“What happened to her?” Wesser asked. Reiter sank into the jump seat.
“Her, Mo, and Steele engaged this guy Kennedy, he’s some kind of super soldier,” he replied. “He was seconds from killing Steele, but Bartonova ended up taking the hit instead.” Reiter rested his head in his hand. “We barely had enough to bury her.”
Wesser recoiled from the photo, and her arm bumped another one on the opposite wall. She looked back to see a raven haired woman in sweats looking shocked with the Merlin brothers on either side. “Who’s she and why is she over here?”
Smiling, Reiter leaned forward. “That’s Claire Fletcher, Union super soldier and POW, and also the only person I’ve definitely saved.” He tapped her on the shoulder. “French is probably getting pissed, so let’s hurry up and take care of this.” With that, Wesser took hold of the controls and relaxed. I hope you’re still safe, Fletcher.
He’d been expecting this any day now. While Kennedy wasn’t necessarily a pessimistic man, he did have a nose for murphy about to strike. Or as Ballard calls it, I’m Properly Paranoid. So here he was in a Martian again, of all things, pretending to not be inside.
Riding in a panzerter on its back had been a continuously unpleasant experience up to this point, but he volunteered for the task for two reasons. The first being he could secure the engineer teams transporting the new Martian against partisan attacks. Irving had provided his secondary reasoning. She’s reasoned that since the partisans stole things every time they attacked, they’d love nothing more than an intact panzerter.
So he lay on his back, in a crash chair, jostling with every bump in the road. I hope she’s right. Despite his discomfort, there was something nostalgic to him about sitting in a Martian again. When I first entered service, this machine was the bleeding edge of panzerter design. Five years later, it still holds up even if it’s not top dog anymore.
Suddenly, the transport ground to a halt. “Comrades, we have a log blocking our path.” Here it comes. Submachine gun and laser are in the truck ahead of me, and I have a mace on me. A scream filled the net, followed by a crashing sound.
“We’re under panzerter attack!” Kennedy threw the tarp off his machine and stood up. They’d stopped on a winding road far from landfall. Snowy pine trees surrounded them. Among the shadows of the trees, Partisans fired automatic weapons and rockets at the convoy while gloomy silhouettes lurked in the snow. Grabbing his SMG, he razed the nearest group of partisans before looking at the panzerter threat.
Four machines. Older models. Salvaged machines? He fired a burst at the nearest one and went for his laser. I don’t have time to dick around too much.
Shells struck his armor. Most bounced. Nothing vital. Kennedy retaliated with submachine gun and laser fire. The 75-mm shells wouldn’t do much on their own, but their high rate of fire allowed them to exploit holes in the armor of his enemies.
Within seconds of standing, Kennedy had destroyed two of the attacking panzerters and severely damaged a third. This isn’t even a fight, more like an execution. Then the last one changed tactics. Instead of continuing to fight him, the panzerter opened fire on the engineers and their escorts.
Kennedy whirled on his last opponent, leaving it’s crippled friend for the infantry. With a sickening clack, his SMG ran dry. Ditching the weapon, he brought his laser to bear only for a sword to cut through the barrel.
Leaping backwards, he went for his mace when his opponent charged. He managed to catch the tip of the blade in the Martian’s hand. With a mighty swing, his mace crashed into the panzerter’s elbow. Metal shards and broken magnets scattered across the woods.
With a crunch, he noticed the partisan grab his mace hand and struggle for the weapon. Kennedy used his machine’s greater weight to pull and shove theater panzerter in a vain attempt to break loose. I need to finish this quick.
He drove his broken stump into his opponent’s cockpit. After following up with two more blows, the panzerter fell back dragging him with him. Metal scraped metal. Kennedy’s teeth rattled and his restraints cut into him.
As soon as the sparks and crunching stopped, he drew a machine pistol from under his chair. That pilot can’t escape. I need to know where they got those panzerters. Cluthing the carrying handle in his teeth, Kennedy scrambled along the ladder to the Martian’s crown hatch only to find the door stuck.
