by David Adams
“Здорово,” said Apalkov, his whole face lighting up. “Scientists have the best booze.”
The ship shook again as it flew through a cloud. Jakov looked like he might throw up.
Pavlov barely contained a playful smile. “Don’t like flying, Private?”
“Nope,” said Jakov. “I love flying. It’s crashing I hate.”
Pavlov laughed at that. “Well, dropships hate flying. Unlike airplanes, they don’t want to be in the sky; they’re enslaved by us, forced to ferry our sorry arses around in exchange for meagre rations of fuel and maintenance hours. A dropship’s just a box with plasma jets attached to it, really. No aerodynamics at all, and they resent us for taking them away from their cool, quiet hangers. A dropship has absolutely no qualms with killing us all to reach the ground again.”
“Cука блядь,” said Jakov, clutching his seat tighter. “Cука блядь, Cука блядь, Cука блядь…”
The dropship descended and broke through the low-hanging cloud cover. Below him, he could see a flash of red. The bicolour red and black flag of the Separatist armies, spray-painted into a clearing cut into the endless jungles that carpeted Syrene’s equatorial belt. Where all the fighting was happening.
Where all the dying was happening.
“Well,” said Apalkov, blowing a low whistle. “The Separatists really rolled out the welcome mat for us.”
“They’re showing us their colours,” said Pavlov. “They want us to see that they’re not afraid of us.”
“Arf arf,” said Apalkov as the dropship swung around and began to slow down. “That’s good; I’m itching for a damn fight.”
There was a brief moment—the briefest, tiniest moment—between Apalkov’s words and the flashing of the alarm, the entire dropship interior suddenly bathed in red light.
“We got a missile lock,” said the pilot, her voice charged, radar detection alarms keening in the background. The ship pitched violently. “There’s an active SAM battery down there. Hold on, this is going to be rough…”
Pavlov gritted his teeth as the ship began to turn, pressing him into his seat. Hey God, if you’re out there, now’s a really good time…
CHAPTER 3
Pavlov’s Cell
“I’M GUESSING,” SAID YANOVNA, “THAT you didn’t die.”
Pavlov honestly had no idea what to say to that. “Obviously not,” he said. “I don’t know how we made it through, though. The passenger compartment doesn’t have g-force compensators. I was unconscious pretty quick.”
A loud cough came from the next cell. “Actually,” said someone, “I might be able to shed a bit more light on that.”
“Who,” asked Pavlov, “the fuck are you?”
The almost-stranger turned to face him, her face obscured. “Lieutenant Borislava Lukina. I was the pilot of your dropship. Remember? I said I owed you a drink when we got back.”
“Oh,” said Pavlov. That part…the drink. That was coming. “Your callsign was…Buzzsaw. Wait, no. Chainsaw. Yeah.” The details slowly filtered back into his hung-over mind. “Chainsaw. I remember you.”
“Kind of wish you didn’t,” said Chainsaw. “You got me into a world of shit, comrade. I’m in this cell because of you.”
“Yeah,” said Pavlov. “Trust me, it hasn’t exactly worked out well for me either. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that drink. I’m going to collect.”
Yanovna turned, the soles of her boots squeaking on the metal deck. “Okay then, Lieutenant Lukina, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
* * *
Cockpit
Dropship Anarchy
“Come on, come on, come on…”
Chainsaw pulled the control stick back into her gut. The dropship Anarchy pitched upward, engines roaring as she climbed. The spetsnaz in the back wouldn’t enjoy that, but she was pretty sure they also wouldn’t like being blown into a million pieces and scattered over the jungle floor, either, so turn she did. All around her, screaming alarms fought for her attention.
She filtered it all out, though, apart from the flashing red dot on her radar warning screen. A Type-4 anti-spacecraft missile bearing down on her baby.
The computer, Anne, her co-pilot who never failed her, silently worked on a million things at once. Trimming the various control surfaces. Angling the thrusters. Broadcasting various forms of electronic static to quash whatever guidance the missile used. The rear camera showed clumps of flares drifting away like falling stars, and puffs of chaff, sparkling rain with the sun behind it.
