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

by Walt Robillard

  The projectile blasted through the wheel housing of the APC, shredding it like tissue. The tires were shorn off and brought along for the ride. The Vindicator's chest ripped open, the force of the round folding it nearly inside out. Arms and legs were blown from its torso, becoming their own projectiles. The round continued to travel, hitting the downed com-tower. It tore through the superstructure before coming to rest inside of it.

  “I like it rough.”Artemis said.

  “Twin Hells! You can say that again, sister!”

  “Any day now, Corporal.” Captain Gerard said in a manner to hurry things along.

  Corporal Shane was tearing through holographic screens and chomping on lines of code. “This thing is dug in like that Kulvey tick we found on Private Williams.”

  Captain Gerard snickered through the com. “I'd watch it. That loud boom you just heard was him.”

  “What? He eating tacos again?”

  The captain dumped more rounds on the mechs trying to gain access to them in the back of the APC. “Nope. Rail gun.”

  “That thing had a rail gun? I am never going to live down giving him one of those.” The corporal continued his assault on the algorithm that had commandeered their AIs. “Okay, sir. I am set to do a hard purge of the enemy AI. It is going to flatline everything linked and we are going to have to hard load any backups we have on file.”

  “I'm good with that. Do it, Corporal.”

  “Sir, that means that we will be effectively killing any affected AI.”

  The captain's sounded resigned, taking the weight of the decision solely onto his shoulders. “I know. I will be responsible. Do it.”

  The corporal entered the necessary sequence to deactivate the AIs, a failsafe built into lancer gear in the event something like this happened. The Battle-net pushed the sequence into the ether.

  “This is 4-2,” came the call over the net. “No change. Enemy bots are still advancing on our position.”

  “Give it a minute,” Shane chastised.

  “We don't have a minute! They're almost on top of us!” Costa retorted.

  Lance Sergeant Locke held his hand up, a signal he had contingencies in place. “Roger that, Stalker Element. Speed and trajectory confirmed. Fire.”

  Gerard was also broadcasting. “Private Williams, I need you up near the landing pads to help intercept that incoming force should the work around fail.”

  “Roger that. Oscar Mike.”

  “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Shane muttered like a mantra.

  Locke came over the com. “We can hear you, Corporal.”

  Large explosions rocked the distance, reverberating from the cliff walls near the fort. A second round, much closer. caused those on the com channel to jump.

  “What was that?” Gerard questioned.

  “First round was mortar fire from the scouts,” Locke responded. “Second batch was our remaining RIM-VI covering Shane from the damn spider-mines and spikers.”

  “How many did we bring?” Gerard asked, surprised.

  Several lancers chimed into the com all at once in an exasperated tone. “All of them.”

  “This is Striker 1-9, clear the chatter. 4-2, SITREP?”

  “This is 4-2. Enemy bots are down! I say again. Enemy bots are down.”

  The remaining lancers all cheered a collective Rah! in response to the call. Corporal Shane ran down the ramp to see spider-mines and spike-runners falling in place. Aerial drones stopped their whirring rotors in the air to crash into what remained of the swaying grasses. He looked over to the wadi to where Captain Gerard and Lance Sergeant Locke stood. He could see them pointing to him. He gave them a thumbs-up in response to their recognition, just as a blaster burst tore through his shoulder, ripping off his right arm and cauterizing the wound all at once.

  Corporal Shane tumbled forward to a skidding stop. Echo-44 was there and moved to cover the downed lancer. Searching through various targeting modes, the bot found a damaged Vindicator being chased by one of the Striker platoons. It keyed up a micro-missile armed with an HEDP warhead. The RIM-VI slowed the bot’s escape with a series of controlled bursts from its heavy machine blaster. The missile caught it a second later, striking it in the hip. What was left of the upper torso flew into the wadi. The lancer platoon descended on it in an instant, shredding the enemy mech to scrap.

