by M. D. Cooper
Uneasy at the bird’s too-astute words, Katelyn hooked her arm through Rory’s and pushed her toward the colorful row of booths where they could more easily blend into the crowd.
UNCOMMON ALLIES
STELLAR DATE: 3227466 / 05.27.4124 (Adjusted Gregorian)
LOCATION: MicroWare Industries, Raleigh, High Terra
REGION: InnerSol, Sol Space Federation
It was late. Most of the employees at MicroWare Industries were long gone, following whatever leisurely pastimes they chose to indulge in after hours.
Such was not the case for Peter. He was used to the demands his job made on his personal time. A necessary evil that came from being a corporate officer for a large and profitable tech company.
Didn’t mean he liked it.
The meeting with the buyer from their Marsian branch had run long. It had been scheduled at the end of day where he lived on High Terra, so that it coincided with early morning on the Mars Outer Shipyards. He composed a terse mental note, ordering his administrative assistant, Agnes, to schedule future reviews at a more convenient time.
Peter took note of the timestamp as he sent the missive to her inbox, tapping his hand against one leg impatiently as the lift ascended. He grimaced as his stomach growled in complaint, his insides protesting the fifth cup of coffee he’d downed on an empty stomach. Exiting the lift onto the level that held the executive offices, his feet sank deep into the plush pile of carpeting that lined the passageway.
The illumination level in Peter’s office didn’t automatically rise as he entered like it usually did. After the day he’d had, that was the last straw.
Where the hell is my assistant?!? He looked up in irritation and snapped out a command. “Agnes! Lights on. Now!”
“Agnes is offline at the moment,” a voice reached out to him in the dark, and Peter stilled. There was a predatory quality to the voice that had the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising. Had him freezing like an animal caught in the crosshairs.
Shaking himself mentally, he took a deep breath and summoned the mantle of corporate vice-president.
“Who are you and how did you get in here?”
A figure materialized, gliding out of the shadows, occluding the myriad lights that decorated the view of High Terra’s night sky as seen through his office window.
“Someone who has a proposition for you.”
Peter’s Link generated an offline error, the message that appeared informing him of a local outage. He smothered an oath. He turned toward the door, and the silhouette chuckled.
“Don’t bother. It’s locked. Your monitoring system’s offline, and I have active dampening engaged. No one knows I’m here, and that’s exactly how I like it.” The figure gestured. “Peter. Sit down. We have much to discuss.”
Not feeling like he had much choice, Peter took a cautious few steps toward the casual seating area near the window. The figure paced in front of the night sky, and as Peter neared, he could tell the man was solidly built, if a bit on the short side.
Something about his stance told Peter the man was military, which caused resentment to flare, and his lip to curl slightly.
“Problem?” the voice asked in a deceptively mild tone, the intruder’s pacing arrested as he turned suddenly to face Peter.
Peter swallowed convulsively, hating himself for not being able to control the fear that the stranger evoked in him. It reminded him of his ex. She had turned on him in much the same way, the day he’d announced the cancellation of their marriage contract.
Tanis’s reaction had elicited a similar fear from him back then, and the reminder curdled his already-sour stomach.
The silhouette shifted, and Peter realized abruptly that he hadn’t answered the man.
“No. No problem.” He reached the chair nearest the door and carefully lowered himself into it. “Okay, I’m seated. Why are you here, and what do you want?”
The man remained at the windows. He turned, gazing out at the view. His profile showed a hawkish nose and a neatly trimmed goatee. Peter wondered idly if that was the man’s true appearance or a disguise.
“Vice-president of Development for MicroWare,” the stranger mused thoughtfully. “Impressive, Peter.”
Not really, he thought bitterly, and was shocked to hear the intruder echo his mental assessment.
“Bit of a step down from the position you held at IntelliCore, though, isn’t it?”
Anger flared, stripping away the cool voice of reason that counseled Peter to tread cautiously around this man.
“Who the fuck are you, to throw my past in my face?” he demanded. “It had nothing to do with me, and everything to do—”
“With the unfortunate fact you were linked to the Butcher of Toro,” the silhouetted figure cut in.
Despite his shock, Peter heard a thread of anger from the stranger that mimicked his own sentiment. He had a fleeting moment to wonder about it before the voice continued.
“How is your ex-wife, by the way?”
FARMHOUSE
STELLAR DATE: 3227471 / 06.01.4124 (Adjusted Gregorian)
LOCATION: Plains of Tarja, Teka Continent
REGION: Venus, InnerSol, Sol Space Federation
Williams hunched down in the deep Venusian night. Without a moon or a planetary ring—the only InnerSol world without one—stars, stations, and ships provided the only lights twinkling in the sky. It was, however, great for sneaking up on the enemy.
He peered around the equipment shed and scowled at the farmhouse beyond. The scouts had spotted at least seven figures inside, well protected behind the thick basalt walls of the structure. The volcanic rock was in ready supply on Venus, and everything seemed to be made of it. The rock walls on every structure were a blessing and a curse.
