by Peter Nealen
They were nearly over the next ridge, which stood higher than the saddle behind them. The trees were getting thinner and sparser. Gaumarus looked back into the valley below.
And saw a nightmare.
How many of them are there? The ships hadn’t seemed that big; there could only be so many bodies they could stuff into a mere one hundred fifty ships. And yet there were thousands of Slayers down there, swarming like insects, moving with a curious and nauseating sort of unity. They didn’t maneuver like human or indig fighters. Where one went, the rest followed, rippling along the ground.
And the heavies were in the midst of them, plowing through the swarms, somehow without trampling any of the Slayers. And they were gaining ground on the skimmer quickly.
Gaumarus wasn’t the only one looking. Another Provenian soldier he didn’t recognize, his eyes wide and his face pale, exclaimed, “They’re coming! Oh Way, they’re coming!” He collapsed as far down into the troop compartment as he could, wailing.
Most of the Knights just looked back at him for a moment before directing their attention elsewhere. Xanar Dak, however, reached across and gripped him by the shoulder. “Easy, trooper,” the Knight said. “You’ve survived this far. We’re not dead yet.”
[We must get away from them,] Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff signed insistently. [If we pause while this pursuit continues, we will die.]
[If you have an idea, I’m listening,] Gaumarus signed back. [The Knights might not listen, though.]
Two of the mountain tribesmen started to speak in their chirping and clicking language, before Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff turned back to Gaumarus and signed, [Great Storm Cloud Over The River and Hunter of Invaders’ Children do.]
Before he could say anything else, both tribesmen had leapt out of the troop compartment, taking advantage of the brief slowdown as the driver swerved to avoid a clump of enflit trees.
Gaumarus gaped, expecting both indig to be smashed to broken corpses at the jump. But their landing was clearly practiced, as each of them tucked and rolled, disappearing into the undergrowth as it rapidly receded behind the skimmer.
“What was that?” another of the Knights demanded. His powergun wasn’t aimed inside the troop compartment, but he had pulled it back, muzzle high, so that he could bring it to bear quickly. “What are they doing?”
“I don’t know,” Gaumarus said as the other Provenians stared at him as well. “I think they have some plan to divert the M’tait who are chasing us, though.”
“Two of them?” Morav Dun demanded. “What good can two primitive abos do against a swarm like that?”
Gaumarus looked at Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff helplessly, but the chief scout was inscrutable, his clawed hands on his weapon, watching back down the slope where the two mountain tribesmen had disappeared.
A moment later, he had his answer as a deafening explosion rocked the skimmer. An entire section of the hillside behind them erupted, throwing rock, dust, and shattered enflit trees flying high into the air.
The sheer blinding force of the detonation had nearly made Gaumarus black out again. He stared at the towering column of pulverized hillside as it arced high into the sky above them and then started to slowly crash back down into the valley below. The rumble seemed faint after the crushing noise of the explosion, but there might have been another sound in there, the sound of a landslide rushing down underneath the cloud of rubble and debris.
“Where did they get molecular explosives?” a flat, translated voice asked. Gaumarus looked up to see Kan Tur watching him.
It was a question, no doubt about that. He looked at Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff, but the scout wasn’t looking at him. And even though he couldn’t read the indig expressions, he couldn’t help but think that the stares he was getting from the other mountain tribesmen were anything but friendly.
The skimmer crossed over the crest of the ridge as another entire section of the hillside behind them gave way with a rumble and a cloud of dust, darkening the few stars that were starting to show on the horizon.
11
The flyers were still crisscrossing the sky overhead, almost invisible in the darkening evening, but even the Knights’ enhanced vision could no longer see the swarms pursuing them on the ground once they crossed into the great bowl of a hanging valley and sped toward their rendezvous. The indig delaying action seemed to have worked, though Gaumarus couldn’t help but wonder how long it was going to take the M’tait to circle around and find another way to close in on them. The flyers had to be able to see them, especially once they got down onto the hanging valley’s floor.
