by Jake Elwood
He nodded again. The sky was overcast, which was a mercy. It might have been downright cool if he wasn't working so hard. Sweat plastered his shirt to his body and dripped from his fingers when he lowered his hands.
“Look around you,” Sharpe said, and made an expansive gesture. They were in a wasteland of crystal and stone, where a few hardy plants survived in pockets of soil or cracks in the rock. No ground vehicle could ever navigate terrain like this, and there was plenty of cover if there was an attack by aircraft.
“It's a big planet,” she said. “It's huge, and the population is tiny.” She pointed straight up. “They might have already spotted us by satellite. Now, it's possible they've got no eyes in the sky. All the satellites were coordinated from Sunrise Station. But even if they see us, they won't send a ship out to investigate. I guarantee it. Because we've trained them not to.”
Tom, lacking the breath to ask a question, just looked at her.
“This is a massive game of poker that we’re playing,” said Sharpe. “Lives are the chips. And the only way we win is to keep on bluffing while they fold. If they ever figure it out, they'll slaughter us. Our only hope is to make sure they burn their fingers over and over again.”
She hopped from a crystal to a spur of rock, then to the ground, landing on soil covered in thin grass. Tom reached the rock, turned around, took a handhold, and lowered himself as far as he could. He dropped the last few centimeters.
“We're almost there,” Sharpe said. Six quick steps took her across the grass to a broad shelf of stone that rose like a granite ramp. She climbed the ramp, then stopped at the top.
Tom stopped beside her, and they looked down at a bowl-like depression about a hundred meters across. A metal shack stood in the middle of the depression, with a silver tower above it. The tower rose a dozen meters or so, ending in a delicate antenna.
“We burn their fingers by ambushing them,” Sharpe said. “We choose a weak target. There's always something. After all, they can't be strong everywhere. We attack with a larger force, and we kill everyone who doesn't flee. That's already paying dividends. They run when we attack. Pretty soon we'll be able to send out a token force and they'll scatter in terror.”
One by one the others staggered up the ramp and joined them at the edge. Bridger took off his backpack, planted hands on his hips, and arched his back until it cracked.
“Durand, you blow the tower. Then meet us on the north side.” Sharpe pointed to a jumble of boulders halfway around the perimeter of the depression. An older woman hustled toward the metal shack while Sharpe led the way toward the boulders.
“Here's how it works,” Sharpe said. “We pick a weak target. We attack in enough force to be sure we'll win. Most of the time, we haul ass and get out of there.
“Sometimes, though, either we hold the objective or we retreat slowly enough that they can catch us. We do our best to look weak and disorganized. They swoop in with a much larger force. We pretend to run, but we retreat toward a prepared ambush site. They think they're finally about to get some payback, and they come rushing in.” She flashed her teeth in a nasty grin. “Then we spring the trap, and bash the hell out of them.”
“They must be catching on,” said Tom.
Sharpe nodded. “Sometimes they try to do an ambush of their own. They pick a likely target and they beef up the defences. They even try to spread rumors to draw us in.” She chuckled. “But the uglies have no sense of subtlety. They give it away, every time. We never take the bait.”
She paused to clamber over an upthrust ridge of stone. “Our last three ambushes failed. They were too scared to come after us.” She lifted her hands in a shrug. “That's okay. It means our initial attack succeeds and we have an easy exfiltration. So long as they stay scared, it means we're winning the war up here.” She tapped the side of her head.
“It also means we can get away with shit when something unexpected happens.” She looked at Tom. “Like when you guys showed up. They had enough troops to give us a hard time. We used up every rocket we had bringing down the planes and the mechs. They could have put up a good fight, but they broke and ran. After we picked you up, there was no serious pursuit, either.” She laughed coldly. “They're scared to chase us.”
She clambered onto a large boulder, shaded her eyes, then pointed. “There's our destination. About five hundred meters that way.”
