the tail is some kind of blaster. But my capability assessment doesn’t yield much. They’re bots. They’re probably guards. They’re probably nasty.”

  The captain flashed a sand table overlay across Second Team’s HUDs. The tactical map showed a T-intersection ahead. The two bots were guarding the branches of the T.

  “Switching to EM sig to see if they’re running,” whispered the captain from point. He came back a moment later. “Low signature. They might not even be activated.”

  “Or they’re in some kind of hibernation mode,” offered one of the legionnaires close behind. “Set parameters might wake ’em up to active engage.”

  The sergeant major responded over L-comm. He didn’t bother to use the whisper tone most legionnaires used during operations that required stealth. Whispering didn’t make a difference—the leej bucket covered all internal sound and traffic. Someone could be standing right next to two legionnaires who were shouting at the top of their lungs over L-comm, and as long as ambient audio was squelched, they wouldn’t hear a thing. Still, some situations just felt like they required a whisper. Even if only to remind the legionnaires that not being detected was a priority.

  “I would think,” erupted the sergeant major, “that the entire base being under attack would fit any parameters that would alert these stupid machines. So if they were active, then they would be active now. If those were the parameters. So I say, sir, take a shot and see if they respond.”

  There was a pause as Besson considered this. Then he said, “Taking the shot.”

  He fired. Beyond the loud whine of the sudden blaster shot there came a secondary shot of a twanging ricochet.

  Both bots snapped to life, deploying deflector shields from their scorpion tails.

  “Reflective armor!” shouted one of the leejes.

  The two bots began shooting from small minipods located at the front of their mechanical torsos.

  “Guess I was wrong. Dust ’em!” shouted the sergeant major.

  “Davies,” said the captain matter-of-factly. “Bring the 42 forward.”

  At the front of the small column, due to the narrowness of the passage, Captain Besson shot at the advancing bots, which were coming side by side down the corridor. The translucent yellow deflector shields emitting from the bots’ tails adjusted and deflected each incoming shot, and the corridor was filled with the bots’ return blaster fire.

  “Ready, sir!” cried Davies behind Captain Besson. “Lay down, sir, and I’ll hose ’em!”

  Besson fell forward to the deck of the tight corridor. He felt the heavy barrel of the N-42 being rested on the armor that protected his body.

  “Eat this!” shouted Davies, and fired a long burst from the powerful heavy blaster. When the firing stopped, both bots had been blown to pieces. “Got ’em, sir,” said the leej, without ceremony and with maybe more than a little satisfaction.

  Besson decided to let the N-42 take point after that, so Davies was shifted forward. Besson took second, and soon Second Team was back underway, following the map HUD to objective Oscar Whiskey.

  A few hundred meters on, they felt another titanic explosion shift the ground all around them. Everyone held their breath and waited for the walls to collapse, or for the low ceiling to cave in.

  “They crazy with them explosives today. Ain’t takin’ no chances,” murmured the sergeant major.

  They continued on through the darkness, the light levels dropping so low that even their bucket’s low-light imaging system had difficulty rendering their surroundings.

  “Any tighter in here and we’re gonna have to shuck our armor,” someone muttered as they crawled on through the blackness.

  After a few moments the sergeant major replied, “I worked skin before. It’s good for ya. Makes you a better leej, like before we gave you the armor and ruined ya. Like back in Basic. I tell ya, you work an op in skin, you are a real bona fide legionnaire then, boys.”

  No one doubted this.

  And no one wanted, at that very moment, to skin out of their armor in order to add a new bragging right to the hardcore resume every leej seemed bent on perpetually building. Working “skin” in the middle of a major battle just didn’t seem wise at this moment.

  Davies whispered, “Open area in the tunnel ahead. It’s lit. Fifty meters.”

  The sensation of relief was palpable.

  After what seemed like forever, Davies crawled close to the widening of the tunnel and relayed that it was some kind of chamber. “High and open,” he said.

  “Surface access?” Besson asked.

  “No, it’s covered. It’s clear, too. No bots.”

  Besson gave the order to move into the chamber, which showed on the HUD as some sort of air-exchange processor. The legionnaires entered the chamber, which was bathed in a bluish light. High above, the undulating blades of the venting system moved laconically, sifting the shadows within the room. In the distance they could hear the shrieking pulse of blaster fire.

