by Isaac Hooke
I glanced up.
The gunners lay slumped in the turrets, decapitated. Crabs were still assailing us on the other flank.
“Dyson, get up on that gun!” I said, then spun toward Tahoe. “Watch my back. I’m taking down some of those Centurions.”
I leaned out from the cover afforded by the amtrac and scanned the rightmost flank through my scope, looking for a Centurion or Praetor to target. There, between two upturned tanks, I saw a Praetor command unit advancing with seven Centurions at its back. Wedge formation. The robots were waling into our ranks with heavy machine guns.
I aimed at the Praetor’s chest, which housed the brain case, and saw several droplets of glowing blue condensation.
Definitely possessed.
I fired.
The Praetor toppled over.
Five of the seven Centurions with it continued their charge unabated, while the other two broke off to attack the crabs. Centurions were usually linked to Praetors and would revert to previous programming if the link was severed. This meant the unaffected five were possessed, too.
I started terminating the remaining Centurions, one by one. I got three of them before the gunfire from the remaining two homed in on me. I ducked behind the amtrac, and heard the hail-on-a-tin-roof sound of ricocheting bullets.
“Facehopper!” Bender said. “I’ve lost most of my robots.”
“What do you mean you’ve ‘lost’ them, mate?” Facehopper said, bringing his rifle down, and ducking behind the amtrac. “Clarify. Have they been disabled, or possessed?”
“Possessed, man!”
Facehopper didn’t look too happy. “Why didn’t you pull them back when you saw the Phants?”
“That’s the thing!” Bender said. “I didn’t see any, dude!”
“They’re on the ground around us!” I said. “Somewhere . . .”
“Well I figured that,” Bender said. “But I still didn’t see ’em!”
A rocket blast shook the amtrac.
I peered past the edge.
More possessed Equestrians, ATLAS 5s, and Abrams tanks were bearing down on our position. Any assets containing AIs were vulnerable to possession, regardless of whether humans could pilot them or not; Abrams (and ATLAS 5s) were no exception. Compounding the problem was the fact that our aReals didn’t mark the possessed units as enemies—I saw green across the board.
About a quarter of the convoy had redirected its fire toward the turned units, while the rest concentrated on the superbehemoth. Shuttles and gunships swooped in, unleashing more hellfires at the slug, which had just returned from another hiatus to its hidden dimension.
The gunships aimed high, but my unit and others were still fairly close to the slug, and sometimes the shockwaves from the air strikes hurled us to the ground. We certainly got splattered with our fair share of gore. A huge chunk of flesh struck Tahoe after a particularly intense air strike. I knelt beside him.
“Tahoe,” I said, flinging the slippery, pliant mass aside. “You all right?”
“Never better.” Tahoe’s jumpsuit was covered in black ink. His face, too. He wiped some of the liquid away, and the skin seemed fine underneath—at least the ink wasn’t acid or something. Still, when we got back to the ship, the Infection Control Practitioners would probably make him spend a few hours in the detox wing before letting him mingle with the rest of the crew, regardless of whether he passed the bioscans or not. “Tastes like sperm soup.”
I frowned. “And how would you know what sperm soup tastes like?”
“Uh, never mind.”
The crazy things people joked about when fighting for their lives . . .
The two of us hugged the amtrac once more, pinned down by gunfire from the possessed units on our right flank.
Beside us, the slug finally went down in a vile display of exploding body parts and gore.
The last few living crabs turned over and crimped up, their dead bodies remaining behind while the superbehemoth vanished from existence.
What a damn pain.
Now that the slug was gone, I was able to see the SK ranks again, and they surged forward to join us, taking up positions throughout the convoy, helping us shoot down the possessed robots.
Dyson momentarily left cover. “Go away, we don’t need your help!” Dyson shouted at the arriving SKs. “Go—”
Facehopper forcefully hurled him to the ground behind the amtrac and pinned his chest with his knee. “Stay behind cover, caterpillar. Do your job, and let the SKs do theirs.”
Tahoe sat back against the amtrac and closed his eyes, obviously exhausted.
“It’s not over yet, Tahoe,” I said, reloading. I aimed out past the edge of the amtrac, at the robots. “We need your heavy gun!” I fired and took down a possessed Centurion. “Tahoe . . .”
“I know,” Tahoe said. “Just need a minute, Rade.”
I was worried he’d been shot or something, but his vitals seemed tolerable, and I didn’t observe any punctures in his jumpsuit. The huge slab of meat that had struck him earlier might have crushed some of his internal organs though.
“You sure you’re all right?”
He forced a grin. “Never better.” He turned around and got back into the fight.
Another slug chose that moment to slam its body out of the distant sinkhole. It was pitch-black. Not in “burrowing” mode, then.
A second black slug slithered forth right after the first, coming out at a slightly different angle.
Then a third.
Each slug was just as big as the superbehemoth we’d just killed.
Two hundred ATLAS-sized crabs leaped down from each of the slugs, for a combined force of six hundred. As usual, the crabs immediately dispersed into our midst, making an air strike on them impossible.
