by Mark Wandrey
The other ten men in Roberts’ command were from various eras. Vat wasn’t interested either; he spent what time he could talking with the two women accompanying them. Each night they made camp, using Vietnam-era tents and cooking on tin mess kits. He never told Miizhaam and Salsaliin that he had overheard their earlier conversation, but between riding the damned smelly lizards across increasingly patchy plains of wilted ground cover and camping each night, he talked with them, getting details about their family.
Theirs was one of the oldest tribes in the area, claiming to have roots back a thousand years. Of course, with the Searing every 88 years, the further you got from the poles, the more havoc it caused. The Kulsians’ success on R’Bak was owed in part to the world’s societies experiencing a hard reset every three generations or so. Between the Searing and the Kulsians coming down to rape, pillage, and steal, technological development had been taking two steps back for every two steps forward for a long time now.
The only problem he’d encountered was Salsaliin. She’d taken a shine to him and wasn’t trying to hide it. She’d catch his eye every chance she got, look over her shoulder at him, and she’d even rubbed a breast against his arm last night at dinner. What am I going to do about this?
“These Ka-whores are bitches,” Artyom said from his whinnie. “They are crazy killers.”
Vat glanced back from his position, just behind point. The others in his team nodded in agreement even though several were sleeping with the locals.
“They like to kill,” Taiki agreed. “They don’t care about people. We know their type; they started war with America.”
Vat agreed. Everything he’d heard about the Ktor from Murphy and had since read in the briefings confirmed this; they were real scumbags. Their ancestors had been taken from Earth sometime in the distant past—nobody seemed to know exactly when—by an old player in the galaxy who was no longer around, for reasons unknown. Maybe as labor, maybe as the ultimate fighting force? Well, whatever the reason, they were eventually left on their own, grew into a power, and found a way to sneak back to Earth to follow in their masters’ footsteps and start stealing more humans.
Around and around we go, where we stop, nobody knows.
Thunder rumbled across the plains. Far to the west, one of the rare storms was moving parallel to their path. They never seemed to deliver any rain, just lightning high up in the sky and thunder rolling down.
“Where is this first village, Lieutenant?” Corporal Potts asked from behind.
“About five klicks ahead,” Vat answered. As he pointed to a notch between two hills he noticed smoke curling into the sky. More than you’d expect from a couple campfires. “Lieutenant Roberts!”
“Yes, Lieutenant Thomas?”
“Smoke, in our direction of travel.”
“Shit,” Roberts said. He urged his whinnie into a low-bellied run. “Double time!”
Vat gave the reins a little flip and made a clicking sound. The damned lizard turned its head and looked at him reproachfully. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but let’s hurry it up.” It gave a chortling sound and kept pace with the rest of the detachment.
As the column raced up the hill, the cavalry patrol began readying weapons. Having been among the last to be equipped, they didn’t get the Viet Nam gear that had been the Ktoran standard issue to the Lost Soldiers; they picked from the few remaining odds and ends. Artyom had grabbed not one, but two AK-47s. Taiki didn’t find any Japanese rifles, so he’d settled for a Mosin Nagant and a Colt 1911. Lech had gone with an MP-40 / Luger combo, and Sam discovered a scoped M1 Garand and picked up a 1911, to stay with what he knew.
Vat himself wasn’t much on long arms. He’d qualified on the M-16, of course. However, there weren’t any available, so he ended up with a Thompson. He liked .45 ACP. “Hit something, it goes down.” However, the absence of his once-beloved Glock 26 hurt. The 1911 was a piss-poor substitute. The armorer glared when Vat helped himself to a dozen magazines for each weapon. At least he had uniform ammo, which was probably the same thing Artyom had been thinking.
Wherever they’d acquired the lizards, the same source had worked up tack as well. The saddles were equipped with holsters and places to attach infantry packs or web gear. His Thompson fit well in the holster after a simple retention strap was added. As the whinnie raced along with its weird serpentine gait, Vat looked at the gun indecisively. Everyone else had their long arm cross-body, ready to use as they rode. He simply wasn’t confident enough in the saddle. Damn it. Now he wished he hadn’t quit the riding classes so many years ago.