But the Knights seemed unconcerned, though they stayed vigilant. The driver poured on the speed, aiming for the darker slot in the mountains across the valley where the other survivors of the Battle of the Monoyan Plain were supposed to be hiding.
Gaumarus realized he had been around the indig scouts a little too long as the skimmer entered the camp set back in the hollow in the hills. He was looking at the battered gun trucks and single Order of the Tancredus Cluster skimmer where they sat in a half-moon laager, their weapons all pointed toward the entrance to the hollow, no effort having been made to camouflage them or dig them in. The indig would have known better.
He hoped that the 121st would have known better. Not that it mattered. The 121st was gone.
The skimmer slowed for the first time since leaving the wreckage of Gaumarus’s smashed halftrack, and proceeded at a stately pace between the two gun trucks toward the other parked Order vehicle. Dust still billowed from beneath its skirts, but it was nearly invisible in the dark. At least none of the Provenians were showing lights. He already knew from the Altgeld Market that the Knights didn’t need them.
Two Knights and a tall, fat man in a Provenian uniform were standing in front of the skimmer. The fat man had his head held high, his hands clasped behind him. One of the Knights was standing as ramrod straight as the Provenian; the other was leaning back against the skimmer’s hull, his arms crossed over his molded chest plate.
The driver brought their skimmer to a smooth halt twenty yards from the other, and grounded it. The fans’ howls died away, and Gaumarus’s hearing seemed to ring strangely in the sudden quiet. He’d gotten so used to the vehicle’s noise that its absence was jarring.
Morav Dun got out and approached the two Knights, asking a question in their own language. The fat man peered through the dark and called out, “Are there any Provenian soldiers alive there?” His voice was high and nasally, but Gaumarus did not recognize it.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, climbing stiffly out of the troop compartment and stepping around the skimmer. “Corporal Gaumarus Pell, 121st Motor Infantry, reporting, with six other survivors.”
The fat man stared at him for a moment, though he was sure it was too dark for him to see details. “Is that how you were taught to report to a superior officer, Corporal?” he demanded. “Simply shouting your name and rank as you walk?”
Despite himself, Gaumarus’s lips thinned. Given what had already happened, and the danger that they still faced, that sort of garrison discipline seemed unnecessary and stupid. But he strode forward as quickly as his battered muscles would allow, aching with fatigue and shaking a little with the delayed reaction from the day’s carnage, straightened to stiff attention in front of the fat man, and saluted. “I apologize, sir,” he said. “Corporal Gaumarus Pell reporting, with six other survivors.”
The fat man let him hold the salute for a long several seconds before he waved a sloppy return salute at him. “That’s better,” he said with a sniff. “At ease, Corporal. Are any of your men seriously wounded?”
“No, sir,” Gaumarus answered.
“Good,” the fat man interjected before he could say anything else. “Take them to the gun trucks and relieve those on guard.”
Gaumarus blinked. They’d been on the move since the battle. He and his men—even though he didn’t know any of their names—needed rest, or at least a chan
ce to catch their breath. “But, sir,” he began.
“I don’t want to hear ‘buts,’ Corporal,” the fat man snapped. “You were given an order. Carry it out. You are dismissed.” He turned his back and Gaumarus and started to join the Knights where they were speaking quietly.
Gaumarus bit back the bitter taste in his mouth and the sudden upwelling of fury in his chest. Turning on his heel, he stalked back to the skimmer. “You, you, and you, come with me,” he said, pointing to three of the other Provenians. “The rest of you go to that other gun truck. The commander wants us to relieve the men on guard.”
“What?” one of the younger men, a former driver named Goethal, protested. “That’s insane. We’re dead on our feet. We’ve been running from the M’tait all day, and we haven’t had a breather at all.”
“And I tried to tell him that,” Gaumarus said bitterly. “He wouldn’t listen. Come on.”
A clawed hand touched his shoulder. He turned to find himself face to face with Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff. [We will be up above, in the rocks,] the scout signed, indicating himself and the rest of the indig. [Perhaps you should not tell your new commander that we are here.]
