by James Evans
“You’re about to find out,” he said, nodding at the window. “Looks like our friends have caught up with us.”
Two Cans walked slowly along the street, their outsized bodies looking faintly ridiculous on their comparatively short, stubby legs.
“Three hundred metres, sir,” came the report.
“Open fire at two hundred and fifty,” said Atticus, “mortars and snipers.”
Denmead frowned. “That didn’t work before,” she pointed out. “Why would it work now?”
“Because this time we have brought something special to the party,” said Atticus, adjusting his HUD so that it showed him an enlarged image of the street. The enemy moved slowly, cautiously, checking each building they passed.
In his HUD, Atticus watched the range countdown. As it hit two hundred and fifty metres, there was a pop from the mortar, and both snipers fired. The rifles opened up as well and, in moments, the street was empty of all but the Cans, which continued their sedate stroll.
“Almost,” muttered Atticus, letting his HUD return to normal vision when the Cans had reached the two hundred metre mark. There were pops from upstairs as the mortars fired again, although as far as Denmead could tell, they hadn’t hit anything yet.
She was just about to say as much when a figure dashed from cover on one side of the street. It was one of the Deathless Ruperts but dressed in the armour of a Marine, running fast, heedless of the danger.
Denmead watched, horrified by the risk the Marine was taking but unable to turn away. The Marine sprinted across the road, and, without stopping, reached out to slap something on the back of the leg of one of the Cans. The Can twisted at the waist, trying to bring guns to bear on the tiny figure, but a mortar round caught it in the chest, knocking it back a step and distracting the pilot.
The Marine darted past the second Can and then they were away, racing back to cover as quickly as they had emerged. Whoever they were, they dropped flashbangs and smoke grenades as they ran. Gunfire erupted from the buildings along the street, hosing the Deathless positions as the Marine dived over a wall and disappeared from sight.
Then there were two loud bangs from the street, accompanied by blinding white light. The first Can staggered, then toppled forwards as its leg snapped near the knee, right where the Marine had struck it. The twin-cannon fired repeatedly, throwing up huge sprays of dirt before the Can rolled onto its back and the pilot ejected from the front of the chest.
The second Can didn’t fall but it did stop moving as viscous liquid gushed from the damaged leg and something burned brightly behind the knee joint sending up a plume of smoke. The Can pivoted, its upper torso turning until it could spray fire across the Marines’ position.
Then a mortar round landed at its feet and the damaged leg collapsed, spilling the Can to the ground. It fell forward, cannon digging into the ground.
The two railguns spat at almost the same time and the top of the Can crumpled in a spray of sparks. For a moment the street was quiet, then the Can exploded, sending gouts of flame and shards of torn metal into the air.
“Your secret weapon was a reckless Marine?” said Denmead, outraged at the hideous risk of the plan. “What if it hadn’t worked or he’d been killed before he placed the bomb? What if he’d tripped and fallen flat on his face?”
Atticus shrugged as the Marines piled into the factory, clearly pleased with their day’s work.
“Technically not a bomb – more of an improvised white phosphorous incendiary device. But in answer to your question, Governor, if we had failed we would have tried something else,” Atticus said simply. “And now we know this works, we’ll find a safer delivery method. Drones, for example.”
She looked at him for a long moment, clearly unimpressed. “So why didn’t you let the snipers kill the pilot?” she asked, curiosity eventually getting the better of her and driving away her anger, at least for a moment.
Atticus coughed, looking slightly embarrassed. “It wasn’t a courtesy, I’m afraid. He’s injured, so he’s a burden. If they want to put him in another of those suits, they either have to wait for him to heal...”
“Or they have to kill him so they can redeploy him,” she said, finishing his unspoken thought.
“Yeah. It’s not very sporting, but these chaps aren’t really playing cricket,” said Atticus apologetically.
Another squad of Marines came into the factory, Lieutenant Hayes at their head.
“Good work, Lieutenant,” said Atticus.
“Thank you, sir, although we lost Wilson when that bastard turned the flamethrower on us. We just weren’t fast enough pulling back. Sorry, sir.”
Atticus nodded. His HUD already showed Wilson’s status as ‘Awaiting Deployment’, meaning that his backup was queued and ready to be loaded into a new body.
“I’ll talk to Wilson once he’s back on his feet,” said Atticus, “remind him that we prefer our NCOs raw rather than barbecued. The rest of you,” he said, turning around, “fall back, we’re done here.”
22
Ten checked the winch one last time. A couple of rounds pinged off the truck, and he spared a glance towards the base. The range was still extreme for small arms, and there was no sign of anything heavier, yet. He shook his head sadly. Honestly, if there weren’t so many of these Deathless, they wouldn’t be much sport at all. He returned to his checks, grunted in satisfaction and backed away from the winch, releasing the strapping that had held him on the cab and paying out the cable from his harness until he was right at the back of the truck.
Ten took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Then he checked that his liberated parachute was in place, pulled the ripcord and waited as it unfurled behind him. He gave it one last look to make sure it wasn’t tangled then pressed the button on the winch remote.