Tom and the others circled around the boulders and headed in the indicated direction. The ground smoothed out somewhat. It would still make a lousy front lawn, but the large chunks of rock and crystal mostly disappeared. In fact, there were only two more outcroppings in sight, a line of long, thin crystals thrusting almost straight up like granite fingers, and a clump of boulders some fifty or sixty meters beyond.
An explosion boomed behind them. Tom glanced over his shoulder. He could just see the top of the tower and the antenna jutting up above the depression. The antenna wobbled from side to side, then vanished as the tower toppled.
“I figure we have a 50-50 chance of drawing a rapid response,” Sharpe said. “They need that tower. The communication net is stretched really thin.” She glanced up at the sky. “They'll be taking a look at the satellite feeds, or using a ship in orbit. Or else they'll do a fly-by. They'll see there's only nine of us. They might not be able to resist.” She headed for the crystal fingers. “Let's make sure we're ready for our guests when they arrive.”
Tom and his people found themselves with nothing to do as the militia bustled around, burying small containers of explosives around the base of the fingers. “I like this rock back here,” a man said, indicating a low, flat stone a few meters away. “It's a logical place to take cover when things start blowing up.”
“Do it,” said Sharpe. “Give it an extra thirty seconds. Time enough for someone to hit the dirt, but not enough time for them to think things through.”
The man nodded, then dropped and stretched himself full-length, mimicking a terrified soldier. He marked the spot where his neck was, then rose to his knees and started to dig.
The explosives were crude-looking things packed into tin cans or plastic boxes. The payloads were high explosives taken from rockets the two mechs hadn't had a chance to fire. The detonators had a hand-made look, and were as big as the explosive charges.
Durand came jogging up as they were finishing. As the other militia rose and stepped back, she walked around the site, smoothing out the ground here and there to hide the evidence of digging.
“I don't like that spot,” she said, pointing to an area of disturbed soil.
The woman beside her looked around, then walked over to a clump of weeds with vivid red flowers. She dug up a thick plant, carried it over, then used her fingers to make a shallow indentation above one of the hidden bombs. She replanted the weeds, brushed the dirt from her hands, and stood.
“That'll do,” Durand declared.
“Okay, let's go.” Sharpe led them at a brisk walk across the open ground to the nearby clump of boulders.
Tom found a spot with shade and good cover and settled in. Then he changed his mind and climbed onto the nearest boulder. There was a bit of a breeze up there, and he flapped his shirttail to help it dry.
Sharpe had chosen an excellent location. The field of boulders was an obvious defensible position, where fugitives might retreat to make their last stand. There was only one place with direct line of sight that offered any cover at all for an attacking force.
The crystal fingers.
“We'll give them fifteen minutes,” said Sharpe. “If they haven't bitten by then, it means either they're not coming, or they're coming in real force.”
“It won't take fifteen minutes.” Durand had binoculars pressed to her eyes. She lowered them, looked at Sharpe, and grinned. “They're coming. Just one aircraft.”
It wasn't a war plane this time. It was a personnel carrier that appeared as a speck in the distance, growing quickly as it approached. Blocky and armor plated, it had swivelling je
ts instead of rotors, and armor plating that was designed for it rather than scavenged and added on. Aside from that, though, it strongly resembled the ship Tom had ridden in during his escape from the farmyard.
The aircraft made a lazy circle around the field of boulders, maintaining a prudent distance of almost half a kilometer. It descended, touching down to the north, hidden by a low hill.
“That's not ideal,” said Sharpe. She glanced at the crystal fingers, which were in the opposite direction. “Still, it means we've got cover and they don't.”
The aircraft rose into view. It drifted sideways, continuing its wide circle around the boulders. They watched as it traversed a full hundred and eighty degrees and then landed behind a ridge to the south.
“Pincher movement,” said Sharpe. “Either they're going to attack us from two sides at once, or else the main attack will come from the south, and the others are there to shoot us when we flee in terror.” She raised her voice. “That first batch – the ones to the north – that's Alpha Group. The other ones, heading for the booby-trap, are Beta. Everybody got it?”
No one replied.
