Chimera Company - Rho-Torkis Box Set

by Tim C. Taylor

  He stood beside Osu and joined him in glaring at Zy Pel. “I don’t know who I can trust any more, Hines. Right now, I’m not trusting you.”

  Zy Pel took a long draw on his pipe. He rolled the smoke around his mouth as if trying to capture the last lingering taste of a pleasure now lost.

  “Yes,” he replied. “That was me on Station 11 back in ’87. There wasn’t much of me left after we had beaten off the final wave of assault droids. Half of me was rebuilt, rejuved, and augmented.” He took another puff on his pipe. “More than half, actually. And mostly with advanced techniques I don’t understand myself, but a few of my repairs came straight out of the Bronze Age.”

  He pulled back his hood and then used both hands to draw apart the skin on his neck to reveal a gleaming plate underneath. Zavage brought closer one of the dimmed glow stones they were using to stave off the dark of the forest.

  Beneath false skin, was a curved plate of an orange-brown metal.

  “They used to call me Bronze.” Zy Pel blinked – almost flinched at the sound of his old name. “Though that’s not what it’s made from. It is primitive, though. I think they put it there to remind me who it was who had rebuilt me. Who owned me.”

  “And who was that?” pushed Stryker.

  “SpecMish. They owned me for a few years. Then I was kicked out for… reasons.”

  “Theft, hacking, extra-judicial dustings.” Stryker held out his hands. “I’m just repeating the rumors.”

  “Everything you think you know about the Special Missions Executive is a calculated lie. They are not the paladins of the Legion you see on the holo-dramas. I have my reasons for my actions and I’d do the same again. What I did, and why – trust me – you really don’t want to know.”

  “Almost time to go,” said Osu. “But I want one more answer out of you, Zy Pel. SpecMish seems to me like the kind of operation no one gets busted out of. If you ever retire, you do so permanently. And yet here you are, drawing your pay as a sapper of the Legion.”

  “Now that,” said Zy Pel pointing the mouthpiece of his pipe at the other legionaries in turn, “is why our sergeant is the one person who can get us through this skragg-pile of a mess in one piece. You’re right, Sarge. I was kicked out but allowed to live. That never happens, which means someone is keeping me on a long leash. Who? I don’t know. And I’ll give you another answer for free. Yergin was convinced he’d been bitten by vampires, but I know for a fact that’s not what they are. I could smell them too, though not as strongly as Yergin could.”

  “You?” Osu shook his head, but he couldn’t shake away the sense that Zy Pel’s latest inconsistent story was finally hitting a rich vein of truth. “You were bitten?”

  “I was.” Zy Pel busied himself with stowing his pipe. “I’m one of them, after a fashion. And I know what they’re after, too.”

  “The ship,” Osu found himself saying.

  The others shot a bewildered look at him, all except Zy Pel who gave him a scan of appraisal.

  “What ship?” pressed Stryker.

  Osu never understood why people talked of their cheeks flushing hot with shame; his felt cold. He almost apologized. “The dig site. All over the sector, we knew there were buried signs of a great war that ended thousands of years before the Exiles arrived at Far Reach. Then the Legion pressed scattered teams of archaeologists into military service and upped the scale of operations a thousandfold. We all assumed they’d found something. I can only guess about what that might be on other systems, but I do know what they found here at ASI-39. Sanderson spotted it when we were… I guess I was trying to impress her. It’s like nothing you’ve seen before. Mid-sized – 120 meters from bow to stern and a hull covered with what looked like bone hairs. And it wasn’t a twisted wreck. It was powered. Maybe even space worthy. I think the phony legionaries were headed for the alien ship. That’s their objective.”

  Stryker laughed. “Security around the site is tighter than the defenses around a federal senator’s private bank vault. And you snuck in to impress a girl?”

  “Not just any girl,” Osu replied. “Sanderson.”