“We could fire some kinetics at it—that would take it down, and we could move on,” First Sergeant Bourne said as he inspected his weapon.
“You know the orders,” Commander Lauren said with a shake of her head. “We’re not supposed to obliterate the populace’s property. The people behind this uprising already have enough reasons to want to separate from the Terran Hegemony—no need to give them more.”
“We can kill the people, but we can’t break their stuff?” Williams asked with a shake of his head.
“If the stuff shoots at us, then we can break it,” Commander Lauren replied.
Commander Lauren had been Bravo Company’s CO for several years, and First Sergeant Bourne had recently transferred in from Alpha Company. They were both exemplary Marines, but Williams missed being the one that his CO listened to most. Lieutenant Grenwald had trusted Williams’ word implicitly—even Major Richards had never second-guessed him. Lauren, however, liked to do things her own way, and even if she took suggestions, she usually just asked Bourne.
He allowed himself a moment’s weakness and wished he was back with Fourth Platoon—the outfit where he had spent the last decade—instead of stuck with Commander Lauren and First Sergeant Bourne.
Suck it up, Marine, he thought to himself. The corps isn’t your nanny. It’s not here to give you what you want. That’s what you’re for.
Williams took another look at the structure. It was going to be hard to take out; the separatists had more firepower than the intel said, and they were able to mask their movements from orbital surveillance. As far as he was concerned, they were dealing with an enemy that was nearly as well armed as the corps.
“There are no clean approaches,” Williams added. “If we breach, they’ll know we’re coming.”
Commander Lauren sighed. “Yeah, I know you guys aren’t happy about the orders, but they’re orders. We’ll have to suck it up and breach. Get the platoon’s sharpshooters lined up on those windows. We’ll get in position, take out anyone that is dumb enough to poke their head around a corner, and then take the two doors and those three large windows.”
Williams nodded and shared a brief glance with Bourne. If this was what they had to do, it was what they had to do.
“I’ll take care of it,” the gunnery sergeant said and moved carefully around the far side of the equipment shed, advancing through the farmyard until he came to 1st Platoon’s position.
Lieutenant Berger and Staff Sergeant Onada were in position with the rest of 1st Platoon, spread around the south and east sides of the farmyard. To the northwest were open fields and no cover to speak of. Williams decided that he would lead the squads that took that side of the farmhouse.
“You cleared all the outbuildings?” he asked.
“Fuck, Gunny, what do you think?” Staff Sergeant Onada replied, her permanent scowl deepening for a moment. “We figured that we’d love some good butt-fucking when we went in, and thought, ‘hey, the Veefs are just the ones to do it’?”
Williams bit back a response about Onada needing a good ass-pounding—she never did know when to save her comments—though she seemed testier than usual on this deployment. Berger was shaking her head, though. Williams could tell that Onada was wearing on her nerves, too.
“They’re clear,” Lieutenant Berger told him. “Nothing in them that shouldn’t be.”
“Good. The old lady has spoken; we’re going in with our boots. We’re not to break the local’s precious farm.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Onada shook her head.
“Standard breach,” Williams nodded to Lieutenant Berger, who sighed in response.
“Staff Sergeant Onada, get the sharpshooters from squads two and three set up on the windows and wait for the signal.”
“I’ll take squad one around the far side,” Williams replied. He sketched a rough map of the farmhouse’s interior on the ground, drawn from the sonar readings the platoon had taken. “We’ll take these rooms. Staff Sergeant Onada, take these, and Lieutenant Berger, clear this section over here.”
“Any reason you’re not putting that on the combat net?” Onada asked testily.
“Because those assholes have tech they shouldn’t. You’re a Marine, you should know how to do things the old-fashioned way,” Williams growled.
When this mission was over, he was going to take Onada aside and have some stern words with her.
“I approve,” Lieutenant Berger replied. “It’ll take you, what…fifteen minutes to get around there?” she asked Williams.
“Give me twenty,” he replied. “Let’s stagger this thing. At zero, take some pot-shots at the windows on the southeast corner. That’ll draw them over there. Then we hit, and pull them back, and thirty seconds later, you come in the other breach points.”
Berger nodded and sent Onada to share the plan with her squads, while Williams crept across the farmyard and behind a pair of tractors, where first squad was set up.
“Vonda,” he whispered to the squad leader.
“Gunny,” she replied in soft tones. “I didn’t expect to see you out here. Isn’t there a cozy spot waiting for you back with the CO?”
“What, and let you guys cock everything up out here?” he replied with a smile.
He had always liked Vonda. The worst part about his promotion to gunnery sergeant was that a relationship with her was out of the question. Still, he’d enjoy her company whenever he could.
“Well, now you can cock it up with us,” she replied. “I assume you didn’t just come over here to flirt with me. What’s the word?”
Williams felt his skin redden and was glad the darkness hid it—though she probably had her IR vision on and would see the heat in his face with no trouble at all.
