by Tim C Taylor
— Chapter 15 —
As the shadows lengthened toward dusk, Springer estimated six rifles had been trained on them for several minutes before a corporal emerged from behind a brace of trees and blocked the path through the woods.
“Who the frakk are you?” the corporal challenged.
“We were ordered to find Crimson Squad,” replied Springer.
“You’ve found us.” The corporal raised his plasma pistol and pointed it at Umarov. “Now answer my question.”
The corporal had flank guards with SA-73 rifles. Springer couldn’t get a good look at the other loyalists deeper under cover, but they had rifles of some kind. The Marines of the 599th weren’t wearing battlesuits: reason unknown. The Legion spies had spotted this in their initial reconnaissance and decided to leave their own battlesuits in the concealed stealth dropship that had brought them here. Without the powered armor, Crimson Squad’s rifles looked heavy, but at such short range they wouldn’t miss.
A klick or so away, at the edge of the marsh, Furn should be deep in cover, seeing everything through his nano-magic. But even he wouldn’t make a difference if the enemy decided to shoot.
Springer sighed and tried to relax her hold on her carbine.
Sergeant Felix suddenly burst into view and looked the two Legion infiltrators deep in the eye. Springer felt her thumb creep toward her carbine’s manual safety release. Felix wore confusion on his face. Hopefully this was the signs of Furn fighting for control of the sergeant’s mind. Furn won.
“It’s all right, Corporal Massi,” said Felix, “I’m expecting them. They’re the reason I was called away. These are our two replacements.”
The corporal lowered his weapon, but the look on his face said that this was not all right.
Massi was going to be trouble.
— Chapter 16 —
The birds had roosted in the dense trees, and bat-analogs were fluttering about their heads as the roster of daytime wildlife made way for the night. As she stumbled over one more frakking tree root, Springer was just beginning to wonder whether their escorts were ever going to use the flashlights they carried on their hips, when they emerged into a clearing containing a vehicle park and around twenty enemy Marines sitting around a heater, mostly with their butts sat on fallen logs.
Crimson Squad.
Felix whistled for attention. “Hey! Got two new squad members for you.”
“New, Sarge?” said a Marine inspecting one of the six trucks in the vehicle park. He turned from the engine inspection hatch. “How can they be new?”
The question was echoed in the suspicious expressions of the other Crimson Squad Marines.
Sergeant Felix narrowed his eyes. Instead of replying, he gasped. Was he fighting Furn’s possession? Come on, Furn. Make this work!
“Replacements…” said Felix absently. Then with a shake of his head, his mind latched fully onto the question. “Replacements? What’s so weird about that? The boneheads in the 471st Assault Marines took on a bunch of stragglers a while back. This brace of beauties was too good for the 471st. Made the rest of them look so bad that they sent them planetside to join us.”
The sergeant’s words were met with a wave of silence. Then the mechanic over at the vehicle park burst into laughter, which rapidly spread through the squad.
Well done, Furn!
“Show them what you’re made of,” Felix told his two new charges. “Step into the light.”
Umarov advanced toward the heater that was giving off a ruddy glow. Reluctantly, so did Springer. Without her battlesuit and helmet, she felt terribly exposed. The explosion years before on Antilles meant half her skin on show was coated in puckered scars. Sure enough, her new squadmates soon poked at her old wounds with cruel jibes and ironic wolf whistles. She held her head high and gave them all a look of withering contempt that told them to go vulley themselves.
A Marine got to his feet and the jeering ceased. Springer recognized him as Corporal Massi. “Seriously, Sergeant it’s not as if the 471st are exactly picky. What’s the matter with these two? Why dump them?”
Sergeant Felix rolled his eyes in despair. Springer had no idea Furn could make him do that. “No fooling you, is there, Corporal?” Felix shrugged. “The one with the melted face is also legless. The runty one is a throwback to the frakking Stone Age.”
