“Outcast down!” Solomon was calling, scrabbling down the safe side of the ridge to re-ascend it underneath the Outcast’s body. The sight was terrible—a darkened burn hole straight through the man’s chest. Acting on instinct, Solomon grabbed the body and pulled it backwards, away from the possibility of any more mutilation, and picked up the man’s spare ammunition to add them to his own, before re-ascending the ridge…
We can’t stop them, Solomon was thinking, just as there was another scream over the shared channel—this time from their eastern flank instead.
“Malady!” Solomon shouted. The full tactical had been guarding that wing of the battlefront, but he had been joined by other survivors. Looking across, he saw the shape of a body flying and tumbling through the air—a human body, an Outcast Marine who had been seized and thrown by an advancing cyborg as easily as if the man were nothing more than a twig.
“Contact east!” Solomon shouted as he realized what had happened. The cyborgs really did have deep machine learning circuits, didn’t they? Their blatant assault of the western side of the ridge had concentrated the Marines on them, as another small group must have crawled over the ice plateau below and up their eastern flank. They were being surrounded! Solomon brought up his Jackhammer—
—just as a heavy, dark shape barreled into the approaching cyborg. It was Malady, standing up to his full height and making a roaring sound over the shared communicator channel as he knocked the cyborg back the way it had come. Solomon saw the back and side plates of the full tactical flex like bronze-colored muscles, and the small wheels and servo-assisted pistons releasing steam all around him as he charged to the next approaching cyborg.
It was like watching two rhinos attack each other. Solomon felt a moment of terrible awe as the two man-robots battled. Malady was clearly the bigger in every way, but the cyborg had an in-built particle-beam weapon. It was quicker than Malady, but not as strong.
“Enemy all around us!” Jezzy was shouting, and Solomon could hear the report of her own gun over the channel as she fought the western assault.
“Position overrun! Fight where you stand!” Solomon shouted the most terrifying words that he had never hoped to utter, but it was now already too late as something half-silver bounded through the light gravity past Malady to land between Solomon and his squad member. More cyborgs launched themselves into the air to similarly break apart the Outcasts line.
BADA-BRAP-BRAP! His weapon was still on burst fire, and Solomon fired straight up at the cyborg’s chest, giving it a full burst that knocked it back.
It’ll be back, Solomon knew, but he had no time to hunt it down, as he was pushing himself back to his feet, turning to see where another cyborg had landed near the center of their group.
This was a sort of fighting that Solomon hadn’t trained for. He was a commander, he was taught to think in positions and logistics and strategies, but this was just a bloodbath. Instead, his more distant, New Kowloon instincts kicked in.
Keep moving. Stay alive. He kicked out, somersaulting over the ridge to the far side as the rocks behind him exploded with purple-white light. He landed badly, half-stumbling before turning and firing a shot at the nearest cyborg to leap again.
Be fast. Take what chances you can. That was how you survived in the chaotic and complicated streets of New Kowloon, Solomon’s body knew, even if his mind didn’t. You had to be agile. Unpredictable.
“Arghhh!” another scream as one of the Outcast survivors that Solomon Cready had rescued was blown off the ridge by a bolt of purple-white light. Solomon turned to find the source of the attack, just as it was smashed to the ice by the leaping, charging Malady.
The specialist commander found himself in one of those surreal lulls in the middle of the violence that he had read about from other Marine’s biographies. All around him, people struggled and fought and died, and everyone was shouting, snarling, and screaming. The ground shook with the thunder of bullet-shot and the impacts of bodies.
The eastern flank is gone, Solomon saw. Only Malady, another Marine, and himself stood on this side of the battle, and there were Outcasts fighting cyborgs in the heart of the ridge as well, who appeared to be trying to push their way to the knot of survivors on the west with Jezzy and Karamov at their center. Solomon had no idea how they were managing to hold out against such an unstoppable enemy, but they were…somehow.