With a few solid kicks, he managed to open the hatch and climb out. Bullets pinged of the Martian’s armor and the panzerter below. Kennedy hopped out of his crippled machine down to the one beneath him. Those last few blows opened the cockpit I’m sure.
His feet his the armored panzerter below with a jolt. Kennedy grunted and soldiered on. A bullet whipped past his head, and he flattened himself against the cold metal. More rounds cracked by him from multiple directions.
The partisans were routing, but it wasn’t stopping them from firing wildly on the advancing Union soldiers. Several rushed towards the very panzerter he crawled across. They’re certainly not making this easy.
A head poked above a rent in the panzerter’s armor. Kennedy sent a burst his way. The pilot opposed up and fired a pistol. After firing another burst, Kennedy crawled across the surface of the panzerter.
He paused and took a breath. As he trained his sights on where the pilot had hidden, he focused on his breathing. Just barely, he could make out blonde hair cresting the torn armor. Got you.
“Hey!” Kennedy lurched sideways. A partisan trained a rifle on him. They fired simultaneously.
As a bullet ripped through the back of his leg, Kennedy cried out in pain. His own burst perforated the partisan, an older overweight man, like a sieve.
“Dad!” the pilot cried. Kennedy grit his teeth and fired another burst at the pilot.
“Micah, stay down!” another man cried. Before Kennedy could react, a partisan vaulted the opposite side of the panzerter and kicked him in the ribs. A steel toe cracked a few of his ribs. “You bastard!” he hissed.
Kennedy raised his machine pistol, but the partisan kicked it away. As he lunged after the strap, a boot came down on his hand. I need an advantage. Somehow. With a roar of pain, Kennedy swept his injured leg under his opponent.
After rolling onto of the other man, Kennedy wrestled with him for his rifle. The surrounding air cackled and snapped with the sound of bullets from both sides. “Micah, tell them to go!”
With a final tug, Kennedy wrested the weapon free. In one swift motion, he cracked the partisan across the face with the stock of his own weapon. Union soldiers climbed onto the panzerter to aid him and arrest the partisan. Finally, the pain across his body grew too much for even his enhanced nervous system to bear. As his adrenaline wore off, he blacked out.
9
Another snowy December day. Another long morning in Hawke’s office. Reiter left the marble building and made for the warehouse. We can make all the preparations we want, if we don’t actually execute anything, the Union will attack again and we’ll be screwed. He sighed as a child walked by with her mother, proudly holding a shopping bag.
What kind of future will we have if we lose? He remembered his conversations with Fletcher, but her story still seemed unbelievable. He briefly imagined babies gestating in glass chambers, the cold sterile upbringing Fletcher had been through. They only taught her how to read, write, do math, and pilot a panzerter, filled her with propaganda, called her a number until she was 14, then slapped a rank on her and said ‘go kill Tharcians, this is normal.’
Reiter shook his head and slammed his fist into the concrete wall of the warehouse. They deprived her of a childhood, of a family, that’s so fucked up. It dawned on him that Kennedy had been created the same way. No, not created, born. The more he contemplated Fletcher’s situation, the angrier he got. It’s not enough that they’re ruthless killers, but they’ve created an entirely new strain of humanity just to be cruel to.
As he entered the warehouse, his gaze fell upon an alarming site. Mo and Kozma paced each other wi
th broom sticks held like clubs while the other pilots and a few of the infantry cheered. Wesser blew a whistle, and the pair lunged at each other. Oh, they’re training.
After a fury of blows, Mo overpowered Kozma and struck him in the side. The other man howled in pain and swore at Mo. To Reiter’s dismay, he saw a few Krones being passed around. Training is one thing, gambling is another.
“Wesser, Kozma, Mo, what’s going on here?” he asked as the group took notice of him. Now that he could see Mo and Kozma more clearly, he noticed multiple welts across both of their arms. “If this is training, I hope you’re learning something.”
Wesser blushed. “Sorry sir, we have our pilots refreshing on their hand to hand fundamentals, Mo and Kozma just got a bit competitive.” Reiter frowned before Steele spoke up.