From amusement at the newcomers’ expense, the attitude of the squad members was shifting by the second toward annoyance. Furn’s cover story, voiced through the sergeant, made Springer and Umarov sound like liabilities.
Could Furn see this? He said he had nano-scale eyes and ears on the sergeant wherever he needed them, but were they good enough to read the mood?
Felix gave a conspiratorial wink and lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this about our noobs, but… one of them’s a sex addict. Can’t get enough of it.”
Furn! Springer shook with rage. Wait till I get my hands on your scrawny body.
“Which one, Sergeant?” called out one of the squad, a bald woman with a livid scar zigzagging down one side of her face.
“That’s for you to discover.” Sergeant Felix walked behind the two newcomers and slapped them on the shoulders, resting there as if best mates. “Welcome to Crimson Squad, you maggots. If anyone gives you grief, I don’t want to know. Replacements!” He shook his head. “I asked for replacements. They give me Hop-a-long Hannah and Grunt the Caveboy. Mader Zagh! My brain hurts, I’m going somewhere quieter where the galaxy makes more sense.”
The sergeant’s words won a few odd looks from his squad that swiftly turned to jeers as he walked off. A happy crowd, or so Springer thought, until she caught the suspicious look Corporal Massi was throwing the sergeant’s way.
Her heart jumped when she realized why. Mader Zagh was a Navy saying, not something a Marine sergeant would ever be caught saying.
Furn had screwed up.
— Chapter 17 —
“I reckon you two are part of the mysterious Curse of Khallini,” said Doxxer, one of the younger Marines in the squad. He sucked the nutrient nugget off the end of his fork and jabbed the tines in Umarov’s direction. “I can buy your friend as a genuine replacement, but you’re too miniscule to be a Marine.”
“I don’t care what you buy,” replied Umarov, “because I’m not selling anything. But I am interested in this mysterious curse. What is it?”
Doxxer laughed at Umarov. “I don’t know, do I? That’s why they call it mysterious, you dumbshit.”
The boy was trying to get a rise out of Umarov. The Old Man managed to keep his cool, but Springer worried how long that would last. Umarov’s birth didn’t stretch back nearly as far as the Wolves, but Springer wondered how much of that animalistic streak was still in her friend. She’d seen the mania behind his eyes as he flicked his poisoned combat blades through his enemies, the way he would rather run screaming at a foe than shoot them from a distance. Now she’d seen the Wolves, Umarov’s behavior made a little more sense.
“Every mission to this planet fails,” said the Marine who had made sure some hot chow was provided for Umarov and Springer. Her name was Kazanne, and although she didn’t seem to have any formal authority through rank, Springer noted how the others deferred to her.
“Yeah, for thousands of years,” said one of the nearby Marines, an almost Jotun-sized brute called Louis. “Every mission to Khallini was abandoned.”
“As ours will be,” said Kazanne. “Why should we be any different?”
“That’s enough defeatist talk,” snapped Corporal Massi. He held Kazanne’s gaze for a moment before she looked away.
“I only meant we’re not planning on staying here long term,” replied Kazanne, staring at the heater. “We’re only staying here until the scumsucker rebel vecks of the 3rd Fleet arrive. Then they’re welcome to the place… and the surprises we’re leaving for them.”
“Kaz is right,” said Doxxer. “I mean look at us. We’re making camp like some frakking primitives a
nd keeping contact via short range radio because planetary comms are forever wigging out. If they weren’t permanently glitched, we’d walk to the target zone in our armor, pick the mudsuckers up and walk back, all in the same day. Not this six-day round trip with these low-tech trucks. What’s going to happen if the rebel fleet ever gets to fight us on the ground? We’re not even allowed our SA-71s… unlike these two who pranced in carrying their carbines.”
“I said, enough!” Corporal Massi let the silence sink in before adding: “No one’s standing and fighting. The plan is to lay a trap, which you frakkwits seem to have forgotten is why we’re out here in the first place.”
