by Nick Webb
Her expression must have given her shock away, because he’d slapped her face and said, “Do not look upon me like that or I’ll take your other eye.”
She’d bowed her head and waited, no longer sure what she should do. The Sheltering Place was for the masters should another of the sky-rocks fall and scorch the land.
It happened every few years, but they were small, quick tails of flame that made no noticeable impact. Every few lifetimes the larger sky-rocks came, but even then the land was spared from any blighting like that which occurred long ago. That had been the time of darkening and nothing like it had happened since.
And these balls of fire did not look like any sky-rocks the Voice had ever seen. These giant balls of flame looked alive and filled with purpose.
Rock or no, the sheltering places were deep underground, each one far beneath the Palace it served. Her master had gone there with his enforcers and the breeders who had achieved Select classification through virtue of their many healthy births. All the masters would go. Deep underground, they would be safe.
The Voice could have also been taken, but she had hoped she would not and tried to be invisible as her master frantically gathered his favorite things. As the master had rushed through the passage away from her, the Voice held her breath, hoping that he would not turn back and tell her to come. When he did not, she’d smiled and run the other way.
Now, on this flat roof, she smiled again and said, “I tell you they are gone. Come out!”
The Hands came, at first hesitantly, but then like a flood. These were palace Hands, not allowed beyond the walls or outside like the Hands that tended the yards, gardens, farms, or animals. Most had never seen the sun save through the open sky-pit in the kitchens where smoke from the cooking fires escaped, or if they were fortunate enough to tend the master’s palace, then through the windows there. But to feel the sun on their faces? No, none would have felt that before.
They crouched under the sun and sky, eyes squinting at the bright light after a lifetime of dim rooms and smoky fires. The balls were growing brighter in the sky, the flames surrounding them like coronas. They looked like the fires of a thousand children sent to the burning fields at once after a culling.
And the flames were growing closer. Quickly. Women did not fear fire. It was the end that all of them saw eventually, save for a few who died in other ways.
Let the Masters feel the flames now, the Voice thought and watched the fire.
Six
Right on time, the spin decreased and the heat dissipated. Propulsion kicked on and the Battle Ball changed trajectory for the landing zone. The display on Tango’s faceplate cleared, then overlaid the landing zone and deployment plans. It was going to be a tight one.
The palaces were nothing of the sort, but rather small and compact cities linked by endless walkways and roofed sidewalks. The buildings inside clustered in strange configurations that were going to complicate their plans for battle in significant ways.
A cluster of lights—huddled close the way animals and people often cluster—blossomed over a section of open space on the other side of the city. The Support Techs and the computer evaluated each bio-sign and the lights changed from the white of the unknown to the green of humans who were not legitimate targets and the blue of animals. Intel reported that all children were clustered in very specific locations, and now each of those locations glowed green, making all of those buildings off-limits for battle.
The land below approached quickly. When Tango first graduated the crèche into the life of a soldier, it brought a combined thrill of fear and excitement to see the planet rise in greeting like this. That thrill was still there, though tempered now by many battles in the years since.
The Battle Ball slowed and then hovered, the lowest suits no more than one hundred feet off the ground. As always, the outer suits rotated during that final descent and now weapons were brought to bear on any opposition. Yet there was none, or none worth the title. Old and almost useless anti-air guns belched smoke and clumsy projectiles in their direction, but those were almost too easy.
Tango frowned, unhappy at so little fight. Were these people also stupid? Were they so arrogant they did not understand that even if they had control over every living thing on a planet, harm can come from elsewhere?
Each suit broke away, the landing pattern already established. Smoke and the bright lights of targeting lasers against the guns cleared under the wind’s dusty power. Even before Tango’s squad made it beyond the landing zone, the sound of weapons diminished, leaving only a few distant sizzling pops as old, combustion type ammunition burned off around the disabled guns.
The lack of fight made Tango’s neck hair rise. It wasn’t normal or natural. Who would create a culture so messed up that it begged for intervention, but do nothing to defend it? Waving the team forward, Tango’s weaponry rose almost of its own accord, making the already-wide suit shoulders even more so. Laser weapons best used against small or moving targets flared from the forearms as if in sympathy with the disturbed feelings brought on by so little fight.
“Where is everyone?” Tango asked. It didn’t matter if it was command or a support tech that answered, so long as an answer came.
A stone carved by the wind into a shape vaguely like that of a ground conveyance drew Tango’s ire and the surge of energy from one of the suit mounted cannons sent a cloud of dust into the air. The rock was gone. Was this the extent of their battle? Rocks?
“All hold!” The command came from central, which meant the division leadership. It also didn’t bode well. Never had an ‘all hold’ command been given once the battle was enjoined. It just didn’t happen. It was one of those theoretical commands everyone knew, but never expected.
