Tasmanian SFG: Welcome to Hell

by C. R. Daems

  “DEVILS, TO ME!” I screamed several times. “Smitty, let’s shuffle left to meet them.”

  The move gave us a couple of seconds as our sudden movement caught the Zinwe by surprise. I ejected the current mag I knew was almost empty and slammed in my last full one. As if we had rehearsed it, the seven of us melted into a perfect circle. I smiled thinking of the Old West stories where they circled the wagons as the Indians rode around them, shooting arrows. This wasn’t too much different than here as we must have had twenty surrounding us.

  Seconds later one rushed me with a machete. I feinted stepping backward, then took two steps into him with my shoulder and heard bones crack as a knife in my right hand sunk deep into his heart. The Zinwe surrounding us had a variety of weapons, a few bows, some knives, but mostly machetes. There would have been rifles if the current hadn’t been so strong. At least they couldn’t sneak up behind us. For a couple of minutes things seem to be going pretty well, then one by one I heard the click on an empty chamber.

  I dropped my Jericho while retrieving my combat knife and a throwing knife, reluctantly concluding the natives were going to win. I put my throwing knife in the eye of a Zinwe with a bow as I prepared to take on one charging with the machete. I feinted retreating then lunged into him driving a knife-hand strike to his clavicle. It cracked and the machete dropped to the ground. I stooped and retrieved the machete and stepped back in line as I tested its weight and balance. It was basically a short sword, a weapon I had spent months mastering.

  I stepped toward the next man rushing me with a machete, turned sideways, and sliced off his arm as his blade passed harmlessly by me. Again, I stooped to pick up another machete and laughed as I began a deadly windmill of blades spinning so fast they were a blur of steel—a twin short-sword kata Master Luan had taught me. Blades spinning, I moved out of the circle into a cluster of Zinwe, slicing through necks, arms, and chests as the Zinwe tried unsuccessfully to enter the slicing blades of death. In horror they tried to retreat and died. Unable to advance, they began to move back away from me. I stepped back into my place in the circle. Suddenly Todd stepped back as several rushed his position. My left machete nearly chopped off a man’s head and then my right went into motion and delivered a death strike to his neck. Isaac, on Todd’s other side, killed the other native. Todd stepped back into line, grinning. Suddenly, the Zinwe were gone. I idly wondered if they just chose to leave for their village or if we had killed them all. In either case it was a good thing.

  Looking around, I knew we weren’t going to survive another group of natives. Everyone was dripping blood and it wasn’t Zinwe blood.

  “Isaac, you and I have medical duty. The rest of you keep your eyes open,” I said as I walked over to Van and retrieved his medical kit. I couldn’t patch most of his wounds because there were too many. I looked for ones squirting blood rather than just oozing. Two tourniquets and a couple of wads of material and I had stopped most of the bleeding. I dragged myself over to Cedric, who was in relatively the same condition, which meant if we didn’t get professional medical help most of us would die here. Smitty was next.

  “I’d prefer a male medic,” he said while trying not to smile.

  “I’d prefer Tasmanians who could hold off a few natives without getting all cut up,” I said, shaking my head and trying to look sad. We both laughed, which hurt but felt good. As I finished basic repairs, Isaac strolled up and we took turns patching each other’s injuries.

  “Does anybody want an energy bar? I have several,” I said, reaching into my backpack and bringing out four. I cut them in half and passed them around.

  “Never thought an energy bar could taste so good,” Todd said, licking his lips. “I’m going to start carrying them from now on.”

  That got smiles and a few chuckles and grins.

  “Do you think we’ve run out of Zinwe?” Isaac asked no one in particular.

  “I hope not,” I said to wide-eyed stares. “I’m bored and this energy bar as me all hyped to go.” That was greeted with enthusiastic banging on the ground and shouts of “Taarah, taarah.”

  “We’ve got enough machetes lying around to take on another thirty or so,” Pete said with a genuine smile.

  Just then my TCom buzzed. It was Howard. I put it on speaker.

  “Luan, where are you?”

  “We are about one hour south of the first Zinwe crossing point,” I said.

  “What are you doing there?” he asked cautiously. “You need to be careful. When we attacked Zinwe well over a hundred chose to dive into the river. Some of them may have survived and could be wandering that side of the river.”

  “We were debating that very issue. We’ve been sitting here having a snack for over an hour and haven’t seen anyone,” I said, looking around the group to see everyone was smiling.

  “Sitting around?” He sounded annoyed. “Why don’t you and your unit join the company at the first crossing. We killed hundreds but there’s no telling how many more are still in the jungle.”

  “You go ahead without us, Howard. We’re waiting for the army to come along with a doctor, food, and ammo. Then I thought we would join them and meet you at the base camp.”

  “Smitty!” Howard shouted into the unit.

  “You could always return to the base camp on this side of the river,” Smitty said. “I don’t believe there are any Zinwe on this side of the river.” The line went dead. “We’ll probably get an hour’s lecture, but it was worth it.”

  The roar of “Taarah, taarah” echoed through the jungle.