The squad realized the Corporal wasn’t going to give another warning, and maintained its silence. Animal shrieks pierced the night from multiple sources. Was that a hunting pack of predators? Springer looked to the Marines of the 599th for her lead. A few had noted the cries, but none looked perturbed.
If I’m not about to be savaged by beasts, she thought, I’d better get on with digging for intel. “Anyone got any serious suggestions as to why there are so many glitches?” she asked. When she saw the glare on Massi’s face, she quickly added: “I need to know what we’re facing. We were sent here with our SA-71s, and now you’re telling me they don’t function reliably.”
“The simpler the mechanism, the less likely it will fail when you need it most,” said Louis. “Hence we’ve left our SA-71s at base. I believe whatever’s causing this has to be a natural phenomenon. Space is a big place. Even the White Knights and the Jotuns don’t understand it all.”
“Why natural?” queried Kazanne. “Perhaps its exotic radiation from the remnants of failed black hole engineering left behind by an earlier interstellar civilization from another star.”
“Or maybe it’s the natives,” suggested Doxxer.
“What the mudsuckers?” scoffed Kazanne “Have you had too much sun?”
“No. Course not. I mean the mudsuckers are only animals, right? But what if they are the distant descendants of a once great civilization that reached too far, and plummeted from a great height?”
“You’re all full of drent,” said Kazanne. “The officers tell us it’s because the inner gas giants are in alignment and that makes Khallini-4 into an aerial for the high energy particle stream coming from the local star.”
““Don’t pretend like you understand a word you’ve just uttered,” said Doxxer, but then wilted under Kazanne’s glare. “I may be wrong, but I think that’s just the Jotuns telling us something to put our simple mammal minds at rest. The old Earth tales had it right. It’s gremlins.”
“What are gremlins?” Umarov asked.
“A legend,” answered Doxxer, pausing when he saw Kazanne roll her eyes. “Little pixie things. Mischievous vecks who sneak in from some hidden dimension to vulley up your equipment. Just for the sadistic pleasure in doing so. Bastards.”
“These gremlins…” said Springer thoughtfully. “Sound suspiciously like Navy ship-rats to me. You sure all our problems aren’t just a tribe of ship-rats who crashed here generations ago and went feral?”
Crimson Squad erupted into mirth. Hoots and catcalls shot into the night air, silencing the native wildlife.
Kazanne set down her meal tray and came over to Springer. “It’s as good a theory as most of the drent that people say. Better in fact.” Kazanne patted Springer’s shoulder. “You’re all right, Springer. And your small friend. Welcome to the Planet of the Ship-rats!”
“It’s all stupid talk,” said Sergeant Felix who had been standing in the shadows. “All those other colony missions failed because the colonists were aliens. Leave it to humans if you want a job done properly.”
Was that the sergeant talking, wondered Springer, or Furn?
Felix didn’t sound convincing, even to himself. As he walked farther into the light from the heater, Springer could see him scratching his head and blinking.
“Perimeter’s not yet secure to my satisfaction,” said Felix in a lucid moment. “Number 3 truck is still showing diagnostic warnings. Cut the chatter. You all have work to do.”
——
After Springer had spent an hour trying to leech intel out of her new squadmate comrades, Louis came over. He was built like a grav-tank but seemed thoughtful. More importantly, now that she was a spy, in his few comments she had heard he seemed knowledgeable.
“Your eyes…” said Louis softly, “that violet smolder… it’s like nebula gas glowing with the light of proto-stars.” He looked away. “I’m sorry, you must have heard that kind of talk all night.”
Louis was right, and the clumsily admiring comments about her eyes were getting very old.
“I think you’re beautiful,” said Louis.
“Really? And how is my physical appearance even relevant to my performance as a Marine?”
Springer tried to fix Louis with a withering stare, and was surprised when he held her gaze placidly. “Because your appearance clearly matters to you. That was obvious in the way you stood when we first saw you.” Louis spoke without rancor. He smiled. “We’re squad mates now. I need to have your back, and for that we must understand each other.”