“It should be a nice target-rich environment,” she continued. “Hold your fire until the bombs go off or I give an order. Then, give them hell.”
A tense silence descended. Tom slid down off his boulder and checked his blast rifle. His mouth was dry. Hurry up, you cockroaches. I don't think I can stand to wait much longer.
“What now?” said Ham. “What if they brought in armor?”
“Then we bring up the bird and hit it with the big guns,” said Sharpe. “But they don't have many mechs on Novograd. They just lost two more when you guys landed, so they won't be in any hurry to risk what they've got left.”
Ham's voice, high-pitched and unhappy, rose from the far side of the boulder that shaded Tom. “What if they have ant bombs, or hoppers? They could kill us all without coming near your little booby-trap.”
“They always start by advancing with troops,” said Sharpe. “Every time. Trust me, we’ll blow them up with their toys still in their-”
A high-pitched whine filled the air, setting Tom's teeth on edge. It grew in volume, and he dropped flat, curling his hands around his head. Someone swore, and an explosion slammed against his eardrums. The ground heaved underneath him, and he grunted as the air left his lungs.
He could still hear the whining sound, and he clapped his hands to his ears. There was another explosion, then another, and something thumped against his chest. Several seconds passed without more explosions, and he uncovered his ears. Not hearing the whine of incoming shells, he at last opened his eyes.
Metal glittered on the sand in front of him. A jagged piece of steel as long as his little finger lay on the sand by his chest. He touched it with a fingertip, then jerked back. It was hot.
“Look lively,” Sharpe yelled. “Here they come.”
That's bomb shrapnel. Tom shook his head, trying to shake off the unreality of the moment. I must have caught a ricochet. It bounced off the rock in front of me and hit me in the chest. He looked at his shirt, which was undamaged. How far away did that shell hit? Is anyone dead?
There were, he realized, more immediate issues. Look lively. Here they come. He grabbed his rifle, rose to his knees, couldn't see anything, and finally stood.
Dawn Alliance troops poured over the ridge to the south, running for the crystal fingers. He counted a dozen, then gave up counting as at least a dozen more crossed the ridge.
What about Alpha group? He spun, leaning sideways to see past the boulder that blocked his view. Sunlight glittered on the hilltop to the north. Troops were there, watching. But they weren't participating in the attack.
He turned back to the crystal fingers, just in time to see the last few soldiers scrambling into cover. Countless figures appeared around the edges of the upthrust crystals, pointing rifle barrels toward the field of boulders.
“Now,” said Sharpe.
The explosion was spectacular. Every bomb went off at once, sending dirt and chunks of crystal and bodies and pieces of bodies spinning into the air. One finger broke and toppled. A severed arm landed on top of it. It was magnificent and sickening, and Tom didn't know whether to cheer or empty his stomach.
“Mother Hen is inbound,” said Sharpe. Mother Hen was the nickname the militia gave to their converted fertilizer spreader. She started to say something else, but the last explosion drowned her out. Thirty seconds. Enough time for someone to take cover, but not enough time to think it through.
Tom circled the boulder behind him, careful not to expose himself to fire from north or south. He expected to find carnage. The boulders were pitted and scratched in several places, the stone showing pale marks where shrapnel had torn gouges. He found Durand, white-faced, thumb pressed into a pressure point on her upper arm while Alice bandaged a nasty gash in her forearm.
Aside from that, there were no casualties. We were lucky. Very, very lucky.
“Take that chunk of sleeve when you leave,” Sharpe said. She glanced at Tom. “We don't leave them bodies or bandages or bloodstains when we can help it. We want to look indestructible. Can't have them thinking they hurt us. It raises their morale.”
If she was disturbed by her comrade’s injury or the near-disaster, she didn't show it. She had Durand's binoculars, and she trained them on the fingers. “They hear the Hen,” she said, sounding pleased. “They’re in full retreat.”
Mother Hen wasn't much threat, Tom knew. It wouldn't chase the fleeing troops back to their own ship. The troop transport had guns and armor of its own, after all. But the soldiers would assume the worst. After all, every ambush ended in disaster for them.