  “She was a fine legionary,” said Stryker. “And so are you, Sergeant. Mr. SpecMish here is right about one thing. Even when you’re playing hooky, you’re Legion to the core. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  Osu was a hypocrite for keeping such a secret while condemning others for keeping theirs. Stryker knew that – they all did – but Tavarius Stryker possessed the precious ability to easily brush aside issues that weren’t about to kill him. Matter closed. Move on. Osu too pushed away any sense of guilt or shame. Not because it was easy, but because he had to.

  The others, though, shot him looks of disdain as they formed up, ready to move out.

  Only Zy Pel kept his thoughts guarded.

  And Urdizine, Osu realized. The Zhoogene hadn’t said a word during their stop.

  Whatever was eating Urdizine would have to wait. They first had to survive Rho-Torkis and its Great Ice Plain because Bresca-Brevae lay at the far side, about 260 klicks away.

  They had rested near the eastern border of the forest. As they pushed on, the trees thinned and the pelting of snow dropping through the needles stopped altogether. The snowstorm had ended.

  It was dawn when they reached the edge of the forest and looked out upon the ice plain that stretched to the horizon. The rising red sun transformed the ice-scape into a sheet of polished fire.

  There were no signs of ambush. No indication of life in any form once the trees stopped. It was a barren land, but that’s what Osu was counting on. His route took them due east for three days, never passing closer than twenty klicks to a geographical feature significant enough to appear on his map. No one would find them here.

  They set off into the endless sea of ice, wondering what horrors this new day would bring.

  Osu was right. Their appearance into the ice plain went unnoticed.

  But a few hours later, a patrolling micro-drone spotted the dying remnants of their heat trail and begun a stealthy pursuit. And when it reached the party of five humanoids on hover bikes, its algorithms processed its observational data and categorized the party as hostile.

  The drone was too dumb to conceptualize the idea of hostiles as anything more than a category in an enumerated class. It could not feel hostility itself, any more than it could recommend a search and destroy team should intercept. It simply radioed back what it had found.

  But the operator who received the transmission was a far more complex being who was not only capable of feeling hostility but sparked with excitement as he called for a search and destroy team, because he would join the chase himself.

  OSU SYBUTU

  “What are we going to do about the spy drone?” asked Zavage.

  “The alleged spy drone,” countered Stryker, who was huddled next to the Kurlei in the bivouac of camo sheets stretched between the circled bikes. “I haven’t seen any drones. All we’ve picked up are two tight-burst transmissions, and the last was over an hour ago.”

  “What else could it be?” asked Zavage. He sounded distant from within the shadows of his hooded cloak. They all did.

  “We will assume it’s a drone for now,” said Osu, “but that’s not the most urgent question. What are we going to do about you, Urdizine?”

  Everyone looked at the Zhoogene legionary whose answer was a groan of pain that had been held in for far too long.

  “Sorry, Sergeant. Think I caught a fragment of Yergin’s bike when he blew it up. Thought it would self-heal. Didn’t want to be a burden.”

  “Injuries are to be reported and assessed. It’s my place to decide whether you are a burden, SOTL Urdizine. Not yours. What’s your status?”

  “Shrapnel caught me upper-left abdomen. This armor I’m wearing smells like boiled slug hide but it managed to soak up most of the energy. I thought the hydraulic bands that underpin my muscles would push it out. They haven’t, which means the fragment must have worked its way into
the bands themselves. Someone needs to take a look who’s skilled in Zhoogene field treatment.”

  “That would be Jonson and Bulmer,” said Stryker wistfully. “None of us is skilled in patching up talking shrubbery like you.”

  “There’s a Militia base forty klicks northeast of here,” said Osu. “Fort Iceni. We could detour and drop you off.”

  “Allow the Militia to poke inside me?” Urdizine sounded indignant. Beneath his hood, the stems growing out the top of his head would be waving angrily. “I’ve a better idea. There’s a town ninety klicks to the east called Raemy-Ela. It will be a much shorter detour and I can make it that far. Believe me, I’m not as fragile as you humes. All I have to do is harden my hydraulics around the wound. Can’t do sit-ups, and I dread each bowel movement, but I won’t die on you.”

  “You and your hydraulics,” murmured Stryker. “If we’re operating under cover, we should be using codenames. Hydro. That’s your cover, Urdi.”