“By handing out smooth-tongued flattery. I’m not convinced that helps.”
“I was stating a fact – offering an intel update, if you prefer. Whether you wish to see that as flattery is your choice.”
Springer sighed and looked away for a moment, which was as close as she would go to an apology.
“You’ve been trying to pump the squad for information all night,” Louis said. “But there’s no need to flirt or be sly about it. If the unit ever gets into a tight situation, we all need to have each other’s back. And for that you need to be up to speed with everything that’s going on with this crazy planet.”
“Fair point.”
“Fair point? What the hell does that mean? Where on Nanatsu were you trained?”
“Nanatsu?”
“Yes.” He frowned “Nanatsu–7. The Marine Corps depot planet. Jesus! You’ve never even heard of our home have you?”
“Guess it never came up in conversation.”
Louis shook his head. “Better recall your caveman from wherever he’s prowling. I’m gonna need to start at the very beginning, and I have no intention of repeating myself.”
——
Sitting together on an upturned log, Springer and the big guy, Louis, were chewing the fat like old pals. It was what they were here to do, and so far Umarov hadn’t learned much. Still didn’t seem right, though, to fraternize with someone you might be shooting at the next day.
What was she doing? Was she waving him over?
Umarov mumbled something to the Marines who had been ignoring him anyway and crossed the clearing toward Springer. He’d only managed a few steps before he heard a crackle in his ear that stopped him in his tracks.
It sounded like a comm device registering a new channel. But that was crazy. He wasn’t carrying any comms.
“Umarov, get to the vehicle park. Quickly!”
The voice was Furn’s. How Furn was talking with him was unknown. Umarov whispered into the air: “Why?”
“You may have to deal with a problem and then get Springer out of there. Listen to this…”
Umarov scowled, but hurried over to the vehicle park without trying to seem in haste. Furn had called his friend Springer, despite her instruction not to. From what he’d heard, Furn had spent years fascinated with that Navy freak, Indiya, with no result. Why he hadn’t gone elsewhere for his pleasures was beyond Umarov, but he had a nasty feeling that Furn was transferring his obsession.
A new voice came into Umarov’s head. This wasn’t Furn. This was a translator system of the kind aliens used to communicate with humans.
“What is this about?” came the translated voice.
“It’s Sergeant Felix,” replied a voice that sounded familiar. Corporal Massi. “The sergeant’s been acting very strangely ever since he brought in the two rep
lacements.”
“Replacements? What replacements? Talk sense, Corporal, if you value your life.”
Massi had to be talking to a Jotun, reasoned Umarov. The squad’s officer.
An officer who would soon reveal them as imposters.
Umarov pinpointed Massi’s voice behind one of the trucks, and headed that way. He drew his blade, pushing his thumb against the pressure plate to release the nerve toxin to the blade tips. Getting Springer out alive was going to prove a challenge. Umarov shrugged. What did he expect? The First Law of Soldiering: never volunteer for anything… should have listened to his own rules.
“Stand down, Umarov,” said Furn.
He lowered his blade. “Explain.”
“Massi was cut off before he could give us away.”
“You mean you cut off the comm link?”
“Not me. If I could, I would have.”
Umarov sheathed his blade. Then who? Sounded like they’d just experienced the Curse of Khallini for themselves.
“It’s not over,” said Furn. He’d never sounded panicked until now. “There’s an incoming call… to the sergeant. Patching you in now…”
“Sergeant Felix,” asked a machine voice.
“Yes, Lieutenant Torgrim?”
“I have received a perplexing communication from Corporal Massi. Explain to me what he means by your two replacement Marines.”
“I cannot explain, sir, other than to say that the corporal has been showing signs of fatigue.”
“I knew it! Every mission to this planet has been plagued with bad luck. I don’t believe in luck. Not when it is so consistent. When your squad has deposited the disease vectors in the bioweapon compound, report directly to Decontamination Area 2 where you will be examined under quarantine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Torgrim out.”
“What the frakk are you doing, Marine?”