  * * *

  Howard found us two hours later. He was in the lead with Captain Peters, followed by the Rangers and the army units who had been supporting the Rangers. We hadn’t moved. Howard, Peters, and several Rangers spent over a half hour walking around the area examining the carnage.

  “All of these survived that current?” Howard asked when he returned.

  “Kind of a shame,” I said. “You survived whitewater rapids to make it to the other side and then run into a bunch of bored Tasmanians.”

  “If this many Zinwe had descended on us at the crossing, it would’ve been a disaster. They would have blindsided us,” Peters said, shaking his head in disbelief. “We thought they were deserting and that over half would die attempting to cross the river, and those that managed to make the other side would run off into the jungle and hide.”

  “How did you know?” Howard asked me.

  “I just wondered what Tasmanians would do if we thought you were attacking our home and you had our normal crossing blocked,” I said.

  “They aren’t Tasmanians,” Peters said indignantly.

  “No, but we are on their land attacking them and their families. So they are motivated, they had us trapped so they are not stupid, and not cowards because they use guerrilla tactics,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Planet Libian: Mission Accomplished

  “Hey, Jolie, to hear your unit tell it that was quite a confrontation you had with the Zinwe,” someone shouted. It was our first day of our anticipated three-day trip. “Makes it sound like you won the war all by yourselves.”

  I jumped off my bunk and walked around looking like I wanted to make sure no one was eavesdropping before I spoke. “Between you and me,” I said, again looking around like I expected somebody to be hiding somewhere, “we were sitting around for half a day bored out of our skulls, munching on energy bars when bodies started washing up on the shores of the river. Then Pete, or maybe it was Smitty, got this great idea. He says we should drag the bodies up onto the shore, shoot holes and stab the bodies, then arrange them like we had this great battle with the Zinwe. I’ll tell you it took all damn day. If it weren’t for the energy bars we would all have collapsed halfway through it. I must admit the tenth version was a pretty innovative story. The difficult part was keeping everyone from making up their own personal version where they were the hero.”

  It took five minutes for everyone to stop
laughing and making comments. Then they had me tell a version of the story where I was heroine and to go over each detail. It was an entertaining day with the members of my unit interjecting comments like I had gotten part of the story wrong or that a specific part was in version three or seven…

  “When did you learn to use a machete?” someone asked later that day.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “Most of the martial arts that evolved from old Earth teach students how to use the ancient weapons, before guns. That includes swords of all sorts.”

  “That seems like a waste of time,” the same person said.

  “The purpose is to teach the student how to use objects of similar weight and size to defend themselves. For example, a machete is very much like a short sword, and since I had learned to use a short sword, it was easy to use the sword techniques I had learned with the machete.” I rummaged in my duffel bag and pulled out a machete I had kept and spent the rest of next day showing them sword techniques the ancient warriors had developed.

  “That was quite an exchange you had with Major Lloyd;” someone said the third day out. “I am surprised you didn’t kill him when he called you a whore.”

  “Well, I was a little embarrassed that somebody found out how I got into the Tasmanians,” I said, looking around the room to see if someone might be hiding somewhere. “But then he called you guys wimps and I had no choice. If I hadn’t confronted him pretty soon they would be calling me a wimp.”

  “Jolie, we should all chip in and pay you for entertaining us for three days. You’re better than a paid comedian, not to mention you give free demonstrations.”

  * * *

  Howard waited for me to sit after I entered his office. “Luan, the Tasmanian Committee has awarded you another year’s time-in-grade for your performance on Libian. That gives you a nice pay raise, makes you a four-year veteran, and gives you another four weeks’ vacation—that’s sixteen weeks you’ve accumulated. I recommend you use it. You’ve had two very active campaigns and a change of scenery will help keep you fresh.”

  “I would like to visit my true father on the planet Surbaya, but I doubt I could make it there and back in sixteen weeks,” I said and to my surprise Howard laughed.

  You are in an elite unit of the USP. I don’t believe I’ll have trouble getting you a ride there and back with plenty of time to enjoy the vacation,” he said.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Planet Surbaya: Homecoming

  When I arrived at bay 4-20, the line to enter the battle cruiser Liberty was short. Not too surprising; I had been told the cruiser would leave New Delphi tomorrow at noon, which was some fourteen hours away. I had decided to come early since I didn’t know what I would have to do or where I had to go to get access. It turned out to be relatively easy. There were specific areas for merchant ships, military cruisers, and for station personnel. The shuttles dropped you at the appropriate part of the station and you merely had to find your assigned berth. When I reached the correct berth, I found it easily.

  “Good evening, young lady, I assume you’re Tasmanian Luan,” said a good-looking young man in a white uniform with a lieutenant commander braid on his sleeve, a name tag that read Woolston, and some twelve ribbons over his left chest jacket designating various awards he received. I nodded and handed him my papers. He ignored the papers as he scanned me from head to foot. “I don’t know what I expected a Tasmanian uniform to look like, but that is the plainest uniform I have ever seen—no rank, no medals, no unit insignia, and not even a name tag. Only the white stripe down your pant leg distinguishes you from a brand-new army recruit.”

  “Mostly true,” I said and pointed to my beret. “The Tasmanian fur flash designates my unit.”