  “Hydro,” Urdizine repeated, testing out the name. He laughed and immediately winced in pain. “Don’t make me laugh. You’re killing me. Hydro. Hey, it’s not bad.”

  Why didn’t I think of that?

  Osu beat himself up. There hadn’t been time to stop and consider such practical details, but of course that was no excuse.

  “Good thinking, Stryker,” he said. “If we really are being followed by a drone, it will have cameras, and in clear daylight it may be able to lipread. You will each have a cover name and from now on, we use them exclusively until I say so. Even inside your own head, think of your comrades by their codenames. Use your new name when thinking of yourself because one slip could make the difference between success and failure.”

  “Old Guard was my call sign on Irisur,” said Stryker. “That works for me, but what about frond-head?”

  Osu regarded SOTL Vol Zavage. “You’re Teep because no one believes that thing you do with your head is anything other than telepathy.”

  The Kurlei sighed. “You humes are as predictable as always.”

  “If only that were true, Teep,” answered Osu. “Zy Pel has to be Bronze and… Yergin. He earned a name, and it’s Michelangelo for his beautiful ice sculptures. Maybe Angelo. Yeah, that sounds more practical.”

  A somber silence came over the bivouac as they dipped into memories still raw.

  “Hydro,” said Osu, “relieve Bronze on watch.”

  “Wait,” said the Kurlei whom Osu told himself to think of as Teep. “There’s someone still unnamed. We need a name for you, Sergeant, and you can’t name yourself. That would be bad luck.”

  “I’ve already decided,” Osu replied. “Figured luck’s been so bad, nothing we can do will make it worse. Call me… Sanderson.”

  A few minutes later, with the wounded Zhoogene outside on watch, replacing Bronze – Osu was trying hard to stick to the codenames, even in his own thoughts – it was time to make further decisions.

  “I need to get that crazy walking plant seen to properly,” Osu informed the crouching circle of sappers. “That town he mentioned is too far away, so I intend to change course and head directly for the Militia at Fort Iceni. If hostile forces are tracking us – and I think they are – then this should flush them out. It’s only a half day’s journey to Fort Iceni. We’ll force the issue, and then reassess Hydro’s state. If he’s worsened, I’ll order him to seek treatment at Iceni. If he hasn’t, we’ll make for Raemy-Ela together.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere near the Militia,” said Stryker. “I don’t trust the treacherous skragg-wipers.”

  “And me?” Osu spat. “Do you think I can ever forgive them?” He took a deep breath. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  It was difficult to be sure beneath the hoods of their cloaks, but the others appeared troubled yet acquiescent. Not so Bronze. Having initially recoiled at his new name – as if it invoked a ghost from his past who still haunted him – he settled into the ritual of filling and lighting his pipe without the slightest sense of urgency.

  Should have called him Stove, Osu mused.

  “Have you something to say?” he challenged Bronze as the sapper blew his first plume of smoke.

  “Yes… Sanderson.” Bronze spoke Osu’s codename with obvious disapproval. “How are we to defeat any pursuers?”

  “Ambush.”

  “Good. Urdizine should be in the ambush party.”

  “Urdi’s wounded,” said Stryker. “I mean, Hydro.”

  Bronze clamped his pipe between his teeth and raised both hands in supplication. “The green man is my friend too. I want him well. I want the frenzied panic on your faces when he comes into season again – when the weeds in his head bloom and cause mayhem because for a few days everyone succumbs to an insanity in which green is irresistibly sexy. But we watched thousands die in seconds. We can’t bring them back by shielding a single life. They’re gone. Ambush duty’s dangerous, is all I’m saying. Hydro is not too good at traveling right now, but he can still fire his weapon.”

  “If Hydro dies in the ambush,” said Osu, “that removes one obstacle in the way of our mission objective. Is that your point?”

  “Of course it is. Look, Hydro is a Zhoogene. He’s outside on watch in the howling winds, but he can still hear every word we’re speaking. Would you like me to ask him in, so he can volunteer?”

