The Mongrel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 1)

by Walt Robillard

  Without looking to his sergeant, D'Marco said, “You know why I want to talk to you.”

  “Yes.” Sergeant Bolaji offered nothing more, as was his way. Why use two words when one will do?

  “You good?”

  Bolaji's chin dipped slightly, a curt nod from a man who exemplified the lancers. He was measured and reserved in all but the violence of action that was his calling. “I am. When we get back to Kalizhad, I will mourn and celebrate my man according to his traditions and mine.”

  D'Marco smiled. Bolaji was from a planet of extremes. His people lived to serve the land. They lived to serve each other. Funerals were marked with hunting exotic game, roasting it over a spit along with farm-fresh offerings turned into lavish feasts. They were celebrations to remember the cycle of life. Feed the bodies of the living. Remember the dead.

  Bolaji took note of his surroundings, making sure their conversation was truly private. “Sergeant Guerreiro is having a rough time of it, though. First time leading in the field. Taking the loss hard.”

  “Understood.” The lance sergeant said, his voice overridden by the engines in the distance. D'Marco patted Bolaji on the shoulder with one hand while throwing on his helmet with the other. Bolaji did the same and the two men walked off toward their respective purposes. They were well acquainted with the hierarchy of duty. Mission always came before mourning. The fallen would be acknowledged, but not before the objective was accomplished.

  D'Marco walked toward the Devil Hunters' APC, still sitting on the landing pad. The armored drop ship was a large box amid the smaller boxes of the parking ARC-Badgers. D'Marco dropped out of sight for a moment while walking the low land of the wadi that cut the different landing pads apart from each other. His feet slid back and forth against the loose soil and rocks doing their best to trip him up. The climb up the opposite side of the cut was just as slippery as sand gave way under his gait like waves receding back into the ocean.

  He crested the top of the crevice to stare directly into the open ramp of the ship. Multiple members of Fourth Squad were lurking around the open compartment in various states of readiness while they all worked to get damaged gear back into working order.

  Sergeant Guerreiro was on his knees in front of the chest plate for the powered armor worn by Lancer Solere. He was using a high-powered mag-driver to secure a new strike plate onto the chest piece that covered the pilot. A high-pitched tone preceded a loud tap, the driver locking the new armor in place.

  D'Marco smiled at the scene. They were working as a squad to fix what was broken. It was a good sign. They were trying to get back into the fight faster than they were knocked out of it. This was what it meant to be a lancer and he couldn't have been more proud.

  “Lance sergeant on deck!” A young private who had glanced around made the call. Under the ramp lights of the drop ship, five members of the squad jumped to their feet, first to the position of attention, then standing with their hands tightly clasped behind them.

  D'Marco took his helmet off. He scratched the top of his head while taking in a few breaths of the night air. Even a distance away, the dust cloud formed by the parking APCs was enough to drop a film on his teeth. He sucked the offensive earthy taste from his mouth and spat in the opposite direction of the crew. “As you were. Sergeant Guerreiro, a word?”

  “Let's get back to it, boys. Get that armor back to basics for when Solere gets home from his impromptu holiday.” He tossed a wrench to Costa as he walked to the Lance Sergeant.

  The men laughed. It was the mirth that came between close comrades sharing a common experience. But, something was missing from it. There was a sense of heaviness that made the laughter more work than play. They had been dealt a bad hand in the last fight and it was weighing on them.

  D'Marco and Guerreiro moved over to the flat space right before the earth fell away into the cut. Guerreiro spoke first. “I know what you're going to say, Lance Sergeant. I should have launched more drones to take up the fire from the commander's ship. Or I could have dumped crab-walkers down the ramp to shore up our defense.”

  D'Marco pursed his lips while he nodded. Those were solid insights. He took a deep breath. “Drones were being deployed by Duschene and two troopers in battle-frames were about to check that ship. Your lancers had things on target. What is the kick up time for tier-three drones?”

  Guerreiro figited while he looked to the ground. “Ninety seconds for a battle kick.”

  D'Marco nodded again. “Kick up time for a crab-walker?”