  “I understand you are the first female Tasmanian. Is that the reason for the lack of rank and awards?” he asked as he turned to examine my traveling papers, probably hoping that would explain more.

  “No, I have been with the Tasmanians for two years and have participated in two campaigns,” I said. He gave me a second look as if he was considering his next words, but then handed me back my paperwork without further word. He was probably wondering whether I was a below-average Tasmanian to have received no rank or medals after two years of service. “Master Chief Gibbs will see you to your quarters, Miss Luan,” he said as he handed me back my paperwork and then pointed toward an older stocky enlisted man. The chief had a small smile on his lips.

  “Good evening, Tasmanian Luan,” Gibbs said as he walked with me following. “You’re going to hear a lot of that. The navy has a uniform for every occasion, twenty different rank designations, and a ribbon for every event noteworthy or not. It makes us feel important.”

  “They are necessary in a very large organization to maintain discipline and structure,” I said, knowing the Tasmanian culture and structure would not work if we had tens of thousands of personnel.

  “Rules and regulations don’t work in a small organization?” he asked, his voice full of amusement.

  “Oh, it works well if all the members of the organization are sane.” I smiled.

  “Are you saying the Tasmanians aren’t sane?”

  “If you considered the animal kingdom as a society, would you consider the Tasmanian Devils normal?” I shrugged. He laughed.

  “I see your point, Luan.” He stopped next to a compartment door with the number one dash twenty-three. “If you put your hand on the plate, this will be your room while you’re with us.” He gave me a wry smile. “Since we didn’t know your rank, they gave you an officer’s room to be on the safe side.”

  “Can you show me to your exercise room and your mess hall?”

  “What time?”

  “Zero six hundred,” I said.

  “I’ll have somebody come get you. I would imagine every Airborne Ranger would like to watch you work out and to talk with you.” He was laughing as he walked off down the hall.

  * * *

  The trip to Surbaya took only six days including a one-day stop in Luxor, but the time flew by as it appeared everyone on the Liberty wanted to talk to me. Captain Landino had me to dinner the first night and was fascinated with rank.

  “Luan, I am confused. You say you’re in the military but your uniforms have no rank, and your travel documents indicate no rank. Is Tasmanian rank a secret?” Landino asked after we had finished a dinner I would’ve expected at a five-star restaurant. He had also invited his XO, Commander Soto, and Colonel Martinez, the Airborne Rangers’ commander.

  “No, sir,” I said, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Tasmanians have no rank, or if we do, we all have the same unspecified designation.”

  “That’s impossible,” Soto said with exaggerated frustration. “Otherwise you would all be paid the same.”

  Yes, sir, we are all paid the same except for our years of service with the Tasmanians,” I said. Looking at their faces, I realized nobody believed me.

  “That’s impossible,” Soto repeated. “Someone has to be in charge and he would get paid more than the others unless the person with the most time with the attachments is in charge… but that would be ridiculous.”

  “The Tasmanian Committee picks the person in charge for each assignment. He in turn selects the people who report to him, who then select the people that report to them. For example, the committee would pick the captain of the ship, who in turn would select the bridge personnel and the person in charge of each department, who would select the crew chiefs, who would select the people who would work for the crew chief.”

  The three men stood with open mouths shaking their heads slowly in disbelief. Finally, the captain spoke.

  “So, I’m on one assignment I could be the captain but on the next assignment I could be a navigator or the engineering manager?” Landino said, frowning in thought or disbelief or disapproval.

  “Or a mechanic,” I said with a grin.

  “So, under that system,” Soto said, choosing each word slowl
y, “a mechanic could be paid more than the XO because he had more years in the navy.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” I said and felt like clapping except I didn’t think anybody would appreciate my humor.

  “Why no medals?” Martinez asked.

  “I don’t really know, Colonel. But maybe because it draws attention to the individual, as does rank, and separates him from his brothers and sister.”

  * * *

  I spent several days with the Airborne Rangers. Their interest was more in the qualification school and our training.

  “I think the army school introduces you to basic skills, discipline, and teamwork. The Ranger school teaches you enhanced skills for special assignments. The Tasmanian school strips away the fluff.”

  “What do you mean by fluff?” Chief Gibbs asked.

  “Pick your best two knife fighters and let me see them fight,” I said, interested in the Airborne Rangers’ training. “It will be easier to show you than try to explain.”

  The chief went over to the cabinet, picked out two training knives, and looked around the assembled Rangers.

  “Clifford, Thomas,” he said, throwing each man a knife. They faced each other standing about two meters apart, waiting for the chief. He looked at both men and after seeing each man nod, he shouted, “Start.”

  They moved slowly, feinting attacks while looking for an opening, now and then darting in with the series of slashes. After a couple of minutes, one man darted in and gave the other man a killing slash to the neck. Each man had three or four red marks, indicating nonfatal cuts to their arms or chest. I thought both men were probably excellent knife fighters. I walked up to the losing man and took his knife. I turned and faced the man who won. He was in his early twenties, tall, lean, and wiry looking. He had at least fifteen centimeters’ reach advantage, and his oval, clean-shaven baby face was smiling. The chief looked to both of us and receiving nods shouted, “Start.”