Gaumarus only nodded. He doubted that the fat officer would even give him the chance to tell him. The man was clearly preoccupied with what he wanted to hear and get done, and uninterested in anything else. Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff faded away into the dark as Gaumarus turned toward the gun truck. Only then did he notice that the other indig had already vanished.
The truck was a looming, dark shape against the lighter color of the valley beyond, the man at the heavy coilgun mounted to the roof a silhouette against the stars. Even the stars seemed muted, he saw; the smoke and dust of the battle—or battles—of the day would not disperse quickly.
“Hail the truck,” he called out softly. A shape stirred on the ground next to it, and then a man in combat fatigues and carrying a coilgun heaved himself to his feet.
“Come ahead,” the man said. He stuck a hand out as Gaumarus walked up to him. “Good to see that someone else made it. Sergeant Sichou Verheyen, 45th Support Company.”
“Corporal Gaumarus Pell, 121st Motor Infantry,” Gaumarus replied, shaking the sergeant’s hand. “How did a support company sergeant wind up out here?”
Verheyen waved toward the skimmers. “The esteemed Colonel Piett wanted to watch the battle. When things got out of hand, he grabbed his security detachment—that’s us—and headed for the hills. We got lost trying to get to Cators, and the colonel picked this spot to wait for reinforcements to come get us.”
Gaumarus just stared at him, knowing without looking that the rest of the men behind him were probably mirroring his own expression. If he understood Verheyen correctly, these men hadn’t fought in the battle, hadn’t spent the following hours on the run from the M’tait. The man seemed friendly enough, but for a moment Gaumarus couldn’t help but remember Verlot and wonder how this man would have fared in Verlot’s place.
“What about you?” Verheyen asked.
“I was the only survivor of my company,” Gaumarus said slowly. “I don’t know about these others yet. We’ve been running from the M’tait for the last day; there hasn’t been time for stories.”
Verheyen stared at him in the dark, then looked from man to man behind him. “Really?” he asked, his voice hushed. “You…you were down there?” He might have gulped. “I didn’t think anyone survived.”
“Precious few did,” Gaumarus growled as he stepped past Verheyen and to the truck. “What’s your guard rotation?”
“Just the one up on the gun,” Verheyen said. “But…”
“The colonel told me to relieve your men on guard,” Gaumarus said, getting angrier with every word; he wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t like Verheyen had given the asinine orders. “So consider them relieved.”
“That’s…” Verheyen stopped and his hands fell to his sides. “Get your men some rest, Corporal. We’ll stand guard.” There was a strange sort of tone in his voice. Was it chagrin? Gaumarus found he didn’t really care. Verheyen hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen.
Gaumarus looked at Verheyen. The other man was slightly shorter than he was, and his fatigues and his gear weren’t as smoke-blackened and battered as the survivors’. He took a deep breath. “The colonel gave his orders,” he said quietly.
“And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Verheyen replied, in the same tone. “There are no rules against maintaining watch. I’m a sergeant. I overruled you, Corporal. And I’ll tell the colonel that in the morning, if he objects.” He laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. “Trust me, he won’t come down here to check tonight.”
Gaumarus just nodded mutely, turning to the others, men whose names he hadn’t known before less than an hour ago, yet were now somehow closer to him than anyone else there, except maybe Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff. And the indig were out of sight, hiding in the rocks and trees above them. “You heard the sergeant,” he said. “Get some rest while you can.”
He glanced over toward the other gun truck. He should probably go over there and make sure the other three, whoever they were, were settled in. But Verheyen put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll take care of it,” the sergeant said quietly. Gaumarus nodded.
He found a spot for himself in the rocks off to the gun truck’s flank. If it was slightly better concealed and provided the cover of several large boulders between him and the valley below, he almost didn’t notice.
He was asleep in moments. Sheer exhaustion put him down more quickly than he might have imagined.
The nightmares would come later.
He awoke to a hand on his shoulder. He started, reaching for his coilgun, but the grip tightened, and a flat, mechanical voice said, “Easy, Corporal Pell. It is Kan Tur.”