The detachment, with Lieutenant Roberts at its head, crested the ridge five minutes after Vat first saw the smoke. Everyone spread out to look at the village below. Some of the settlement was at the bottom of a shallow valley obscured by another low hill. A few huts were visible, and one was burning.
“The village!” Salsaliin cried out, pointing into the valley. “It must be the J’Stull.”
“Why?” one of Roberts’ men wondered. “They haven’t attacked villages before.”
Roberts looked at Vat who returned the gaze. The same thought ran between them. We have a mole in our camp. The satrap’s forces hadn’t messed with the Sarmatchani who lived in permanent villages because they likely didn’t know or didn’t suspect stationary tribes would risk retribution for helping the unknown off-worlders. Maybe their cover story was blown now.
There was no sound except the rumble of the distant thunderstorm. Vat looked toward the clouds and saw the storm was getting closer. Maybe it would be a problem in a few hours after all.
Sam had his Garand up and was surveying the village through its scope. “I can’t see any movement. That little hill is blocking the view.”
“I’m taking my detachment down,” Roberts announced. “Take your team to the north,” he said to Vat, pointing. “The road leads toward the J’Stull’s area of operations.”
“Lieutenant, is it wise to split up our forces?” Vat asked. While a first lieutenant outranked a second lieutenant, Roberts was in operational command. Vat wasn’t a combat officer, but he had been trained, and his training on small unit tactics and insurgent style combat of the 90s was much more current than Roberts’ WWII-era instructions.
The younger man considered for a second, then looked at Vat’s “team” of men. Unfortunately, he was clearly making a decision based on appearance, not ability. Vat would put his hardened crew up against any of Roberts’ men in any situation except the parade ground.
“Your people aren’t as used to the whinnies,” he said. “Riding and shooting is the trick. Please take your people and cover the enemy’s possible line of attack. If the opportunity presents itself, set up an ambush.”
Vat considered again for a second before nodding. It didn’t seem like the best tactical decision; however, he deferred to Roberts and his experience. “Okay,” he said simply.
“Please take the local women with you,” Roberts added, looking toward the village. “It’s more likely we’ll see combat than you.”
After taking a moment to check weapons, Roberts and his detachment whisked off down the slope on their whinnies. Their mounts yipped and hissed with the excitement of just running.
“Okay, let’s get a move on,” Vat said. “We need to get to the road ASAP in case they need help.”
“In the rear with the gear,” Sam said.
“Dis is saying with Americans, too?” Artyom wondered.
“I think it is with any military,” Vat said as they turned their whinnies toward the distant road.
Getting to the road wasn’t as easy as Vat thought it would have been. Despite being able to see where it was, the ridgeline between them and the road was far too steep to ride along, so they had to go around it. The side of the slope that ran inside the valley, where the village was located, would have been the easier approach, but it would have exposed them to anyone looking up from it. Instead, they went around the other side.
&nb
sp; The hillside was rocky and treacherous, partly made up of several scree fields in which even the surefooted whinnies struggled to maintain their footing. Miizhaam and Salsaliin took the lead, being experienced on the reptilian mounts, and the rest fell in behind them. With everyone busy controlling their whinnies, Vat didn’t have to worry about them noticing him hanging on for dear life.
Gunshots echoed over the hills, rifle reports bouncing around the crags above them.
Vat glanced up unconsciously and ground his teeth together. The whole purpose of riding days out into the plains was to talk to village elders, gain intel, and maybe get clues to locations of Kulsian caches watched and now tapped by the satraps. His side mission was to learn more about the non-conforming language elements which might lead to the mysterious Daaj. He resisted urging the whinnie on faster, knowing it wasn’t a good idea. Halfway across a particularly bad section of crumbling scree, Vat’s whinnie cast an eye back at him.