  “One hundred and twenty seconds. The rigging was off, but they would have had to walk from the hold down the ramp. Wouldn't have been able to use thrusters inside the ship. Another thirty seconds.” Tears began to stream down the younger man's face. His voice was quivering as he panted to catch his breath. The futility of the situation that cost him his men was hitting him full force. Rage and loss were written all over the man's face.

  “The entire fight was over in ninety seconds.”D'Marco said flatly.

  The younger sergeant nodded, wiping the tears from his dust-strewn face. It left streaks in the grime as he cleared his eyes. It made him look older than he was, like a statue that had succumbed to the first drops of a rainfall.

  D'Marco stepped forward. “We're here for you, Sergeant. But you have to be here for your men. You still have your squad to look after. You lost Duschene, and Solere got blasted up. He'll be back to you once Doc clears him. We'll honor Duschene when we get back to the garrison on Kalizhad. For now, I need you to be the trooper I chose to lead this squad. I just sent a file to your lid. Pick a dronie from Striker Company. First Sergeant Trask said the choice is yours. You have four dronies to pick from. You're not replacing Duschene. You're only filling a slot.”

  Guerreiro agreed. A deep sniff to keep his nose from spilling onto the ground preceded another wipe of his eyes. He took a deep gulp of air while pulling out a water bottle, pouring some of it onto the combat scarf he wore, wiping his face and head. As the cloth dropped, his sorrow was replaced by drive and purpose behind red-ringed eyes.

  D'Marco nodded to the man. “Keep the Faith, Sergeant.”

  “Ever onward, Lance Sergeant. Thank you.”

  Guerreiro turned to his men. “Hey, pounders! Let's get this rig back together. I need us mobile, agile, and hostile in short order so I can get you mooks down and rested. We all know how you get when you don't get enough 'sweepy' time.”

  D'Marco smiled as he pulled on his lid. The two men walked back to their duty, the dry ground already absorbing the spilled water. The droplets that beaded up the soil had turned from dark brown back to the beige that dominated the landscape. The dust on Tythian had been thirsty long before the lancers ever came. Water, tears, and blood were swallowed almost faster than they could be spilled. The lance sergeant sifted the dust around for a moment before moving off to find the next one he needed shoring up.

  Echo-44-Uniform was floating in and out of the cut on a perimeter protection route of the air field. It took notice of Lance Sergeant D'Marco as he approached. It noticed the method by which he was moving. The loose sand and stones combined with roots of the scrub brush made it difficult for a biped to make its way. Poor human.

  The Lancer NCO walked over to the bot, walking side-by-side along its slow glide path. D'Marco wondered if such a slow patrol route bothered it. This particular model was able to reach intermediate speeds despite their appearance.

  “I used to have a bot... I mean, a robotic organism I served with on Malikan. His designation was M-2855, but we called him Mags. I loved having him around. Everyone else liked to have him to carry the heavy gear or use his extended shield capability. I liked him because he taught me how to play chess.” D'Marco humphed a short laugh. “Every once in a while, he would let me win.”

  The sensor tower on the bot turned to him. The motion reminded him of a dog trying to figure out the speech of his master.

  D'Marco searched the landscape for the right words, finally let
ting whatever came to mind spill out his mouth. “I guess what I am trying to say is that I am sorry that you lost your comrades today. I'm sorry that you are out here continuing your work and have no time to grieve. I don't know if that's something that you do, but if you want a few cycles to sort out what happened, I can take over security for a bit.”

  The bot stopped and whirled to face him. It dropped down on its four spider-like legs as the repulsors floating it died down. The sensor tower got close to regard him. It gave the same mannerism of a dog trying to figure him out. A quick hiss preceded a tray sliding open on the mid-body of the mech. Inside were two cylinders.

  D'Marco looked to the bot and then reached into the tray. “Are these the data cores? Did you save your friends?”

  The sensor suite bobbed up and down in a mimicked gesture of human agreement.

  The lance sergeant stood motionless for a moment. All he could do was stare at the data cores, holding them as gingerly and respectfully as he could figure. “Can I take these? Do you want me to try to bring your friends back?”