Beautiful, really, if it wasn’t the last line of defence against a fistful of explosives and ball bearings trying to kill them.
Chainsaw turned and turned, feeling her body compress into the seat. A standard anti-air missile could pull a 40g manoeuvre; a standard dropship like Anarchy capped out at about 9g. Any more than that and the pilot and crew passed out. But the dropship was also travelling slower…its turning circle was tighter.
The key was to force the missile to overshoot. Let it fly on, into the sky or ground, ignoring them.
Easier said than done. It needed full throttle and hard over.
7g. 7.5g. 8g.
Her vision began to tunnel, a dark curtain drawing on all sides of her eyes. The blood was being forced out of her head and into her feet. That was bad. 8.5g…8.75g.
She felt sick, but at the same time, lightheaded. Anne could do more. Could fly on and save them, but it was a risky prospect; autopilots had a tendency to be remarkably cavalier about the safety of their human counterparts, including minor details like where the ground was, and exactly how many g-forces the human body could withstand.
Besides, if the AI turned too hard and lost airspeed, they would plummet out of the sky and crash.
Falling out of the sky was harmless. Hitting the ground, on the other hand…
9g. 9.1g…9.2g.
“Turn harder,” said Anne, her artificial voice completely bereft of any urgency. “The missile’s approaching.”
Tell me something I don’t know! Chainsaw groaned through gritted teeth as she pushed herself, and her craft, to the limit. Her vision became a clouded sheet. The only thing she could see was the radar screen. Closer and closer…darker and darker. The world went grey, and for a brief moment, almost vanished. Almost.
The red dot of the missile merged with the centre of her radar, and then—so close the air buffeted her craft—it streaked past, flying off toward oblivion.
Close enough to have exploded. Those things were proximity-fused.
Yet it had malfunctioned. Failed to kill them all.
They should have been dead.
Her vision swam and she eased back the stick. Slowly, slowly, blood returned to her head. She felt like she was going to throw up.
“Welcome back,” said Anne, her tone even. “Glad I could help.”
Why did they make the AIs on these things so annoying? “You didn’t do anything, circuit brain. I pulled us through.”
Anne’s tone became almost condescending. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly fifty seconds. I had to disable your flight controls, or we would have turned inverted and hit the ground at nearly Mach 2.”
“Yeah?” said Chainsaw, and let her gaze wander down to the navigation computer. They were some distance away from where the missile had been. A distance worth about fifty seconds of flight time. She’d passed out and hadn’t noticed the gap in time.
“Oh. Well…nice work, then.”
“You’re welcome,” said Anne. “By the way, you might want to check on our passengers. One of them made a hell of a mess back there.”
“Vomit?” she asked, dreading the answer. “Or…from the other end?”
“No, just vomit. This time.”
Chainsaw smiled weakly. “They’re not the first ground-pounder to bring their breakfast back for a cameo appearance.”
Anne laughed—a weird sound given that she had no lungs or anything. Must be pre-recorded or synthetic
or something. “Yeah, well…I’m just glad I don’t have to clean it up.”
“Someone else will,” she said.
“Someone else who isn’t me.”
Good point. “You got the location of the SAM site, right?”
“Yeah,” said Anne. “You want me to plug the coordinates into the weapons systems? We can go back and strafe it, if you feel so inclined.”
Attacking the dedicated anti-aircraft site with an aircraft seemed very stupid. Besides, the Separatists were probably already moving the launcher, driving like maniacs, knowing that fiery retribution was on its way. “Negative, relay it to the Varyag. They should be able to spot it from orbit and take it out. We gotta get our girls and boys to the surface.”
“Righteo,” said Anne. “Can’t say I’m glad to hear we’re just going to run away.”
“To run away is not glorious, but it is very healthy.”
“Roger that,” said Anne. “Pushing our combined cowardly arses onward.”
CHAPTER 4
Passenger compartment
Dropship Anarchy
PAVLOV WIPED DROPS OF JAKOV’S puke from his face as he came to.