“First squad is coming around the side with me. You have three sharpshooters in your fireteams; get them to move half a klick out and cover the northwest side. The rest of us will get out a few hundred meters, and then work our way in. We’ll do the final stretch in a full sprint. Squads two and three will provide a distraction. Mark is 21:43.”
“Marked. Standard fare, then,” Vonda nodded. She got the attention of her fireteam leaders, and relayed the orders to them via hand signals.
Thirty seconds later, the sharpshooters slipped away into the night. A row of trees to the south would give them cover, letting them run at full speed once obscured by the trees and brush. They would be a klick out in a few minutes and ready to move laterally into their firing positions.
Williams took fireteams one and four out into the fields, moving slow and low through the wheat’s tall, waving stalks, while Vonda followed with two and three.
It took almost all the allotted time for him to get into position, and his fireteams reached their positions with less than thirty seconds to spare. He counted down under his breath and caught the eye of the two corporals, making sure they were ready.
Ahead, the farmhouse loomed in the night, squat and sprawling—easily five hundred square meters, more than enough to harbor dozens of enemies. He prayed to whatever gods still cared about humanity that there wouldn’t be anywhere near that many within.
At the marked time, weapons fire rang out on the far side of the farmhouse—slug throwers and light kinetics that would get through the temporary barriers the enemy had piled up around the windows, and take out anyone dumb enough to hide behind them.
He counted to fifteen and then leapt up, dashing toward the farmhouse as fast as the powered armor could take him. He was moving at seventy kilometers per hour when he smashed through the back door, the four Marines of the squad’s second fireteam right behind him.
Williams knew from the sonar scans that the room was long—probably a kitchen—and that he could slide to a stop before hitting the interior wall. As his boots dug into the floor, his HUD identified two figures holding weapons at the end of the room, and he fired several shots from his beam rifle at one of them. As the beams hit, his scan suite gauged the capabilities of the enemy’s armor, and sent a data burst across the combat net that it would take electron beams or high-power kinetics to take down the Veefs.
The Marines behind him were already firing at the two enemies, and they switched their weapons to electron beams before Williams had even slid to a stop and turned around.
Two down.
From the next room, he heard the sounds of weapons fire, and knew that fireteam four had come through their window and taken out at least one enemy.
The interior walls were also made of basalt—good for cover, bad for taking out the separatists. He sent out a swath of nano probes to see if any enemies hid within the adjacent rooms. The interior of the farmhouse was filled with nano countermeasures, and the probes didn’t make it more than a meter before they were destroyed.
Williams passed hand signals back to the fireteam on his six, and they stacked up at the room’s northern door. He nodded to the corporal, and the Marines smashed through the opening and threw in a pair of concussion grenades. The blasts echoed off the building’s stone walls, and Williams felt a moment of pity for anyone in the room. Even when protected by full armor, those grenades could dole out one hell of a headache.
He grabbed a pan from the stove and thrust it through the opening into the room. His vision picked up an IR bloom as the metal took laser fire, and he knew the members of his fireteam would calculate the beam’s origin. The corporal passed signals on the position of the enemy, and Williams nodded for them to go in.
Corporal Charles was the first one through the door, and he took a shot on his armor’s chest-piece before returning fire. The rest of the fireteam followed him in, laying down a field of fire and forcing the enemy back. Williams glanced at Charles and saw that a centimeter-deep hole was burned in his ablative plating, but no other damage was present.
“You’re good,” he grunted and slapped the corporal on the shoulder.
“Happy to be the meat shield,” Charles replied.
The fireteam moved through the room and checked the fallen enemies, then inched toward the corner where one of the other beams had come from. Private Huck was the first one over, an
d he pointed his weapon down behind a stone counter.
“Drop it,” he hissed.
Nothing happened.
He waved Williams and Charles over.
Behind the counter, a man crouched, his helmet on the ground beside him. He was shaking as he clutched a beam-rifle to his chest.
“Drop it, boy,” Williams growled, “or sitting there pissing yourself will be the last thing you do.”
The man looked up and saw the cold certainty in Williams’ eyes. He nodded slowly and lowered the weapon.
“Get up,” Private Huck said, gesturing with his weapon.
As the Veef rose, the sound of weapons fire intensified throughout the farmhouse, and Williams knew all squads had breached. He glanced over his shoulder to see the Marines in the fireteam securing the room’s two other entrances. One passed a hand signal through the opening, indicating the northern section of the house was clear.
“Gunny,” Corporal Charles said from beside their captured rebel. “This guy isn’t from Venus…none of them are. I ran scans, and they’re all Diskers…a lot of them are wanted for questioning about some nasty business out there.”
“Diskers?” Williams asked as he looked down at the shaking man at his feet. “What the fuck are you assholes doing here on Venus?”
The man didn’t reply; Williams was about to reach down and haul him to his feet when a message came in from Staff Sergeant Green.