  Several lancers rushed to Shane's side. Their trauma kits were fast slapped onto his wounds in the hopes of stabilizing him. The corporal was in rough shape. He lay on a slight incline, unable to take his eyes off the space where his arm had been. A growl through gritted teeth was like a music playlist on repeat, anything to mitigate the pain.

  Sergeant Bolaji jumped into the wadi, shedding his helmet and placing down his rifle. “Hey! You keep making that noise, people are going to think the Devil Hunters have gone soft!”

  Shane reached across and gripped Sergeant Bolaji's hand with his left. “Tell them.”

  He was having trouble breathing. Each breath came with a deep wheeze as he tried to force each gulp of air. There was a bubbly quality to the sound. Not only did the heavy weapon sear off the corporal's arm, it had also cooked some of his insides.

  Bolaji looked up in time to see Doc Jordon jump in beside the rest. “Move it along, kids. Nothing to see here.” He shouldered several of the privates out of the way to make room for himself and his kit. He no sooner dropped to his knees than he slammed two auto injectors into Shane's legs.

  Shane relaxed as the pain reliever worked its way into his system. His eyes rolled back for a second before they went to half closed. Bubbly breath sounds were still present, but at least the screaming had stopped.

  Another syringe hit the corporal, this time filled with nano-tech. The microscopic robots surged into his system. Linked to Doc's helmet, they targeted the injury and went to work to affect a life-saving repair. “First step is to get some better sounds from that lung. Ya know, Corporal, you can't just make it easy for me. Gotta be that guy that gives me a hard time.”

  “Not trying to be... difficult, Doc... but you might want to focus on some... one else.” Shane croaked.

  “You ain't done. Sergeant, please tell Captain Optimist that he needs to relax so me and my mini-bots can work some magic.”

  “Heh.” A series of coughs racked the corporal. “I need to be promoted to Lieutenant Hopeful first.”

  Jordan was working furiously to push more air into the corporal. A scalpel cut combined with a cannula and a bit of doc magic relieved some of the labored breathing from a collapsing lung. The doc stood up, looking to the arriving Captain Gerard.

  “Not going to lie, sir. Dude is messed up. That is my official diagnosis. We need to get him moving now.”

  As they turned to look, a warning flash appeared in Jordan's HUD. “Oh no you don't!”

  He ran over and slid on his knees into the corporal. He hit him with another injector in the center of his chest. Nanites capable of defibrillation raced into Shane's body. “Shock him!”

  Shane's body pulsed, pushing his chest to the sky, before relaxing back to the sand. The holographic indicator floating in Jordan's vision still showed a flatline.

  “Hit him, again!”

  The doc held himself in place. He was breathing heavy, shaking from the effort of trying to save so many today. He was shaken from not being able to save them all. And there was still that damn steady beep of the flatline.

  Jordan screamed until his voice went hoarse. Taking off his helmet, he slammed it into the sand. His hands rose to his hips in some vain attempt to find stability in the unstable situation. He walked away a few meters before walking back to recover his lid and replaced it back onto his head. The helmet helped him regain his composure as a soldier. The faceless mask, the badge of a lancer.

  We are many. We are one.

  Lancers standing nearby put their hands on Jordan's shoulders. A quick pat before they set off to accomplish tasks set forth by their non-commissioned officers. They would help frien
ds rise. They would lay down others. There was a mountain of work to be done before they slept.

  No one sat to grieve. The lancers were immediately in motion. Vehicles and bots needed recovery. What was once an orderly motorcade was now a war-torn battlefield. While the entertainment vids showed weary soldiers gathering onto aircraft to go home after war, the reality was far from fiction. This mess needed cleaning. The lancers were just the ones for the job.

  Tom leaned over to Sergeant Bolaji. His sorrow was heavy on his shoulders as he sat beside his friend.

  The whites of his dark eyes were nearly red with sorrow. Bolaji was known for his regal and stoic attitude. He was one of the unshakable rocks of the platoon. The death of his friend had cracked the unbreakable. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “What did he want you to tell them?” Tom asked as gently as he could.