Gross, but it wasn’t the guy’s fault. They’d all passed out pretty quickly—too quickly for him to clip down his visor. That was his first mistake.
But, then, he wasn’t entirely sure it was Jakov’s puke. So maybe it was a blessing in disguise.
All around him, his squad woke up one by one. Their stuff had been thrown around the cabin; anything not strapped down had become a missile. Fortunately, their armour was tough enough to handle it.
Still, if something had killed him, he would have never known. Just gone to sleep and never woken up. It was a horrible, helpless feeling, one he hoped to not relive anytime soon.
But they were alive, and that was something. The alarm had disappeared, the craft returned to level flight. They were safe. Not being dead was a good way to start the mission.
Thank you, God. Thank you for watching out for me. He reached under his chestplate, pulled out the steel cross he wore, and kissed it. Thank you.
A few moments passed in silence, Ilyukhina, Jakov and Apalkov exchanging ghost-faced, harrowed looks, then Pavlov started to laugh.
Almost everyone joined in. Even Jakov. It was the best kind of laughter: wild, manic, so full of relief and joy that they were alive.
The new guys didn’t laugh. They hadn’t even passed out.
Impressive.
Slowly, the mirth faded and their professional faces returned. Pavlov tucked the cross back under his armour, and then he and the rest of Pavlov’s Dogs were ready to fight once more.
The dropship crested a mountain, revealing the Hammerfall research facility. It was a blocky, oblong structure perched on top of a small hill, barely clearing the thick green blanket of green. Emerald vines clung to it, creeping up all the walls like the hands of an angry horde trying to drag the metal box back down into the jungle. Attached to the top was a communications dish pointed straight up, an inverted mushroom growing on the only patch of clear land for kilometres. A landing pad jutted out from the side, a round disk with a wide walkway leading to it, two levels below the roof.
Ominously, several large scorch marks marred the sides of the structure, blossoms from shrapnel blooming out from them, and as they drew closer, he could see places where the paint had been scratched off by heavy gunfire.
Their transport made for the centre of the pad and touched down with a hiss. The door swung down and the searing, humid air of the jungle rushed in, sucking out the carefully climate-controlled atmosphere of the small ship.
Their pilot spoke again. “Guns are hot,” she said. “We don’t know what the situation is here. If they start shooting, we’ll shoot back.”
“Copy that,” said Pavlov. “If it’s not flashing a friendly signal, light it the fuck up.”
“You got it,” said their pilot.
Pavlov stepped out of the dropship and into the sweltering jungle heat, weapon pressed snugly against his shoulder. Apalkov and Jakov came out on his flanks, the latter still white in the face. Spent brass tinkled underfoot, rolling away and into the jungle. The smell, thick mud and rotting things, invaded his nose.
Instantly he was reminded of Minsky. Bleeding. Dying in the mud. He almost expected to hear his voice, but the only noises were the hissing and groaning of the dropship and the loud squawking of birds and stranger creatures.
Pavlov bit the inside of his cheek, trying to think of something else. Fortunately, a moment later, a helpful distraction presented itself: people came out to greet them. Three scientists, all women, with white lab coats and a green stripe on gold as their shoulder patches. They had wide, happy smiles on their faces that Pavlov found vaguely disconcerting. Science wasn’t supposed to be fun.
These would be the so-called cow-fuckers. Or people pretending to be. Pavlov raised his rifle again. “Let’s see some ID,” he called.
The lead scientist, a brunette with long hair pulled into a ponytail, raised her hand, showing a golden chip embedded in her palm. His own chip read the details, and his visor highlighted her in blue. Civilian. ID checked out. Probably not a Separatist. Neither were the other two. He lowered his gun.
“I’m Mika,” said the lead scientist, extending her hand. “Doctor Mika Chuchnova.”
Pavlov glared at the hand with suspicion. He didn’t know this person. The chips they had in their hands would trade contact information if touched…but they could also transmit hacks. Viruses. It would be a security risk. After a moment, Chuchnova pulled it back.