“Rally! Rally, my brothers and sisters!” Solomon held up his Jackhammer and started to bound towards that knot of fighters with Jezzy and Karamov. If they could reform there, then maybe they had a chance…
“Ach!” Something struck him on the side of the shoulder, spinning him around and sending him falling down the side of the ridge, bouncing in the low gravity as his attacker followed him down.
It was one of the cyborgs, who had apparently backhanded him with enough force to send him flying. The cyborg’s metal legs pulverized the rocks and ice as it landed, but Solomon still hadn’t even pushed himself back up again yet, and his Jackhammer was gone! It had slipped from his fingers in the fall and was now slowly floating a few meters away.
The cyborg leveled its weapon-arm at the Gold Squad Commander. Solomon saw the cylinders spin in a blur and discharge threading miniature lightning bolts as it generated the charge necessary to—
“Not today, metal-man!” a voice shouted as something smashed down on the cyborg’s hand, knocking it down so that the light seared into the creature’s own leg, to a hiss of molten metal and steam. It had been a boulder. One of the Outcast survivors—a big one at that—had seized a boulder and thrown it, before reaching to pull up his own gun on the strap around his shoulder and fire point-blank into the thing’s face as they bounded forward.
The cyborg swiveled and flew backward, its leg tattered and showering machine oil and sparks as it flew, and Solomon’s savior reached down to seize the specialist commander by the front of his light tactical and haul him to his feet.
The face inside the Outcast visor-helmet was not the one that Solomon had been expecting, however. It was Arlo Menier, a member of Red Squad and one of the Outcasts who had been determined to make Solomon’s life on Ganymede a living hell.
Adjunct-Marine Menier was a big Frenchman, with the build of a professional wrestler even before adding a light tactical suit on top. He had dark eyes and no hair, but a handlebar moustache that he was very proud of.
Solomon and the rest of Gold Squad had also had one training exercise with him as their commander before their final squad positions were allocated, and Arlo Menier had made every bad decision that a leader could make. Luckily, the visiting Brigadier General Asquew had noticed, ejecting Menier from the squad and giving the command to Solomon instead—which had started almost a year and a half of enmity, near fights, and small acts of cruelty from the large Frenchman towards him.
“Arlo!” he said in shock, unsure of what he should do. This man had tried to kill him out here once. Well, scare me, perhaps, he corrected. But holding a flaming arc-welder just a little away from the vulnerable visor mask of a fellow adjunct-Marine was just as dangerous as trying to kill one, right?
Solomon watched as the larger Menier reached down to snatch up Solomon’s Jackhammer from where it had been starting to settle on the ground. His nemesis held the gun in his spare hand for a moment, as if also wondering whether he was going to shoot his long-time enemy…
“Here,” Arlo grunted, passing the gun to the specialist commander and turning to fire at another approaching cyborg.
“On your left!” Solomon called, as the cyborg with the particle-burnt leg had managed to drag itself into a crouching position, once again raising its laser-generating arm and aiming at Menier.
Solomon reversed his grip and fired, hitting the thing’s ruined face to an eruption of sparks and machine oil. The neck twisted horribly, and the thing collapsed to the ground, unmoving.
Both Solomona and Arlo looked at the dead cyborg for a moment. Between them, they had done it. They had
managed to kill one. It had taken two point-blank shots to the head and a self-application of its own particle laser to do it, but they had still done it.
“Thanks,” Arlo murmured gruffly at Solomon.
“Head shots,” Solomon breathed, wondering how they had managed to do the impossible, before realizing that each of the cyborgs that they had seen so far had platework silver-sheaths covering the backs of their heads down their spine to their belts. Even if their chests or shoulders or arms were bare of metal, each cyborg still had that ‘spine sheath.’
“It must have hit the central cortex or spinal column…” Solomon said. “Down their back… That’s where their control cables are—running down the spine!” he shouted excitedly as both men turned back in the direction of the battle to spread their good news, and to fight. Together.