“Uh, Facehopper, don’t think this assault is going too well,” I said, switching my aim to the crabs. “And we haven’t even reached the city yet. This is ridiculous.”
Facehopper flashed me a wicked grin between his own rifle bursts. “Guess we won’t be setting up a forward operating base anytime soon, mate.”
One of the crabs landed beside the amtrac, right on top of an unlucky UC mech. The unpossessed ATLAS 5 toppled backward, and one of the crab’s razor-like pincers sliced clean through the cockpit.
I unleashed hell from my rifle, cutting away the trunk-sized cord, which snapped backward.
The dead crab tumbled aside.
I checked the vitals of the ATLAS 5 pilot on my HUD. Pitch-black: dead.
“Well Tahoe, it’s time for me to make a difference,” I said, already running toward the mech at full speed.
“Got you covered, Rade,” Tahoe sent over the comm.
I saw the callsign overlaid in green above the ATLAS 5.
Dragonfly.
Before the battle, all qualified spec-ops men had been provisioned to pilot the ATLAS 5s. This meant, in a pinch, we MOTHs could operate any UC mech that became available.
The brain case of the ATLAS 5 was unharmed, and except for the slit in the cockpit, the mech seemed otherwise undamaged. Since the Marine pilot was no longer alive, Dragonfly’s AI took over, and it stood up, turning toward the nearest crabs to “defend,” which was its default mode. Bullets from possessed robots on the far right ricocheted past it—the ATLAS 5 would treat those robots as friendlies, at least until one of them threatened a green human target.
I reached the mech and activated my jumpjets, simultaneously transmitting a verbal signal directly to its callsign.
“Dragonfly unlock!” I shouted.
The mech turned toward me while I was still in midair, and its damaged cockpit fell open. The dead pilot slumped forward onto the open hatch, and when I landed, I unceremoniously dumped him to the ground, saying a silent prayer for forgiveness. I knew if his spirit was watching he’d understand wh
y I treated his body so poorly. I had to get that mech moving. And now.
I threw aside my rifle, and other extraneous gear that would get in the way of the inner cockpit, and then I stepped into the compartment, hoping none of those incoming bullets found its target, and that none of the crabs would take the opportunity to pounce. The hatch sealed and an elastic cocoon pressed into my jumpsuit. Dragonfly routed its vision feed to my aReal visor.
Control of the mech switched over to me.
I stood at the heart of a war machine that contained over a thousand hydraulically actuated joints. It had onboard hydraulic pump and thermal management. Crash protection. Jumpjets. A head-mounted sensor package with built-in LIDAR, night vision, flash vision, zoom, and other augmented reality perception boosts that smoothly integrated with my helmet aReal. The mounts on either forearm could hold up to three weapons each. The typical loadout was Gatling, serpent, and incendiary thrower for both arms, with the addition of a hot-deployable ballistic shield on the left arm for protection against armor-piercing rounds.
The Gatling gun was already loaded into the right hand, and the ballistic shield the left. I swung the large shield toward the incoming gunfire on my right flank, and I told Dragonfly, “Override friendly fire protection.”
I loosed several threads of high-energy bullets from my Gat, terminating three Centurions. Then I sprinted away from the possessed robots, heading toward the three freshly emerged slugs.
Without my Implant, control of the mech was via the pressure sensors lining the inner material, rather than by thought, and it felt a little like wading neck-deep through a morass. I knew I’d quickly get used to it, especially with the strength-enhancement provided by my jumpsuit.
I wove between the friendly amtracs and tanks, and the ATLAS-sized crabs. The same size as me, now. I shot my Gatling at the cords of the crabs as I ran, easily severing them. I avoided confronting any crabs head-on, because I knew they were too big to simply bash aside. Not like the smaller crabs I’d faced on Geronimo. That battle seemed like the good old days compared to this.
I was no longer taking incoming fire, so I swung the shield back to my left, keeping it at the ready.
The gunships and Raptors were raining hell on the slugs, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they ran out of explosive ordnance. My intention was to let off some serpent rockets at one of the existing wounds in a slug, and assess the damage capability. I didn’t want to get too close, however, not while those air strikes were in progress.
Seemed I approached too close after all though, because just then one of those hellfires landed slightly off target.
As in, a few paces behind me.
The explosion sent my mech hurtling forward.
I collided with one of the crabs, and the two of us pummeled into the enormous flank of the slug. I landed in the small gap between the convoy and the behemoth. I got up and tore open the crab’s umbilical with my Gat before it could recover.
I ran along the rightmost flank of the superslug, firing my Gatling at close range into its meaty side, tearing it a few new mouths. I didn’t dare launch a serpent rocket, not at this close range. I’d been tossed around enough today by explosive ordnance.
All of the crabs were engaged farther away from the slug, amid the convoy, so I faced no resistance. I kept on running and firing until I reached the rear of the slug.
The sinkhole lay directly ahead.
It was relatively quiet out here, so I decided to have a look inside. A quick recon could only help us, after all.
I sprinted toward the opening, keeping a watchful eye on the battlefield behind me.
I reached the sinkhole.
Below, a tunnel ramped downward at roughly forty-five degrees.