He was braced for the snap but at this speed, even in this atmosphere, the chute yanked him back and up with a vicious lurch, the straps of the harness punching into his chest. It was a sphincter-tightening moment and he took a second to catch his breath.
He was rising fast, over a hundred metres in mere seconds. Craning his neck, he checked the parachute again; it was still free and clear and fully inflated. Good stuff, time to get cracking.
The truck was five hundred metres from the base, now. The Deathless had got over their surprise at being fired upon and were shooting back, their bullets sounding like hail as they rattled from the thick alloy of the truck. Have they spotted me up here? Ten wondered, before concluding that they probably hadn’t. Goodwin had put the headlights on full beam a couple of minutes before, and this thing was designed to be operated twenty-four hours a day; it was bright and obvious, with more lights than a shopping centre at holiday time.
With a bit of luck, the Deathless would focus on the unstoppable behemoth heading towards their gate. Ten wondered if they just hadn’t realised how big the truck was. Maybe they were confused about the difference between very small and far away?
The remote strapped to his wrist showed him at three hundred metres, which was more than enough. He tapped the control and slowed the winch until it stopped paying out cable. Three hundred metres from the base – time to get the party started.
“Goodwin, can you start the light show and effects, please?”
“Do you mean you want me to fire the grenade launchers?” Goodwin asked, somewhat testily.
“Yes, fire the grenade launchers.”
“Why didn’t you just say that then? Firing now,” she replied.
Bloody wet behind the ears, these kids, he thought. No sense of style. Don’t they realise how much fun this is?
The pair of grenade launchers attached to the lip of the dump truck’s hopper let forth a volley of grenades. Three each then a two-second pause and another three. Ten turned up the filtering on his HUD in anticipation; the auto-filter was good, but there was always a delay, and it was better to be prepared.
The flashbangs detonated across the front of the gateway, bright as the midday sun and as loud as any decent rock concert. Sure enough, the enemy firing paused again. The next set of grenades didn’t land quite so nicely but they burst forth into plumes of multi-coloured smoke, lending an eerie feel to the battleground. More importantly, their smoke concealed everything from the enemy, himself being the most important part of that.
“Thank you, Goodwin, and now the percussion section if you don’t mind.”
“Firing.”
The grenade launchers let loose with their distinctive popping noise again, this time emptying the remaining contents of their drums. Dozens of grenades flew toward the wall, striking all across it, some going through the gate, some over the wall, some falling before it. These weren’t flashbangs or smoke-makers; they were high explosive fragmentation grenades. Even if the Deathless were all behind cover, they weren’t going to like a shower of grenades.
“Now you’re getting the hang of it, Goodwin. Good job. I’m getting off now; I’ll let you know when I’m clear,” Ten said. He reached out along the cable towards the linkage, pulled a plastic safety wedge free of the mechanism and then yanked the release. The cable dropped away, and suddenly he was pulling up, gliding higher on the updraft.
“Roger that, impact in five, four, three, two –” Goodwin replied.
The truck struck the gateway just before she hit one. The noise would have been deafening, even at this height, if it hadn’t been for his HUD. The truck flipped forward as the edges of the cabin impacted the walls on either side of the base doors, the whole backend coming up in an achingly slow arc. For a moment, Ten thought it might flip over the wall. It didn’t quite manage that, but the contents of the hopper were thrown forward like shrapnel from a bomb as the truck hit the huge spiky protrusions that festooned the top of the wall.
The arch over the gateway shattered, foamcrete falling in chunks the size of shipping containers. Moments before, there had been a lot of Deathless soldiers firing from above the gap in the wall. Maybe they’d all cleared the wall before the dumper struck, but they were having a bad day all the same.
For a few long seconds, it looked like the truck would come to rest in that position, upright on its cabin, wheels spinning in the air. Then it lost the fight with gravity and tipped far enough forward to come crashing down on the rubble and bodies, landing upside down on the remains of the gate.
Ten cursed; that might spoil the rest of the plan. Never mind, it was a good start. He flicked his HUD to standard night vision mode and the display changed to show a composite image of low light vision and infrared signatures, blended seamlessly to create a clear, detailed image. It wasn’t quite daylight, but it was close.
Below him, there were clouds of smoke and dust billowing into the compound behind the wrecked gatehouse. There were dozens of buildings, large and small, of many different forms. One of the smaller ones was little more than a simple hut, standing near the wall but off to one side. That was all he’d have seen with simple night vision, but his HUD picked out infra-red signatures, highlighting any that were likely to be targets. Larger lifeforms, hot engines, or the flame from a rocket launch would be shown, but the HUD would filter out extraneous heat mapping information.
The hut showed hot; several Deathless waited inside. Ten brought his weapon to bear and neatly plopped a high explosive grenade through the thin roof. He searched for more targets; it was time to get loud.
Ten triggered a preprogrammed button in his HUD and music began to blare from the portable speakers strapped to his shoulders. He had been ordered to provide a distraction and he would do exactly that.