  The small tray slapped shut and the bot continued on its path to keep the remaining lancers guarded from another attack. A small bubble appeared in the HUD in D'Marco's helmet.

  >>>E44U – THANK YOU FOR YOUR KINDNESS.

  >>>E44U – THANK YOU FOR TAKING THE CYCLES TO CHECK ME.

  >>>E44U – THANK YOU FOR MY FRIENDS.

  >>>E44U – I LIKE CHESS.

  >>>E44U – OSCAR MIKE

  D'Marco held the data cores in his hands like one would hold a prematurely birthed child. These cylinders that could withstand intense damage had become something precious to be guarded. A bot who many had seen as only a tool learned to say two of the hardest words in any language, “Thank you.” If a bot could exibit duty to comrades and appreciation, there might be hope for the races of the Frontier.

  “Captain Gerard, this is Lance Sergeant D'Marco.” The communications system inside the helmet popped to initiate its connection to the other party. “I wonder if I could beg a favor?”

  Hylaeus didn't have to turn to know the man was there. “Who takes care of the care taker?”

  “Same should be asked of you.” D'Marco said.

  Force Commander Hylaeus watched the hustle and bustle of the Strikers. There was something about the lancers he always admired. They always had to be faster, stronger, and more resilient than other soldiers. They always had a quality that set them apart from the rest. But at the end of the day, most of them were still human and there wasn't a human born that the universe couldn't break. “I always admired a leader that would go out of his way to check on the spiritual welfare of their men along with the physical. It's easy to see the cost of war written in physical scars across the body. Very few consider the cost of what we do on the soul. The cost of all this fighting.”

  “Just doing my job,” D'Marco quipped. “Someone's got to look out for these scoundrels.”

  Hylaeus smiled. Men like D'Marco were the fuel that stoked the Crucible. Men like him made the regiments strong. “Good to know the men are in capable hands. So what about you? How are you holding up?”

  “You talking about the ones who died? Right now, they have to be just names on my roster. Assets lost during an operation. When the time comes, we can say goodbye to them, the right way. I don't have the time to organize a pity party, Force Commander. What about you, sir? What's the shape of your pain in the Crucible?”

  “Lance Sergeant, only a long time lancer would ask how we see such tragedies in the Crucible versus how we feel about it.”

  “If you were a marshal out on your first hop from the temple, I might've asked you how you felt. You got some distance under those repulsors, sir. It's more appropriate to ask the way I did.” D'Marco said, hanging his helmet on one of his mag pouches.

  “Too right, Lance Sergeant. Too right. There are many shifting patterns and outcomes in the Crucible right now. The true agitator here is Orin Lashra. Every time the fire settles, he applies more fuel. We need to find him before this gets worse.”

  “No arguments there, sir.”

  “What's your opinion of the man, Lance Sergeant?”

  “Just what I know from my briefings really, sir.” D'Marco rubbed his chin. He hadn't had the time to cut the stubble from it and the sensation of running his hand across his impending beard seemed to drive his thoughts forward. “They listed him as cold and calculating, but when we had him in our sights, he batted us around that hallway pretty good. He could have just hurt us real bad and then took off. He took the time to save Frazier. He could have killed Lieutenant Surran, but didn't.. He could've done a lot of things to live up to that cold and calculating label some Intel mutt put on him. Instead, he went out of his way to not kill us. Calculating? Maybe. Cold? Definitely not, sir.”

  Hylaeus laughed. “Sorry, Lance Sergeant. Something Lasher said. Stupidity induced unconsciousness. It's going to be tough for the lieutenant to live down that bed pan hit.”

  “Oh, Hells!” D’Marco sighed. “I'm going to have to order Tai to keep his mouth shut.”

  The two men chuckled a bit, knowing the alien lancer to be a joker that reveled in getting away with poking his superiors. Tai loved the ways humans used humor to build bonds of friendship. He couldn't get enough of joking and playing pranks on his squad. Brand tolerated it because of his warlike Vosi nature. He was a powerhouse the Devil Hunters could throw at larger opponents. Letting the occasional joke slide let the platoon have some levity while keeping their brute.