10
Manna from Heaven
“Hold your positions!” Solomon shouted as he fired again, hitting one of the advancing cyborgs on the side of the shoulder. It wasn’t the hit he was looking for, but it was enough to spin it around, and for the Outcast beside him to target its spine. A direct hit! It went down, but their problems were far from over.
The survivors had been pushed back to the northern side of the ridge that overlooked the ice plain and the ruined facility behind them. They had lost a further two Outcasts and one staffer who had taken up a gun and joined them on the front line.
Solomon pulled the trigger for it to click impotently and the warning light to flare along its side. Dammit! He was out. He kicked himself backwards as he ejected the empty ammo case and reached for the next.
There was only one left on his belt.
Damn-damn-damn! He snarled, jamming it home and racking the first round.
The ‘front line’ was now in front of the buggy, parked halfway up the southern incline. The cyborgs had taken the ridge from them, cutting off the two Green Squad members at the practice hulk.
If they even still live, Solomon thought angrily.
BAP! BAP! The sounds of gunshots were loud over his suit communicator channel, whilst only being muted from his external suit mic. He realized that the person next to him was firing a Marine Corps service pistol, and that it was Warden Coates, stalking towards the front line as if his indignation alone could defeat the enemy. Solomon had never seen the small, wiry man fight, and he had automatically assumed that a man as cruel and as authoritarian as Coates would still be hiding in the buggy.
Not the case, however, as he saw his superior officer stride forward and take up arms with two hands, firing expertly in single shots to sever another cyborg’s spine sheath.
They were all down to single shots now, though. There wasn’t enough ammunition to go around and burst-fire from the Jackhammers was too imprecise to guarantee the kills that they needed.
How many are left? Solomon did a quick tally of the soldiers around him. He was relieved to see that all members of his Gold Squad had survived so far, although Karamov appeared to not be getting up from his crouch by a rock. Had his legs been injured? They were down to seven surviving adjunct-Marines versus five cyborgs. Although they had the greater numbers, and Malady, they were still a long way from winning. Solomon didn’t like those odds.
So far, the best tactic had been to gang up on the cyborgs. Two or three Outcasts firing on one, with one or two of the attackers firing shots to drive them to the ground, while the remaining Outcast went for the kill-shot on the thing’s back or neck.
But now that their numbers were pretty evenly matched, Solomon was starting to fear that they wouldn’t make it.
“Warden, sir! Oxygen check!” Solomon called out to Coates when the man slid to the floor and behind the boulder beside him as he reloaded his pistol. The man should have looked ridiculous in his flappy, cloak-like emergency suit, but Solomon was beyond resentments and grievances right now. We’ll have time to resume our usual hatred if we’re both alive at the end of it, he had decided, mostly thanks to the actions of Arlo Menier.
“Marine?” The warden’s voice was brusque, but Solomon heard him grunt in approval and watched him check the small reader on the side of his wrist. “I’m fine. But the rest will be running out in twenty minutes,” the warden said tersely, checking his pistol and standing back up to continue his sharp-shooting.
But you put your suit on at the same time as the other staffers, Solomon realized as he watched the man fight. That meant that Coates had only twenty minutes of oxygen left too, and that the warden didn’t care, just so long as he was still able to fight.
The understanding that they were all in this together spread through Solomon, and it was like a breath of fresh air, strangely.
I hated it here, he admitted to himself as he targeted another cyborg, attempting to push forward from the top of the ridge, but instead meeting a barrage of shots from him or the others around him. I hated Ganymede. I didn’t want any part of the Marine Corps.
And the ex-thief had good reason to hate it, perhaps. The training facility had been run on austere, demanding lines. Absolute commitment to regulation, alongside a dangerous genetic—and chemical—program that had seen almost a third of the total Outcast forces die of seizures and toxic shock.
Ganymede had seemed more like a prison camp than a military academy, he thought.