Sharpe put a hand to her ear, listening. “Jerry says Alpha Group is pulling back.” She grinned. “He's coming in to pick us up.”
Alice finished bandaging Durand's arm. Durand picked up a chunk of bloody sleeve from the ground, shoved it in her pocket, and stood.
Alice looked at Tom with a bemused expression, like she didn't know whether to admire the militia or not. Like she was simultaneously impressed and horrified. Tom met her gaze and shrugged. He felt exactly the same way.
Chapter 13
The militia hideout was a lodge, originally built as a tourist destination. The walls were made of giant logs, with huge windows rising toward a high peaked ceiling. Beams bigger around than Alice's waist supported a roof of cedar planks, and a vast stone fireplace dominated the back wall.
The view, she was told, had been truly outstanding fifty years earlier. The windows would have looked down on a jagged wilderness of ravines and canyons interspersed with majestic hills. Now the hills were islands, and the ravines were all underwater. The view was still nice, but no better than any other part of the lake country.
The furniture, large and heavy and carved from the same logs as the walls, was left behind when the lodge was abandoned. Alice sat on a bench that must have weighed a tonne, tools scattered on the seat beside her, a massive blast rifle in her lap. The weapon was a beast, easily twice the weight of a normal rifle. She could have stuck her thumb down the barrel with room to spare. It would pack an incredible wallop, if she could ever get it to fire again.
She'd never seen a gun quite like it, but she was confident she'd be able to repair it. She'd worked on similar weapons, after all. Specialization was a disease that infected clumsy dinosaurs like the United Worlds Navy. Colonists didn't go in for that sort of foolishness. Colonists were generalists. They adapted.
The gun was electronically locked. It had a simple brain, designed to stop people like her from using it if it was captured in battle, which of course it had been. There was no hope of outsmarting that brain, so she planned to remove it completely. The gun contained every component that was needed to make it fire. She just had to make those components work without the mini computer.
She removed a cover at the point where the stock met the breech, and set it aside. The challenge of circumventing the gun'
s security system absorbed her completely. She was delighted by the idea of turning Dawn Alliance technology against the invaders. The Prairie Dog Militia would put the gun to good use, she was sure. Sharpe would see to that.
To be honest, the woman disturbed Alice. Sharpe took ruthlessness to an extreme degree. Still, all of Novograd was at stake, and Novograd and its factories were the key to retaking the Green Zone. Playing nice and following rules wasn't going to liberate the planet. Say what you would about Sharpe's methods, the woman was effective.
A static-filled voice came from another room, the muffled words impossible to understand. Alice spent a moment trying to listen, then pushed it from her mind. She peered into the depths of the gun, tracing a series of electronic components. There were plenty of ways to lobotomize the computer. The key was making it fire once the brain was fried.
“Hey, look at this!”
Alice looked up. A militia man named Luke stood in a doorway beside the fireplace, a communication projector in his hand. He had an air of excitement, like a kid on Founding Day. He walked to a table in the middle of the room, and several men rose from seats in the corner and wandered over to join him.
Alice set the rifle carefully on the floor and rose. She didn't really mind the interruption. Sometimes her subconscious did its best work when she allowed herself to be distracted. And by the look of it, Luke had some interesting news.
“This just came in,” he said. “I think the uglies are trying to scramble it.” He grinned, his eyes dancing with excitement. He tapped a button on the side of the projector, then stepped back with a flourish.
Static boiled in a cloud above the projector. For an instant it cleared, showing a flash of the starburst symbol of the United Worlds Navy, rotating as a 3D image. A woman's voice spoke, the words unintelligible, fractured by static.
Then, abruptly, the transmission was clear. The woman's head and shoulders appeared. Her face was toward Luke, which put her in profile to Alice. She had a sharp beak of a nose and short hair tucked behind her ears. There were rank marks on her epaulets, something fancier than Tom had ever worn. She must be … What? A general? An admiral? What do they have in the UW Navy? Colonels?