  D'Marco finally broke the levity, “Do we have any leads on what started all this, sir? Have we come up with anything that explains why our men are dead or why we lost one of the most dedicated marshals out there?”

  “Patience, Lance Sergeant. We're working on applying some heat of our own. Hopefully the light from the Crucible will yield some answers.”

  “That'll have to do for now, sir. And speaking of for now, you and the other marshals should get something to eat and a few minutes rest.”

  “That's very kind of you, Lance Sergeant.”

  D'Marco titled his helmet enough to see if there were any message prompts waiting for him. “It's my job, sir. Beans and Blasters. Keep ’em armed and fed.”

  “Is that your way of asking if we're okay without asking?” Hyleaus asked.

  D'Marco fished out a ration pack from his ruck, throwing it to his commander. “Not me, sir. Just want to make sure you are strong and alert for when the real mayhem starts.” He put on his helmet, stopping just long enough to wink at the senior marshal.

  “May the stars light your way, Lance Sergeant, D'Marco.”

  Eighteen

  Lasher sat on the side of the pits, wrapped in a towel and dripping. The nurses had brought him over to a side room to allow him to shower. When he was confident the dirt and slime were thoroughly removed, he came back and planted himself on the edge of the pit. The crowd had not moved, hoping they would get another glimpse of this miracle worker.

  The doctor walked over and handed him a protein bar. “How are you feeling?”

  “Hungry. Tired. Sore.” Lasher said.

  “That is to be expected.”

  Kel and Yuzheff moved from the crowd.

  “What just happened?” Kel asked. “I'm not a religious guy, but that seemed like a big-time religious event.”

  The doctor pulled up her data pad. She frowned, seeing the large scratch across the display. It must have happened when she dropped it. “Vital signs appear within range for someone of your species.”

  Kel looked perturbed. “Forget the vital signs. As someone who’s never seen anything like that, I would really like to know what just happened.” His hand motions and gestures were animated. He had seen something incredible, and like the assembled crowd, he wanted answers.

  Everyone stared at the animated human. Yuzheff, normally amused at his friend's antics, was still in a state of disbelief. Lasher seemed content to slowly munch on the protein bar the doctor h
ad brought him. He shrugged his shoulders, causing Kel to give an exasperated exhale.

  Doctor Heseth broke the silence by offering her thoughts. “Once in a generation, we sometimes see one of the worms come to the surface of the pit. They molt their old skin, transforming into what you saw. We have a word for it in our language, but it doesn't really translate.”

  Kel didn't seem satisfied by the slow pace of the doctor's answer. “But what did it mean? All of you seemed pretty awestruck by what you saw.”

  The doctor looked to Yuzheff. He nodded to her and looked to his friend. “We see one of these changes rarely. We just witnessed dozens. This hasn't happened in over a century. Miracles like this stopped happening when the colonial cities were built. We all heard the stories, but that is all they were to us. Stories.”

  Heseth continued. “According to what we know, when a...” She seemed stymied by the lack of direct translation she could give to a realized legend. “We know that when one of these ‘Fire-Wings’ fly off, they go to an area where there are no worms and they colonize it. Since the coming of the colony cities, we had seen less and less of the Fire Flights occurring. This mesa is one of the last places one can be treated by the worms on Tythian.”

  “The ebb and flow of the Winds of Change,” said a voice behind them.

  The crowd parted to allow an old Tyth male through. He was walking stooped over, showing every step to be an effort. His cane tapped a hypnotic rhythm in the large cavern that echoed back and forth through the pod chamber, making it sound like there was more than one cane vying for attention. The Tyth was soon helped to the edge of the pod by a small flock of children. They laughed and darted in and out of his long jacket. He would occasionally say something curt in his language, an old man doting on the kids he had come to cherish.

  “I believe it is what your kind call the Crucible.” The old man's voice was sandpaper over rough wood. There was something pleasant about it, reminiscent of a teacher or mentor. It was a voice that demanded respect not through force, but in mutual acceptance.