The ground trembled under the combined impatient steps of all the suits, the clomp-clomp of Tango’s boots joining the beat while they all waited, sensors picking up and displaying everything. And nothing. The only bio-signs remaining were quickly coded into blue or green. Non-targets.
“Tango-Foxtrot-Nine, you have a command communications channel now open,” said Tango’s support tech.
The support tech seemed as disappointed with the battle as everyone else. While still professional, there was a glum tone that Tango could pick up. After a dozen battles paired with this tech, they knew each other’s moods well.
“Roger, this is Tango-Foxtrot-Nine.”
The channel burst with noise. The suits were big and unwieldy, but were like second skins to those that wore them. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a lot of work to carry them, however. Heavier breathing was the norm once planetary landing had been accomplished. The quick roll call as the channel was joined by others was another surprise. Instead of all command, the channel was being populated by a seemingly random assortment of soldiers from squad leaders like Tango to a fire team on the other side of the planet.
“Okay everyone, listen up. We’ve got a problem. Intel correlated over twelve-K signatures as confirmed hostile during pre-attack. Another eighty-K plus as potential hostiles. Not one of them is now locatable. They’re all gone.”
“What the sheeping hell?” Tango muttered, that prickly neck feeling rising again. Hostiles disappearing? Where did they go? “Off planet?” Tango asked, trying to think logically and not be spooked by this unusual foe behavior.
“Negative. These people have no ships,” answered the division command communicator.
Division command took back up the reins and said, “We’re going to have to think outside the battle box here. All of you on the channel are in close proximity to two specific indicators. First, you’re closest to the last places the hostiles were located. Second, you’re close to large masses of Greens that were in close contact with the hostiles before they disappeared.”
Tango turned around and looked at the squad. Each had cleared their faceplates so that their expressions were visible, and each wore that same disappointed and slightly confused look that matched what Tango felt.
Signing for them to wait and watch, Tango gave them the signal for intelligence passing and that seemed to settle them a little.
“We’re sending survey and report instructions to most of the squads on the ground and assigning backup positions to others, but you will be receiving contact commands.”
Tango took a step back at that, swiveling the suit to look at the cluster of ramshackle buildings behind the wall nearby. Made of stone and what looked like mud-brick, they were hardly imposing, but their sheer size and hodge-podge construction made them perfect for setting traps. Not to mention that contact commands using soldiers like Tango was also unusual. That sort of thing was limited to after the battle as a rule, and then usually assigned to the Administrators with their ability to communicate smoothly.
The unusual silence on the line was telling. Every person on this channel aside from command was a soldier like Tango. No one wanted a contact command.
“I know this isn’t any specialty of ours, but we at command can’t be sure that this isn’t some sort of trap. We can’t send Administrators down here with one hundred percent of the hostiles unaccounted for. So, you’re to lead your squads to the Greens as directed by your support techs. Make contact. Find out what’s going on. Then let’s get it done and get the hell off this creepy planet.”
Like everyone else on the line Tango hoo-yahed that final statement with whole-hearted agreement. This place was a shit-hole of brown dust, wind, and messed up behavior. They didn’t even do battle properly. Who could respect that?
Once the line was clear, the support techs opened their squad lines and Tango briefed the team. There were a lot of raised eyebrows, but a command was a command. That was always good enough.
Leading the squad of five suits toward the wall, Tango said, “At least we can blow up this piece of crap wall. Who wants it? Give me any number between one and twenty. Closest pick gets to fire.”
Seven
The Voice watched as the strange monsters walked about. The old icons of the metal-god were all gone. They were holy spots and not to be touched, yet these metal-men had simply erased them in great explosions of fire.
One of the Hands tugged at her skirts to get her attention, then signed, The Sky-Gods have returned! They will bring more masters.
The Voice shook her head, then returned her gaze to the metal-men—if that’s what they were. Some were metal and she could hear the clang and bang of metal against stone even from where she stood, but most were colorful in ways not even the freshest of frescoes were. They were covered in chaotic patterns she could not discern from where she stood.
They were also huge. Far, far bigger than any male the Voice had ever seen. It was possible that these were the Sky-Gods. It was possible the Hand was correct and there would be more masters. It was equally likely that the Sky-Gods had returned because they were angry. After all, they were destroying all the holy relics they had given to the masters. Perhaps the masters would be punished.
That would be fine with the Voice.
The young Hand at her side nearly unbalanced the Voice when she jerked and then hid behind her wide crimson robes. The older Hand steadied her almost absently, then signed, They come.
The Voice looked where the Hand pointed and saw that she was right. A group of five metal-men were headed directly for the place where they stood. Their steps were long and loud, the ground banging with each heavy footfall. A glinting reflection off the head of one metal-man pierced her eyes. It was like brightly polished silver—no, brighter than that. Strange.