“What?” Vat asked. He swore the lizard almost sighed as it found its own way through the debris field. After a couple more echoing shots, the shooting stopped.
“Guess the fight is over,” Artyom yelled back at him. “Good. I had enough of people shooting at me at Stalingrad.”
They reached the other side of the valley without losing anyone or any of their equipment. The seven whinnies stood breathing hard for a short time on the road, which was just dirt, hard packed from routine use. It ran in from the north and over the hill to the village south of them.
“What now?” Artyom asked. Thunder rolled through the air, surprisingly closer.
“We’ll need to set up a position for an ambush,” Vat said and examined the rock outcroppings near the road where it cut through the hill.
“Better get set up before the storm gets here,” Lech pointed out as the rumbling got louder.
“Isn’t the storm to the west?” Sam asked.
Vat looked south in confusion as the rumble crested the ridge, and a pair of big trucks rolled into view. Then the shooting started.
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
At his first sight of the trucks, Vat’s thought was of their utility. Just like the ones in camp, they all had a boxy look, a little like the transports used by Russia in his era. Maybe to load them into spaceships? The backs even had fabric or leather tarping to cover them. Maybe form follows function on any world? It’s amazing the stupid shit your brain comes up with when you’re about to die.
Vat felt like he had an hour to notice details. The windshield was clear glass, no tint, and also had no angle to it, unlike terrestrial trucks. There were two occupants in the front. The driver caught his eye. He was blond with blue eyes that were wide with surprise. A second later, a bullet shattered the windshield and punched through the unknown man’s forehead.
Vat wasn’t a combat vet. He’d been shot at, but not as a soldier. Disgruntled customers had tried to kill him, but his solution had always been escape, evasion, or just avoid the situation entirely. However, with the exception of Taiki, his guys were combat vets. They’d learned that most important lesson of battles: the ones who shot first were often the winners.
Though Artyom may have been unfamiliar with the specifics of the lesson, he clearly understood the practicality. The single shot from his AK-47 had been perfectly on target, as proven by the first truck’s fate. Lech was a half a step behind his friend, and he put a long, ragged burst of 9mm from his MP-40 through the windshield from left to right. Both the passenger and the already dead driver were hit several times.
Sam fired a single booming 30-06 round from his Garand past the truck. Vat assumed Sam was firing at the other truck, the one he couldn’t see. The brief flurry of gunfire was followed by a chorus of shouts and screams, both from the trucks and his own people. Then the situation really descended into bedlam.
Screams broke Vat out of his momentary shock, bringing back his small-unit tactical training. “Get off the road!” he yelled. Taiki and the two local women immediately spun their whinnies and leaped over the rocks lining the road. Lech and Sam followed suit. Artyom laughed, switched to full-auto, and performed a mag-dump on the lead truck.
Vat’s whinnie was confused by his rider’s mixed signals. Vat had learned from Moorefield that the lizards were incredibly intuitive, even intelligent to a degree, and took implied directions from their riders. Vat was trying to unlimber his Thompson while simultaneously pulling the reins to the left in order to lead the animal off the road, screwing everything up.
Just as Vat got his weapon clear and raised it to provide cover for Artyom, the whinnie decided left it was, and jerked toward the side of the road. Vat was catapulted from the saddle. “Damnit!” he cried as he rolled upon impact. He had just enough presence of mind to keep the gun away from his face. The weapon’s magazine jammed him hard in the ribs and a sharp rock cut his left arm, even through the heavy fatigue jacket.
People began pouring out of the lead truck as Vat came to a rest. A few shots came toward him as Artyom’s magazine ran dry, and he rocked a new one into place.
“Damn it, Artyom! We’re supposed to be capturing assets, not filling them full of holes!”
The second truck tried to pull off the road and failed. The roadway wasn’t designed for trucks. Its front wheel mounted one of the large rocks which lined its path, no doubt cleared to make a pass through the hills. The rock was too large, and the truck bounced back onto its original course, colliding with the rear of the stationary and now smoking first truck.