“In our defense, we learned a lot about our techniques that weren’t working,” she said. Reiter nodded and softened his stance.
“Very well, we could all learn something from each other,” he replied. Then he shed his jacket and CVC shirt, leaving just his undershirt. Reiter took a moment to stretch the lean muscles of his arms and chest. “Mo, may I?”
The young man tosses him his broom stick and Reiter caught it rather easily. Kozma turned and offered his to the crowd. “Who wants to be the commanders first victim?”
“I’ll take him,” Merlin Jr said. “I’ve got youthful energy on him.”
Reiter shook his head. “For the record, MJ, I’m six years older than you.” Melin JR advanced with reckless abandon. Wide swings. Choreographed movements. Sloppy footwork.
Evading and parrying each blow took minimal effort from Reiter. Every time they clashed, he felt MJs broom rattle against his. He’ll tire himself, even in a panzerter, fighting like that would be exhausting.
Finally, Reiter felt it was time to conclude things. He responded to MJ’s attacks with a few of his own, disrupting whatever groove the younger soldier had. With a final clash, Reiter twisted and flicked his wrist. Merlin’s broom flew high into the air.
He stopped his blow inches from MJ’s face before raising an eyebrow. “Youthful energy, huh?” Gently. He tapped him on the top of his head. “Bonk.” Behind him, Steele snorted.
“I think we pretty clearly have our winner,” she said. Reiter tossed his broom to one of the infantry.
“Melee combat between panzerters isn’t like the movies,” he said. “It’s all choreographed, it’s fluff, I implore you all to study a martial art that includes the use of weapons, it will give you an edge over the guy or gal that swings a sword like a baseball bat.”
After watching the group break off into pairs to train, he left with his two lieutenants following him. He’d wanted to go over more team based drills when Kozma brought up another issue. “What’s Mo’s deal?” he asked Wesser. “Seriously, he’s given me the third degree at best since we landed here. Why can’t you rein in your soldier?” Reiter sighed.
“Mo’s attitude does need to be addressed,” he admitted. “I’m tempted to speak to him myself, but I feel like this is an opportunity for you to assert yourself.”
As they entered their own planning room, Wesser took a deep breath. “Alright,” she said. “What do you recommend?”
Kennedy glared through the one-way mirror before him. In what had formerly been a recording studio, Woody Pete sat in a makeshift cell. He looked like he was in his late thirties to mid-forties, with his dark hair running silver near the temples. The side of his face where Kennedy had struck him remained swollen as he stirred his veggie soup.
For all his trouble, Kennedy would never sit correctly again due to the scar across his left cheek. In addition, medical tape bound his ribs so they could heal as well as his hand. Knight and Irving stood with him, watching the most valuable prisoner ever captured.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “All that time, and we finally caught him.”
Knight folded his arms. “And a good thing, too. This should put an end to all of their partisan raids.” Kennedy shook his head.
“They got panzerters and were able to operate them, I want to know weather they stole them or someone gave them to them,” he said. He looked at Irving. “You think he did it himself?”
She shrugged. “There’s no way to be one hundred percent sure, but he was a panzerter engineer.” Kennedy looked back at their prisoner.
“He was trying to protect one of the pilots, knew him by name,” he said. “The pilot knew another partisan as well. Did Woody Pete have any connection to someone named Pa?”
Both of his comrades raised an eyebrow. “Pa’s a slang term for father,” Irving said. “Did the pilot call this other partisan that?”
Kennedy nodded. “Yeah, yeah he did, and Pete called him by name, Micah.” Knight shook his head.
“Did you not have a dad?” he asked.
“No, nor a mother,” Kennedy replied. “The Union is the only legal guardian I’ve ever had.” He looked back at them. “Make of that what you will, but we need to know where they got those panzerters.”
Irving took another look at Kennedy before approaching a microphone hooked to the sound system in the booth. “Woody Pete, you’re guilty of crimes against a United Mars, however your sentencing will be lenient if you provide us with the information we seek.”