  Bolaji stood. He glanced to the captain and lance sergeant. Placing his helmet on his head, he was once again the rock the waves broke upon. He was the tree that would bend in the wind without breaking. “It is a thing we say to each other that started when the lancers were formed to work beside the marshals. We say 'keep the Faith.' To which the response is 'ever onward.' Now that he is one with the Way, it is our responsibility to carry that faith forward. Ever onward.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Keep the Faith.”

  Bolaji looked to the tactical officer as he tried to stand tall amid possible broken bones. He might have started off as an odd-shaped brick in the wall they formed, but his experiences over the last few days seemed to have pounded him into a shape that fit. “Ever onward, Lieutenant.”

  Thirty-One

  The ramp closed on the assault shuttle as it climbed for the clouds. The thunder of the air rushing into the cargo bay was quickly replaced by the intense humming of the engines.

  Lasher helped Doom-Snuggle to a part of the bay away from the downed cyborg and the restrained new chief. He strapped the mech down so that any turbulence or maneuvers in atmosphere wouldn't toss him around the bay. Doom-Snuggle's right shoulder had been savaged by the power sword being shoved through it. They would need to repair it before the mech could be steady on its feet, never mind mission ready.

  “You going to be okay here?” Lasher asked.

  “I should be. I will activate my SRS to see how much of the damage I can fix on my own.”

  Lasher looked hopeful. “Will the self-repair system recover it so you can walk?”

  “Not likely. But I may be able to use the limb enough to limp on it.” Fluff said.

  Lasher nodded. Doom-Snuggle might be a bot, but there was nothing in his optimism to suggest he wasn't also all heart. “Rest up, my friend. I'll check up on you in a bit.”

  He watched the panther-mech settle in like a real cat. It laid its head on the deck, while all available limbs were tucked beneath it. He half expected it to start purring. Lasher lingered over his friend a minute longer..

  “If you are going to be one of those people that watches me sleep, we are going to dissolve this partnership right now.” Fluff cackled.

  Lasher walked away, smiling. He'd grinned more in the time since the cat had joined them than he had in a long time before. He snorted at the thought of becoming a crazy cat lady despite lacking the anatomy or disposition. While being insane was only a minor job requirement, he was pretty sure that the cat had to be real. Either way, he was glad to have a partner.

  He walked over to the new chief, still restrained in the small rover. He plunged an auto-injector into the man's leg and waited for the writhing to stop. “I just gave you a painkiller for the finger my partner broke. I am going to ask you some questions. If you don't answer me truthfully, I'm going to give you another injector to reverse the painkiller and then I'm going to finish breaking you. Piece by piece.”

  Lasher tapped the com-bead in his ear. “Kel, can you come down here?” While he waited, he walked over to the equipment lockers, going into the first aid stores. He grabbed a cravat, tying it into a makeshift sling. He removed the ruptured brace from his hand, pulling the fabricated rods from his flesh, spilling more blood. He bandaged it until he could get real medical attention. Once the bleeding had stopped, he popped a pain pill and slung his arm.

  Kel walked into the room. “Whoa. You two got roughed up down there, huh? I got Yuzheff making for the mountains. Lots of minerals and the like to hide the ship's signature so we can camp out. Go dark for a few days. No one will find us there.”

  “Good. On a side note,” Lasher said, focusing on Kel's eyes. “I had a little chat with the person responsible for me getting trashed when this all started. She says the cartels were responsible.”

  Kel looked stunned. There was a hint of confusion in the mix of emotions he was currently trying to process. He felt like someone trying to cook a magnificent dish, only to find that some of the ingredients were wrong.

  The new chief started to chuckle. It began as a grin that he was trying to hide by dipping his face. The small giggle just slipped out. When he saw Kel looking at him, his grin grew. It reversed direction when his gaze fell on Lasher.

  “Share with the rest of the kids,” Lasher said like an exasperated school marm.

  “They set you all up.” New chief answered. “They knew Durado would never go along with the deal they hooked into. Stork lover.”