He began to sing along at the top of his voice. Ten was pretty sure he wasn’t in tune but hopefully the Deathless wouldn’t be too harsh in their reviews.
"A British tar is a soaring soul,
As free as a mountain bird,
His energetic fist should be ready to resist,
A dictatorial word!”
As he sang in a decidedly melodramatic manner, he accompanied the lyrics with well-placed rounds from the grenade launcher. Any Deathless foolish enough to cluster together or catch his attention received a small gift, along with any building that looked like it might house base control systems. There wasn’t time to be dainty though; any unidentifiable buildings that came into view as he panned around received grenades as well. They must all contain something valuable, after all, even if they weren’t storing anything as vital as personnel, armour or an operations centre.
The chute was carrying him over the base now, heading north-east so that, at some point, he would cross the far wall and be over open ground again. Ten refocussed, ignoring most of the base and looking for bigger, more important targets. One floated past, a hundred metres below or more, and he gave it three rounds. Sure enough, it detonated with a satisfying fireball far larger than his grenades would have caused. Score one for the good guys.
A long pull on the left toggle corrected his course and took him back towards the middle of the base. He craned his neck around to check the truck. Lights lanced through the smoke and dust around it, and he could see infrared signatures at their source. There were a maybe two dozen troops nearby but no more approaching it.
“Goodwin, standby for Phase 2.”
“Roger that.”
Ten turned to his front again, scanning left and right, then fired a volley of grenades towards a building that looked like a barracks. He ejected the drum, slammed another firmly into the receiver, took a deep breath and held the trigger down as he panned from left to right, spraying grenades indiscriminately across the base and paying no attention to where they fell.
Ten grinned as he imagined the Deathless trying to work out what was going on. Nobody fired grenade launchers on fully automatic mode; it wasn’t even the slightest bit sensible. To the enemy, it would seem like dozens of troops had suddenly loosed a coordinated volley. It would feel like pure chaos down there, and they would have no idea which way to turn. They weren’t finding anyone to fight, and confusion, ever present on a battlefield, would be rife amongst these ill-disciplined troops.
He ejected the spent drum and swapped in his last, then slung the launcher onto his back, pulling a magnetic strap tight to stop it bouncing around. He would save the last grenades for an emergency, just in case.
But now it was time to bring this thing down before he got too low and hit something tall, pointy and uncomfortable. In the dim and distant past, he had seen a Marine misjudge a group drop and land on an aerial that should have been removed before the manoeuvre. The comms tech had got a bollocking, but the other guy didn’t need one; two weeks in the hospital and a nickname that still made Ten laugh had taken care of that.
Ten killed the music to float silently through the night. The huge ship at the centre of the base looked like a leviathan, set to burst forth from a sea of rock and sand and devour the planet. In a way, that’s exactly what it was but, right now, it was his landing zone. There was a large raised section, smooth and flat, just right for not shattering your ankles after tripping on an unseen rock. There weren’t any aerials either, and he sniggered at the memory. He had missed old Two-Arseholes since he’d retired. He’d have to send him an ecard, something like “I saw this aerial, and thought of you”. That ought to get the proper reaction.
He grabbed both toggles, tweaking his approach with light touches and wondering what to do if he fucked it up. Knife t
o the throat? Grenade? What was the least painful way to avoid capture?
Then he hit the deck, at a shallow angle, running along the surface of the ship as he slowed, and unclipped the parachute. He ought to police his equipment, but he was hardly likely to need the thing again. He pulled a carbine from a strap on his hip. The lieutenant had said he wouldn’t need everything he was carrying, but Ten had insisted. “A good scout is always prepared,” he had said, to much rolling of eyes and sighing.
Ten checked the suppressor on his carbine and grinned. With a bit of luck, he would have time to get himself squared away before any clever bugger worked out he was there.
He’d shown the Deathless what a noisy commando was like; now he was going to show them what it meant to be discreet. This wasn’t going to be a learning experience, except in the briefest possible sense, but maybe they would be more fearful, more hesitant when they were redeployed again. Fear was good; terror would be better, but Ten could live with an enemy that feared the Marines.
“You aren’t going to need a suppressed pistol as well, Marine X,” Warden had said in his exasperated tone.
“Weapon jams, sir. Got to have something quick to grab in an emergency,” he’d replied.
“Fine, fine, just remember to bring it all back,” had been the resigned response. “And remember, Ten, you’re on your own.”
“Well, thank you, sir. That’s a great comfort,” Ten had said as he had loaded magazines into his webbing.
He jogged forward to the side of the ship, looking for a way down. A building to his left, about thirty metres from the ship, caught his eye. There were a few Deathless in a well-lit room, with screens along one wall. They were wearing the office clones, Ruperts, like Captain Atticus.
“That’ll be the command centre,” muttered Ten, mildly satisfied that he had managed to land right in the middle of things. He crouched beside a protrusion on the hull and scanned the area. If he had spotted it from the air, he could have come down on the roof of the command room, but maybe that would have given the game away. Either way, he needed to find another way in.