  “Very well,” said Osu. “Bronze, you lead the ambush party. Take Hydro and Stryker. Zavage, that leaves just you and me. Oh, hell! Zavage! Teep! Hydro! No, this isn’t going to work. Zy Pel, your name has the potential to flag alerts far beyond everyone else here. You stay as Bronze. I will be Osu or Sybutu as everyone prefers. No one is to call me sergeant. That leaves, Urdi, Zavage, Stryker, and… Yergin. Commo talk is to be sloppy. Do like the Militia. We’ve ten minutes to figure out how to make that drone think we’re still traveling as one unit before we move out. Destination: Fort Iceni.”

  LEP CLYNDER

  The three surviving targets rode their bikes in a tight column, headed directly for the Militia base twenty klicks away. Their leader was making the same distinctive gestures he’d been using since Lep had first picked up their trail when they’d emerged from the forest. He would sweep his arm or point as if indicating locations, but most of all he twisted around periodically to check his party was still cohesive, even though there were only three left after whatever had befallen them at the bivouac.

  Target-1, Lep had designated the man, and he was reassured by the target’s consistency, because precious little else made sense about the targets.

  Lep peered into the viewer and tried to focus the drone’s image. It was a hopeless task. The snow had started to fall once more, and since the event at the targets’ bivouac, interference had been cutting static through the picture.

  He couldn’t even be sure that Target-1 was a he. But back when the image had been clearer, the PatRec system had decided the leader was most likely male human, so that’s what Lep would run with.

  Taking point, Target-2 had a slighter frame. Working assumption: human female. Lep’s biggest question was the identity of Target-3. It seemed too short to be the wounded Zhoogene, but on the other hand, it was hunched over and rigid, exactly how a Zhoogene would be if its filthy alien body began locking up.

  Even so, Target-3 had literally not moved a muscle in hours. It was a macabre thought, but as Lep studied the snowy scene taking place about twenty klicks northeast of his warm GPC-4 hover carrier, he began to think the rigid figure in the tattered cloak had been dead for some time, their corpse frozen solid and carried to its final destination by a bike on autopilot.

  Sod it! They were Cora’s Hope Division – supposedly one of the Rebellion’s elite units – and his reconnaissance drone couldn’t tell its operator whether a surveillance target was alive or dead. They were supposed to turn the galaxy upside down with equipment like this?

  He tapped the image of the rigid biker and gestured for medical assessment.

  Text appeared in the
status window.

  Supply higher fidelity surveillance data.

  Lep banged on the monitoring system. “What you think I’m doing?” he grumbled at the stupid thing.

  He had the whole scout-upgraded sensor suite wrapped around him. Heavy banks of interpretative quasi-intelligences topped up with monitors and status displays. The others quipped that his station was a nerd mecha, and it did feel like he was wearing mechanized armor.

  Fat lot of good it was doing them now.

  “Problem, Technician?” asked Ensign Zywroal from the front of the carrier’s personnel compartment.

  Technician First Class Lep Clynder glanced jealously at the dozen scouts riding with the ensign. Most of them had dozed off, and he couldn’t blame them in the smooth ride and gentle hum of the GPC’s gravitics. They had nothing to do until the lieutenant finally decided where she would make her move. Or maybe she would never make her mind up, and the scouts wouldn’t be woken until they were required to stroll down the egress ramp and back into the forward operating post. There they’d pat themselves on the back and congratulate themselves on a job well done before going to grab a coffee and cake.

  Was there a problem?

  Yeah. The drone didn’t work, and this military operation had been far too easy. But the truth wasn’t what officers wanted to hear.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Lep told the ensign, but also Lieutenant Nwyhypnaguran who was pretending to ignore him but would be listening in on every word. “I still can’t say why, but something is wrong about the picture I’m seeing.”

  “But you have no new information to convey,” said the lieutenant from her command position just behind the pilot and co-pilot.

  “No, sir.”

  “Something’s bugging Clynder,” said Zywroal. “We might do well to follow his instincts. Recommend we change course and intercept targets one through three before they get too close to that Militia outpost. We can always return to the bivouac site after.”