It wasn’t the tunnel that caught my eye, however, but rather what occupied it.
“Uh, Facehopper,” I sent over the comm. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“What is it, mate?” Facehopper returned.
“We got a problem.”
“Why? What do you see?” Facehopper would have known I was standing next to the sinkhole, thanks to his HUD.
“Things are going to be getting real nasty, real quick,” I said.
“Say again, Rage?” Facehopper sent.
Along the bottom of the tunnel, a long, glowing, liquid mass leisurely rippled upward, reminding me of a waterfall flowing in reverse.
“An army of Phants is coming out of the sinkhole.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Shaw
I was running. Queequeg kept up alongside me.
A pack of eight hybears was in hot pursuit.
Apparently this pack had discovered the cairn I’d made from my earlier kill, and they’d tracked my scent all the way to the Forma pipe. I guessed as much, anyway, because it was either that or blind luck that they found me. Luckily, Queequeg had spotted them when they were far away on the western horizon, giving me time to flee.
I’d been running ever since.
I was using up my freshly charged battery at a horrendous rate, and though I had reached my top speed, the pack was still gaining.
Queequeg purposely kept pace with me, though he was capable of greater speeds. I kept telling him to run ahead, and that I was dead either way, but he wouldn’t listen.
Anyway, my problem was that there was nowhere to hide, not out here. No trees. No buildings. Just endless dunes of shale. There were some defiles in the cliff walls at the far edge of the valley, but they were too far away to reach in time.
I didn’t have a jetpack. Or a proper weapon. All I had was an alien mandible superglued to a rifle. Plus a knife.
In previous encounters, I’d faced more hybears than this of course, but that was when I had a fully loaded rifle. Ever since I’d run out of ammo, the most hybears I’d faced was two at a time, with Queequeg at my side.
Not eight.
I’d just have to wing it. Which was basically what I’ve been doing since I crash-landed on this planet.
I could hear the whoops growing closer behind me, sounding with greater frequency and enthusiasm.
I glanced at my oxygen levels, and despair washed over me.
What was the point of even trying?
It was over.
I had only an hour of oxygen left.
Why bother to fight?
I should just face the facts.
I was dead.
Might as well just give up.
I’d given it the good fight.
Tried my hardest.
It was pointless to resist further.
Still, it made me a little sad, knowing that I’d come all this way only to die in the end.
What a waste. Not just of my own limited time in the universe, but the time of all those who’d invested in me. Who’d seen the potential I had. The instructors. The officers. Captain Drake.
Rade.
He wouldn’t have given up.
He wouldn’t have given in.
He told me of the trials he’d endured during MOTH training. How people had quit around him left and right, but he had stayed firm through it all. He’d stayed the course. He told me he had resolved early on that he would become a MOTH, or die trying.
If you’re going through hell . . .
I was going to fight for every last ounce of life.
I was going to fight to the bitter end.
Believe in yourself, Shaw.
Because no one else is going to do it.
I chose the site where I would make my last stand. It was a rise, about thirty paces ahead and to the right, higher than the surrounding ground. A good spot to defend.
I swore that the price for my life wouldn’t be cheap. I planned to take down at least three of them before the end came. No matter what.
I swung down my rif
le with its razor-sharp mandible attachment, and, as I crested the rise, I turned around to meet my foes. Queequeg continued on ahead, probably not even aware I’d stopped.
It was better this way. I didn’t want him to die, too.
Whooping with bloodlust, the pack didn’t slow. None of them were deterred in the least by the fur of their brethren glued all over my jumpsuit.
I swung my rifle-scythe down and got the leader of the pack as it came in.
The momentum of the blow left me vulnerable to the next two. The animals vaulted forward—
I sidestepped—
One hybear struck me.
The force of the blow sent me skidding backward across the shale, and the weapon flew from my grasp.
I landed on my side, with the hybear on top of me.
Those ferocious jaws bit at my face mask. Teeth raked scratches across the glass. One of the bear-like claws punctured my jumpsuit, tearing into the flesh of my upper arm. I grimaced in pain.
A breach alarm sounded in my helmet.
“Warning, suit integrity compromised. Warning . . .”
I lay on my side, and my back was shielded thanks to the rucksack, so I felt nothing as the animal’s other forelimb raked the area. I was never so glad for the extra burden of the sack as right then. My only worry was that the hybear would sever one of my backward-facing life-support lines.
The animal withdrew its claw from my upper arm. I winced in pain as the skin and muscle of my wounded shoulder bulged outward to seal the tiny suit punctures.
Before the hybear could strike again, I wrapped my hand around the knife at my utility belt and shifted sideways, pushing the animal off me with my strength-enhanced exoskeleton. I drew the knife and sliced the surprised hybear’s belly clean open in one smooth motion.
I scrambled to my feet as it rolled around in pain beside me. I was at a loss as to why the others hadn’t attacked yet.
Then I saw Queequeg.
Two dead hybears lay at his feet, and he was backing away from the remaining four, growling, his teeth misting with the green blood of his kills. He had a steaming wound just above his right shoulder blade.