Bullets flew. Vat crawled painfully toward a rock only half his size as his whinnie pranced away, sending a reproachful look over its shoulder. Artyom finished dumping his second magazine into the first truck. His AK-47 ran dry as the second truck rear-ended it, pushing it forward.
The driver, now dead, never set the brake, so the vehicle crested the hill and started rolling down…toward Vat’s team. Bullets whizzed past, and the truck loomed as the big Russian casually stepped to the side, reloading as he moved. The truck slowly rolled through where he had stood seconds before.
As the truck went past Artyom, the surviving men began jumping out of the back. Some of them were armed and shooting at anything they saw; others were empty-handed and ran for their lives. Vat was surprised any were still alive after 60 rounds of 7.62. Then he noted the sides were made of steel and the metal showed dozens of impacts, though few penetrations. Oh, that explains it.
Artyom, who had finished reloading, kneeled and sprayed bullets at both groups indiscriminately. One man managed to jump clear and survey the situation. He spotted Artyom and raised his gun.
Vat didn’t stop to think as he raised his Thompson, flipped off the safety, and fired. The selector was on full auto. The man targeting Artyom took four rounds in the abdomen and chest; he was dead before he hit the ground. Vat swallowed around a dry mouth. Vat had fired Thompsons before—a friend had owned several—so he knew what to expect, but it wasn’t like paper targets. No, not at all.
The truck slammed to a stop against a boulder. More men poured out of the back. Vat’s people were fully engaged now, firing singly or in pairs at any opposition. It was easy to distinguish Artyom’s and Lech’s weapons from Sam’s Garand, and the occasional roar of Taiki’s Mosin Nagant was an exclamation point in the battle. He was unable to discern the reports of the women’s breech-loading rifles from those of the enemy. Vat fired several more times: detect a target, fire, acquire a new target, fire. He lost count and soon his magazine was empty. He reloaded.
There were bodies everywhere. At least ten men were running down the road; all appeared unarmed. Vat was about to call for anyone left in the truck to surrender when Artyom suddenly appeared and threw a grenade into the back of the first truck.
Where the hell did he get that? Vat wondered, his mouth hanging open in surprise. The grenade was not as loud as Vat expected when it went off and blew the fabric cover off the cargo compartment. No more men came out; there were only the screams of th
e wounded and dying.
“Stop shooting!” someone yelled.
Vat, still kneeling, turned. Up the hill there was a pair of men. One had his arm around Miizhaam’s neck and a pistol pointed at her head. The other was holding Salsaliin by her long, braided hair, her head pulled back, a knife at her throat. The arm holding the knife was bleeding freely from a long gash. Salsaliin’s eye was swelling and turning black. It didn’t take a detective to understand what had happened.
“Stop or we kill these bitches.”
Only Artyom and Taiki were within view. One of Artyom’s AK-47s was missing, but he started to raise the other.
“No, wait,” Vat said. He lowered his own gun slightly. “This fight is over, surrender,” he said to the man.
“You are some of the thrice-slaves who’ve been attacking us! You use women? What kind of fools are you? We will kill all of you.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Vat said.
The gunfire had stopped entirely, but he had no idea where Lech and Sam were, if they were even still alive. They must have finished off the rest, or more of the satrap’s forces would be rushing in. If the other truck held the same number of men, that meant another 20, easy. Taiki was on the far side of the ruined truck. Vat could see him feeding a new stripper clip into his ancient gun. They had the two J’Stull in a crossfire…except there were hostages.
“Shoot the fool,” Artyom said in Russian, so the satrap man couldn’t understand.
“Nyet,” Vat replied. “We could hit the girls.”
“I have a clean shot on the one with the knife.”
Vat didn’t turn his head. It was spoken English. It was Sam. Vat didn’t know how good he was with his rifle. Sam had been impressed with the new scope and practiced on the firing range with it, but 30-06 ammo was in short supply. How many rounds could he have expended in practice? And it was much more complicated when lives were at stake.