Woody Pete didn’t bother looking up. He merely continued to stir his veggie soup. Is he messing with us? Or does he just not care about his life?
The train of thought barreled forward at full steam. I value my life; I want to live. But my homeland doesn’t. He stared at his injured hand and flexed it as Irving continued her questioning. Yet, the Union could remake me entirely if they choose to do so, and they likely have before. He clenched his fist. No, I’m different, as much from them as they are from each other. My life, my experiences, those are all my own, something I don’t share with anyone.
He looked back into the booth. It’s because of that, that I fight to make things better for everyone like me. Knight groaned. Despite her best efforts, Irving didn’t make any headway with Woody Pete.
“Hey, Irving, let me try something,” he said. The other officer shrugged.
“Go ahead,” she said. Kennedy took her seat in front of the mic, grunting as he sat.
“We have Micah Woody,” he said. “If you don’t cooperate, he’ll suffer for it.” The man in the booth laughed.
Setting down his spoon, he looked over to where Kennedy sat. “You must be that pilot from the battle,” he said. “Nice try, but I doubt it.”
“We captured him shortly after we detained you,” Kennedy replied. “If you don’t tell us where you obtained your panzerters, then we’ll break off his fingers and send them to you one at a time until you cooperate.”
Woody Pete whistled before chuckling. “Jesus, you’re a ruthless one.” He shifted his jaw from side to side. Maybe it’s hard to talk after I hit him in the face? “The Provincial Watch abandoned a few at a graveyard, we had just enough gear to get them working again.” He leaned back in his chair. “There, tell Micah he can keep his damn fingers, that is, if you really do have him.”
Irving looked at him. “That was brilliant, unfortunately, I don’t think we learned anything he cared about keeping from us.” Knight leaned on the chair behind Kennedy.
“What about Comrade Chaney?” He asked. “Maybe they can talk shop or something, get him a bit more in his comfort zone?” As they talked amongst themselves, Kennedy couldn’t help but notice their captives behavior. He kept his head down, but Kennedy noticed the corners of his mouth. The man was smiling.
“We’re two clicks out,” Wesser said over the net. “Break off into teams and stick to the plan.” Mo looked out over the snow covered scene before him. Pines obstructed his view of the river, but he could make out the top of the bridge in the distance thanks to the work lights on it.
“Anyone else think it’s weird they don’t have any kind of screen out here?” Mo asked.
Merlin sr replied immediate
ly. “Maybe they’re sticking close to the bridge?”
“Hey, we’re here for information,” Wesser said. “Just another thing to take note of.” The Recon platoon deployed ahead of them. Their tracked vehicles and their lower profile made them a much better fit for their current mission. “Recon 1, how do things look?” No answer.
Mo shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Are they dead? Out of range? Or just being stubborn? He keyed up his own mic and kept his eyes peeled. “Black 1, do you still have them on your sensors?”
“Roger Four,” she replied. “They’re just being quiet.” Merlin followed him at a shallow angle to his four’ o ’clock.
“You feel anything strange three?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Merlin replied. “Something just feels wrong.” They received an answer to their uneasiness a short moment later. A green eerie light flashed in the trees. A recon track ahead of them vanished in a ball of fire.
“Contact!” Mo cried simultaneously with Merlin. The pair stood just off a state road leading to a North-South highway behind them. The scouts ahead of them lay in a staggered line, while Wesser and Smith stuck to the southern side of the objective, forming a large L with Mo and Smith.
“Recon 1! Break contact!” Wesser cried. “3, and 4 cover them!” They acknowledged and stood forward. As the scouts threw their tracks in reverse, Mo made out further movements beyond them. Tin-hats.
Ghostly lights swept towards them. Snowbags burst into steam with a violent hiss. Mo’s Panzerter, a newer iteration of the Mark IV, housed an additional generator to allow it to use Magnetic weapons. In this case, a 50-mm SMG.
A red glow in the tree line caught his eye. The ominous red ring crashed through trees like some kind of a mythic giant. There.
Armored Warrior Panzerter: Eve of Battle Page 13