“Lieutenant Petya Pavlov,” he said, “Spetsnaz GRU. Behind me is the biggest, baddest group of Russian Confederation spetsnaz in the galaxy…who are now assigned to your protection, ma’am.”
“Spetsnaz?” Chuchnova’s eyes flicked to the dropship, although her smile remained. “We were told we would be receiving a small security detachment. Not elite soldiers.”
“Your call said it was urgent,” said Pavlov. The scientists were so happy. Not relieved, not joyful, not…anything. Just the spitting images of happy people. “We came expecting the Separatists to have taken the place, to be honest, given your lack of further communication.”
“It was urgent,” said Chuchnova, “but right as we were about to lose the facility, the Separatists retreated. A parting shot damaged our communications array, so we couldn’t cancel the request.” She smiled warmly. “Everything’s okay now. We’re safe and the building is secure. You can go.”
Odd, but stranger things had happened in war. “Well, unfortunately for you, we nearly got tagged by anti-aircraft fire coming here. The dropship’s okay, but there’s no way we can leave now. Not until the Fat Lady completes her orbit then clears the way for us.”
“Fat…Lady?” asked Chuchnova. “You mean your ship?”
“Yes, the Varyag.” The edges of Pavlov’s mouth curled up in a smile. “She’s not a thing of beauty, but when her guns sing, it’s all over for her enemies.”
Chuchnova didn’t laugh or react in any meaningful way.
Might as well get on with it then. “Regardless, this facility is now under the jurisdiction of military intelligence. The following deployment will be observed: my men will stay around and secure the facility, and prepare to repel further Separatist aggression.” He casually tapped his finger against the side of his rifle. “Is our presence here going to be a problem?”
She considered, then folded her hands behind her back. “No, I suppose not. We set aside quarters for you and your men in the living area, and prepared a report on the facility’s defences and equipment.”
The living area. Apalkov would love that, all mixed in with these civilians…but that wasn’t only it. Something else gnawed at him. Tugged his warrior sense.
He didn’t trust these people.
“I’d prefer my men to be billeted away from your people if possible, ma’am. Military and civilians don’t mix.”
Chuchnov
a tilted her head. “What, why? Are our lodgings not good enough for you, Lieutenant?”
Cука блядь. “Pavlov’s Dogs need a kennel,” said Pavlov. “Can’t be putting us animals in with you regular people.”
The edges of her mouth curled up mockingly. “Your squad is called Pavlov’s Dogs? What, are you the companion squad to Schrödinger’s Cats?”
“Schrödinger’s Cats. Hmm. Name rings a bell, but I’m not sure if they actually exist or not.”
Chuchnova didn’t laugh.
Pavlov put his serious face back on. “Besides, it’s for your own safety. We’re bringing in a lot of dangerous gear. Explosives. Automatic weapons. I’m sure you wouldn’t want our boots kicking around your delicate lab equipment either. You let us do our jobs, Doctor, and we’ll let you do yours.”
The slightest pause. “As you wish,” said Chuchnova, frowning at him. “You can stay wherever you like. And you don’t have to worry about us getting near your guns.”
“Kind of feel like I should,” said Pavlov.
“We can take care of ourselves.”
An odd statement for those who had nearly been overrun. “I understand, but Fleet Intelligence wouldn’t be sending us in the first place if they didn’t think our presence was necessary.” Pavlov pointed to one of the dark scorch marks. “Speaking of defending yourself, what happened here?”
Chuchnova grimaced. “The Separatists have been lobbing mortars at us every few days for weeks now. They don’t often hit, but it’s loud when they do. The main problem is the raiding parties; every so often, they send though small teams of partisans to test our defences. Our 6-1 rifles have been effective at keeping them at bay so far.”
The 6-1 was a rifle built to shoot small game. All that brass came from varmint rifles? How long had they been fighting off attacks? “Mortar fire does tend to be distracting,” Pavlov admitted. “I’ll establish a perimeter and set watches. The next time these partisans show their faces, we’ll blow them in half.”