Gaumarus let out a faint sigh, blinking at the dim silhouette above him, the peaked helmet above broad, armored shoulders. He groped for his helmet and pulled it on so that he could see. It was still dark.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“It is less than an hour before dawn,” Kan Tur replied. “I brought you a little gift.” He pointed back toward the gun truck. “I do not think that Sergeant Verheyen quite knows what to do with it.”
Gaumarus followed Kan Tur’s pointing finger, to see a long, evil-looking tube mounted on a tripod, with cables running to a lozenge-shaped module resting on the ground. “What is it?” he asked. His mouth tasted like something had died in it, and his eyeballs seemed to grate in their sockets.
“A crew-served laser cannon,” Kan Tur said, standing and holding out a gauntleted hand. Gaumarus gripped it, and Kan Tur hauled him to his feet. “It seems that it was a heavy weapons skimmer that fled with Colonel Piett. There were several HV missile launchers, two cannons, and four heavy powerguns inside.”
Gaumarus glanced at the Knight. The translator removed any inflection from his words, but somehow he still seemed to have detected a note of bitterness and scorn when Kan Tur had spoken about the skimmer fleeing with the colonel. Perhaps Kan Tur felt the same way about some of his fellow Knights as Gaumarus was finding that he felt about his fellow Provenian soldiers.
“Are we digging in here, then?” he asked. “I thought we were going to the Badlands.” He suddenly wasn’t sure which possibility was worse, and he glanced down into the hanging valley instinctively.
There was movement down there, he realized. And it could only be the M’tait. They had less time than he’d feared. His dread of the Badlands evaporated in the face of the horror down in the valley, crawling across the open ground. Better to face the implacable mountain tribes than the nightmare that was the M’tait.
Would they try to capture the men holed up in that hollow? he wondered. Or would they simply slaughter them, deciding they were too much trouble? He didn’t know, and from what he’d always heard, he suspected that no one aside from the M’tait themselves could know which course of action the
y would choose.
“Colonel Piett, Knight Subcommander Morav Dun, and Knight Subcommander Zarth Varn have decided that the indig cannot possibly offer any useful help, and that to move from this semi-defensible position would be folly,” Kan Tur said. “We are going to hold here and call for help from Cators.”
Gaumarus stared at him, then glanced up as the faint scream of a M’tait flyer went by overhead, invisible against the darkness of the predawn sky. “But if Cators is under siege, like you said…” he started to say. His own anger at Piett and the support company men faded as the deeper-seated fear returned. He knew what this plan meant. With the M’tait less than two kilometers away, there was no way that reinforcements from Cators could reach them in time, even if there were reinforcements to be had. “We’re doomed,” he whispered.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Kan Tur said. “Remember, all is not lost as long as you still draw breath.” He looked around. “Where are your friends with the heavy rifles?”
“They went up there, to the high ground last night,” Gaumarus said, glancing up at the rocky walls, noticing for the first time just how sheer they were. He had seen Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff climb steeper cliffs though, so he had little doubt that the indig had negotiated the climb easily. “I don’t think they wanted to stay with us, particularly not with Colonel Piett here.”
“Do they know him?” Kan Tur asked.
“I seriously doubt it,” Gaumarus replied as they reached the laser. “But most of them are mountain tribesmen, and even the scouts have often been mistreated by some of the higher-ranking officers in the PDF. I’ve never known Blue Moon Above the Salt Cliff to willingly talk to a ranking officer. That’s why he always talked to me.”
“Interesting,” Kan Tur said. He pointed to a rocky outcropping just forward of the gun truck. “I would suggest mounting the cannon there. Do you know how to use it?”
Gaumarus studied the controls with his face shield’s light enhancement. They were marked with unfamiliar symbols, but he thought he got the gist. Most weapons made for humans had to follow certain design constants. “Charged, Disarmed, Safe, Single Pulse, Continuous Fire?” he asked, pointing to the controls.