  “Map says there’s supposed to be some kind of maintenance access halfway up the wall,” Besson said. He pointed to a section of the chamber. “There. Let’s—”

  He was interrupted by the loud wail of a klaxon, and the soft blue lighting shifted at once to emergency-hull-breach red. The ceiling irised in to place at the same time that the portal through which they’d come guillotined shut with a tiny blast door that came out of the wall.

  “Well, this doesn’t look good,” remarked the sergeant major.

  Plumes of yellowish gas filled the chamber from small vents in the walls.

  “Don’t panic,” shouted Besson. “Armor’s identifying it as a nerve agent. We’re good inside the armor. As long as no one’s got a breach, we’re—”

  One of the legionnaires fell over, his body thrashing. Immediately the sergeant major was down and pinning the man, shouting, “Find the breach in his armor and therma-patch it!”

  Huzu dropped to one knee. He let his rifle go as he searched the thrashing leej’s armor for any rents or punctures, or any tears in the synthprene they wore underneath. But he found none. And within a violent minute the man was dead. His body twitched a bit longer, then fell still.

  The sergeant major crawled off the dead legionnaire, swearing softly.

  Huzu recovered his rifle.

  A hidden analysis laser array swept the room in a sudden special effects display.

  “System’s trying to find out if the gas worked,” said Besson. “Come on—find the hatch out of here and cut it. Quickly, people!”

  The spider bots came out of the ceiling, unfolding themselves from the wall panels they’d been stored in. Imaging, despite the shifting yellowish gas, picked up the spindly-legged bots articulating down the walls.

  The bots didn’t fire blasters, but instead jumped down savagely at the legionnaires. The agile legionnaires avoided the first three, backpedaling and firing short bursts from their blasters, knocking the spiders down in a flurry of exploding parts. But the fourth landed on a legionnaire, and an unbelievable second later it had deftly sliced through the man’s armor, exposing him to the deadly nerve gas still swirling in the chamber.

  Huzu blasted the spider off the man, who was already thrashing on the floor, seconds from death.

  Captain Besson and another legionnaire, both with climbing gauntlets, managed to get halfway up the wall next to where the HUD overlay marked their route. More spiders raced along the curving walls to get at the two men trying to find a way out of this chamber of death.

  “Keep them things off the captain!” shouted the sergeant major. He fired his blaster pistol, nailing one and sending up a huge spray of sparks. The thing exploded, its components raining down across the chamber floor.

  Besson spiked his armor’s hydraulic assist to full and tore the security hatch from the wall with one massive heave. He swung into the darkness beyond, heedless of what might await him t
here, and shouted over the L-comm, “Follow me!”

  Forming a tight phalanx, the legionnaires covered and egressed the chamber as more and more spiders, an endless stream of them, issued from the ceiling. The sergeant major was the last one through, and told Huzu to hold up.

  “Gimme your bando, son! And don’t attempt this at home—it ain’t in the book!”

  Huzu shucked the bandolier of fraggers from around his torso and handed it to the senior NCO. The sergeant major took it, ran a piece of paracord through the trigger spools of all twelve fraggers, then pulled the two ends of the cord away from each other in a sudden jerk. All twelve fraggers were now armed. The sergeant major tossed the bando into the chamber behind them and shouted, “Run for your lives, boys! She’s gonna blow!”

  But the legionnaires were already engaged fifteen meters ahead with more bot sentries coming out of the darkness.

  ***

  The blast pushed the running sergeant major into Huzu. As they both hit the deck, the subbasement ceiling of the gas-filled chamber collapsed, crushing the bots and blocking the tunnel.

  “Well… I do believe we will not be going back the way we came any time soon, son!” said the sergeant major.

  Their HUDs switched over to IR. Up ahead was some sort of underground warehouse, where Second Team was locked in a fierce firefight with strangely shaped humanoid bots. Not full-scale war bots—more like souped-up protocol bots that had been given blasters. They moved a bit more agilely than the average bot of that type.

  Besson was tossing the remaining fraggers into the stores area where the bots had taken up defensive positions, but the explosives were doing little good. The bots weathered the damage even when parts of themselves were blown clean off. As long as they could fire their blasters, they continued to select targets and engage—and by sheer volume of their numbers, the return fire was enough to keep the legionnaires’ heads down.