But now, in the baptism of blood and war, Solomon caught a glimpse of something else that had been hidden away here. It was in the way that Warden Coates fought alongside his men—well, attempting to put his men and women to shame with his fearless outrage, perhaps. It was in the way that, when death was a certainty, Arlo Menier had stepped up and saved his life, and then fought alongside him. It was in the way that the different colored squads had been forced to fight, and die, together.
And it didn’t come from Ganymede, or the warden’s commands, Solomon realized. This new thing, this camaraderie, this brotherhood of arms came from each other. From the other Outcasts who were all just like him, ex-convicts, the mad, bad, and dangerous whom Confederate society had sent to the prison moon of Titan for the rest of their natural lives.
Here, together, these outcast men and women had forged something new between them. A reason to stay alive, if only for each other.
Even Warden Coates, Solomon had to grudgingly admit, was a little bit of an outcast here, too. A man with a strangely powerless military title who only had authority over the most hated military brigade in the entire Corps, but who had given this project his all, just the same.
It was in that moment that hope broke over them all like manna from heaven.
Searing phosphorous stars were falling to the moon’s surface in streaks of boiling, burning white light along the ridge that illuminated the battlefield too sharply.
Illumination rounds, Solomon recognized, as the general band of his suit communicator burst into life.
“Attention Outcast Marines. This is the forward dropship the Humbolt, Rapid Response Fleet. Hold your positions.”
Following the illumination lines came a burning light in the skies behind the ridge. Solomon saw a small, dark shape enter the lower atmosphere and fire at the ridge.
“Cover!” Solomon shouted as he and the other survivors dropped to the floor.
The Humbolt had fired missiles at the top of the ridge as it entered Ganymede’s atmosphere, and Solomon tucked his head under his arm as the ground shook and the brightness of the explosions managed to break through even his closed eyes. There was a deep, vibrational rumbling followed by more bursts of light and noise, and then it was over.
Solomon raised his head just in time to see the Humbolt scream overhead on atmospheric rockets, performing a wide turn over the ruins of the training facility. The ridge where the last remaining cyborgs had been holding was now a charred, broken series of craters. The cyborgs may be nigh unstoppable, but the advanced Hellfire system of the twenty-second century was enough to destroy them.
They had done it, Solomon could have laughed, or cried, the relief was so palpab
le. They had survived the hour it would take for the distress beacon to call for support from Mars. And for them to arrive so quickly must have meant that the general had dispatched the dropship as soon as she could.
“Good job, Commander,” he heard someone saying over the general channel, and when Solomon looked up, he saw that it was Arlo Menier of all people, offering him the meaty power glove to help him to his feet.
“No.” Solomon shook his head, feeling disorientated by this change in the bully. “You saved my life, Marine,” he murmured back.
“I know,” Arlo growled, tightening his grip on Solomon’s gloved hand for a moment in a squeeze that would have popped finger bones had Solomon not been wearing power gauntlets. “Hm,” the Frenchman grunted. “You’re still an idiot, but you can fight,” was all that the big man said before turning to start the grisly task of loading the bodies of the dead.
Behind him, Solomon wavered on his feet, wondering if that meant that he and Arlo were friends now.
“Cready!” Coates barked. “Get those staffers to the Humbolt and hooked up to some real oxygen now!” the warden demanded, just as outraged as ever.
11
Counter-Strike, and Welcome
“The cyborgs knew what they were doing.” Solomon nodded in agreement with Asquew’s words as he, his squad, and the other survivors of Ganymede looked up at the form of the woman on the overhead screen.
They sat in a small briefing room on board the Humbolt’s mothership, a battleship by the name of the Oregon, capable of fielding three dropships like the Humbolt, as well as a full company of a hundred Marines—had they even been on board. Instead, the Oregon was staffed with only two platoons of roughly twenty Marines each, as all the others were still engaged with the siege of Mars.
Outcast Marines series Boxed Set 2 Page 18