  Kel moved forward to punch the man in his teeth. Lasher stopped him a hair's length away from smashing them in. “He can't talk if you break his face.”

  Kel yanked his arm away to go sit on one of the cargo boxes. “Keep talking. But be respectful. At some point, Big Red here is going to get tired. That's when I'll swoop in and toss you out an airlock.”

  The new chief thought about his precarious position and the pack of killers he was surrounded by. He might have overstepped. “So. Is our deal in place? I tell you what you want to know and you let me walk away. That was what you said back near the mesa.”

  Kel looked over to Lasher, who nodded. Affecting his best cartel leader stance, Kel said, “Sounds good to us. More info, less insults, and you walk away a free man.”

  “Okay.” The new chief seemed satisfied with the deal. “All I know is that we supplied the weapons and intel to the Hidek. Then we pop smoke and rendezvous to meet the monks as combat support. We were supposed to swoop in and help complete negotiations between the two tribes. That would put the Hidek in control of the disputed lands and the mesa.”

  “So me getting bagged by the lancers was part of this?” Kel asked.

  There was a long pause before new chief answered. He seemed reluctant to answer at first, finally letting go of what he knew as he watched Lasher move closer. “You were part of a buy-in.”

  Kel stood up and kicked one of the crates before drawing a blaster. He planted the barrel against the man's head. Something in his demeanor or his reputation made the new chief believe he was going to die. He flinched away with his eyes closed tightly enough to stop the circulation.

  “Kel, this guy's a runner, not a shot caller.” Lasher said.

  Kel took a calming breath, holstering his anger and his weapon. Another inhale seemed to clear the rage in his stride. “The cartel is led by seven families. We call it the Seven Seats, Big Seven, or Big Sev for short. A buy-in occurs when someone under a Big Chair wants it. He has to do something extraordinary to earn the seat out from under the guy currently occupying it. This keeps the seat holders hungry and constantly earning for the cartel as a whole. Usually, the person holding the seventh seat doesn't get bought out. That seat is usually reserved for the most ruthless of us. The biggest earner. The one that calls the shots for the cartel as a whole. That seat was mine.”

  New Chief continued, “The Big Sev knew that you had outlawed selling weapons to the Tyth. You were for staying out of Tyth politics. They needed the fight between the two tribes, but I don't know why.”

  Cas had limped into the room. He had his arm in a sling. A parade of bandages crisscrossed his upper torso and neck. �
�Why were you and Berezin embedded with us?”

  The man turned to regard the monk. “The marshals weren't supposed to survive the attack. The initial plan was for the Hidek to hold off the marshals and kidnap the Surando delegation. Leverage to force a negotiation. We would be embedded with you to guide the talks. Berezin would head the talks and we would provide for security and special needs. We were supposed to make the Vernai look like the bread winners in all this. It all went to Hells when the marshal commandeered a platoon of lancers to go with her. We'd diverted the garrison to the other side of the planet, but she had already scooped them up. We had the bots move to a holding position and used a command code to switch them off. The lancers being on station with that much firepower changed the kidnapping plan. They went anger up on the Hidek attack force, which forced them to kill everyone on the Surando side... except you.”

  Lasher glared at Kel and Chief during the explanation. His discipline in the Way was exceedingly high. But, even with his training, everyone in the room could see he was boiling under the lid. It was only a matter of time before he would be forced to reduce the heat to control himself or boil over and killed the man.

  Cas was content to take the role of interrogator. “Why was I called in?”

  The man shook his head. “I know Berezin wasn't happy about it. He wanted all negotiators. Having a chief inspector didn't make sense to him, but the decision was made above him.”

  “Curious.” Cas said. “What was the aim in all of this. Why would anyone want the Hidek in control of this land? What was in it for your employer?”

  The question prompted another head shake on the part of the captive. “I don't know. Above my pay grade. I wasn't even supposed to be in charge. You killed the guy who might have told you that.” The man looked truly terrified, knowing his next answer wasn’t what his captors wanted to hear.