Fear made her belly flutter. There was too much unknown. Sky-Gods or perhaps something entirely new, like sky-devils or something. There was no way to know. The Voice had read every book in existence to the masters many times—all one hundred of the Sky-God books—and nothing like this was described in any of them. Yet, they were coming. Better to be ready should they be gods.
The Voice turned to face the huddled mass of women and said, “Listen to me. If these are the Sky-Gods, then we must be seen as obedient. If they are not Sky-Gods, then there is nothing we could do to stop them. We must know what they are, what they want. And even better, we should try to live to see the other side of it. The masters have made me their Voice, so I must do as they would command me.”
A Hand near the front signed, What should we do?
“Follow me. Let’s go into the courtyard where the masters who visit this palace come. Let us greet these metal-men as if they are Sky-Gods and see what happens.”
Eight
“Tango, you’ve got movement ahead. Changing your view,” the support tech said, voice tight and ready to provide.
“Go,” Tango replied and blinked when the display changed. A mass of green lights seemed to be flowing like water from an upper area in the huge building ahead of them. The wall was still between them and the building, but just beyond it, the cluster of green moved closer.
“What are they?” Tango asked, letting those eager forearm guns rise a little more.
“Slave women. Oppressed class. Non-targets,” said the tech.
“We’ll see about that,” Tango grunted.
Gender roles were often muddled on the planets colonized by the Seed ships. The humans first grown from the Seed had no history, no cultural context—things that the Peace Force worked hard to maintain in the thousands of years since they were put into action. The seed colonies developed strange ideas, but there was one thing all planets had in common—no one was exactly like anyone else and no one should be discounted. A non-target could be just as violent and dangerous as a confirmed hostile.
“Tango, it looks like they’re forming up. Looks like a parade square. Nothing tactical.”
“Roger,” Tango replied, then said to the winner of the wall destruction draw, “Go ahead and blow it.”
The section of wall disappeared in an explosion of mud-brick returning to dust. The thick brown cloud hindered their vision, but their visors shifted spectrums without a hitch.
“Go around the building in front of you to the right and the formation is in an open area just beyond and to the left. They barely moved when you blew the wall. A few fell down, but that’s it,” the support tech said.
“Roger,” Tango replied.
Shifting the spectrum again, the forest of green dots turned into a forest of green silhouettes, each one a person easily sensed through the building in front of the squad. As support reported, they were simply standing there. Even as Tango tried to sort them, one of the silhouettes shifted, then another made many complicated hand gestures, then they shifted again. It was clear they were all facing the opening to the area, exactly where Tango and the squad would approach from.
The rest of the squad got the same visuals. Tango waved them onward and said, “Target detection is priority. Motion detection second. I want a full 360 in case this is a trap. Do it by the numbers.”
Each squad member acknowledged. This was as standard tactic, with each of the four other members and their individual support techs responsible for a ninety degree arc around the formation. Tango would be focused on the action, which in this case was this strange group.
Tango opened an enhanced ambient audio channel and said, “Support, scan and parse.”
“Roger.”
Breathing. Lots of breathing came back from the audio. Quick, nervous breaths from the crowd of women.
Tango led the squad around the building, but they might as well have been on the mess decks inside the ship. There were no weapons, no troops, no defenses. The idea of non-hostile contact was nerve-wracking, such having happened in any context only twice in all the battles or cultural adjustments Tango had participated in.
Both times it was contact after the event and both contacts had been brief. Once, when their squad was assigned to dig out a non-hostile family from a basement under a building, a rescued man had hugged Tango’s chest plate in gratitude. The other was when a non-hostile offered sex on a planet in which sex
was rare and highly regulated before being liberated by the Peace Force.
Tango hadn’t accepted the offer.
“Here we go. Keep your weapons up, but don’t engage or direct weapons toward the non-hostiles unless I order it. I want a targeting offset of no less than fifteen degrees.”
Tango turned the corner with the squad. In front of them was a garden, the color a shock after so much brown. Clipped green grass, flower borders tamed into regimented shapes, a fountain tinkling out a thin stream of water into a brightly tiled pool.
And women. Four hundred-seventeen of them according to the display. At Tango’s appearance, the woman in front was lowered to her knees with the aid of a young girl at her side. As if the kneeling was a cue, all the rest did the same, each one bending entirely so that their hands were outstretched on the ground in front of them, their heads tucked down with their faces between their elbows.
It was an appalling sight to see.
“Give me a channel, support. Translate,” Tango ordered, voice a bit gruff at seeing such undeserved obeisance.
“You’re a go,” came the near immediate reply.
Swallowing, Tango considered what to say. It would be easier to simply say Show me the location of your hostiles so I can blow them up, but that would also probably not be very effective. The words that protocol suggested flashed up on Tango’s faceplate. Yes, this support tech knew exactly how to support.
“We are not here to harm you. Will you speak with me?” As the suit translated and transmitted the words, Tango made a face at how weak the words were.
