Deathtrap

by Craig Alanson

  “Six,” Jates declared. “One of them has a rocket launcher. We can’t go back.”

  “You got that right,” Dave slowed the shaking buggy, alarmed by vibration coming from the right rear wheel. Alarms were blinking on the display. “I need to call this in-” A general Legion alarm blared in his earpiece. The Kristang had risen up and attacked the Legion. They both then heard a tone that meant their communications were being jammed. “Shit! No one’s coming for us,” Dave knew. No way would the Legion assign an aircraft or ground patrol to pick up two people deep in enemy territory. That explained why the barrier they had driven over was so ineffective; the Kristang had hastily thrown it across the road at the last minute to avoid the Legion seeing that an attack was imminent. A general alarm meant there were attacks being conducted widely across the planet, Dave worried about the other Mavericks. He was vulnerable in the field, they were even more vulnerable at their easily-targeted base camp. “We keep going,” he decided. “There’s a road junction up ahead, we have multiple routes to choose from there. Here, we’re stuck.”

  “Agreed,” Jates pointed forward. “There is another field ahead,” he noted, glancing at the map on the display, then he turned to lean out and look backward along the right side. “The rear wheel hub has been damaged, it is not secure.”

  Dave prayed the answer to his next question was ‘No’. “You want to stop to replace it?” There was a repair kit in a bin on the rear, if that kit had survived being hit by enemy fire. The red lights on the display indicated the powercells there were damaged, he was not hopeful about anything else in that section of the buggy.

  Before Jates could reply, a tree ahead to the right was hit by an explosive-tipped round, sending splinters flying and something pinged off Dave’s goggles. It was likely only a stray round from the Kristang behind them, but halting to try fixing a busted wheel was a bad idea. “No,” The Verd-kris Surgun tugged his straps tighter. “Right now, we’re up Shit Creek but we have a paddle. We keep going until that wheel craps out on us.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” Dave mumbled, forgetting the alien might not understand however those words translated. The Tiger drove at a moderate speed, balancing the need to keep ahead of pursuers with avoiding further damage to the wonky wheel. The last thing Dave wanted to do was take hard turns, fearing the wheel would buckle or break away. “Uh, oh, shit.” He hit the brakes, slowing the buggy to a crawl. “We got company.”

  In the field ahead, the road ran across to another section of forest, most of the dirt road skirted the edge of a bluff that Dave estimated was thirty or forty feet high. The poor condition of the road and the hazardous bluff was not the source of his anxiety, the three armed Kristang waiting for them were. “What d’ you think, Surgun?”

  “I think those are dumbass civilians playing soldier,” Jates growled. “We kick them in the balls and they’ll get out of our way.”

  Dave was not sure of that. None of the Kristang they had seen were wearing uniforms or powered armor, but they had rifles and apparently, rockets also. He was about to suggest they try abandoning the Tiger and taking off through the woods, when the vehicle shook and wood splinters, rocks and a fountain of soil kicked up twenty meters behind them. “Shit! They got artillery!” How the hell did civilians get access to artillery, he asked himself, before recognizing that they were still alive, so whoever was doing the shooting was no expert. That settled the issue, they needed to get clear of the light artillery tube’s range, and running through the woods was not the solution.

  “You drive, I’ll shoot,” Jates said simply as he reached back for his rifle.

  “Right,” Dave waited until the Verd got his rifle ready, then blipped the throttle. For some reason, his mind flashed unhelpfully to the poem ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ that he had been forced to read in high school. That was not a good omen.

  Jates began firing before the Tiger raced out of the woods into the clearing, his careful and controlled aim contrasting with the wild shooting of the three Kristang. One of the enemy was struck by Jates’ first volley of rounds, the Kristang’s head flying back and his rifle flying up in the air. Enemy rounds stitched across the dirt in front of the Tiger then pinged off the front armor and tough windshield. The windshield was not so tough that it didn’t crack and craze, making Dave curse that he had been sent into the field without a skinsuit. At least the enemy apparently had not been equipped with explosive-tipped rounds.

  It was only fifty meters from the edge of the forest to the enemy position, so Dave was counting on speed to get them past the kill zone, before the inexperienced civilians could zero in on the racing buggy. Racing was not the best way to describe the vehicle’s motion, with the wheel wobbling worse with every rotation, the Tiger was limping as fast as it could. The jerking motion was throwing off the aim of the enemy, and Jates switched his aim to the second target, when the busted wheel broke free. Dave lost all control, seeing a brief glimpse of the wheel rolling and bouncing on its own before the Tiger spun to the right. An artillery round impacted in front and to the left, directly where the buggy would have been if the wheel had stayed attached. Dave had no time to reflect on their good luck before the vehicle rolled over, turning sideways and then flipping over and over. It came to rest on its roof.

  The wheel, having broken free of its hub, automatically unraveled so it would not create the road hazard that a free-rolling wheel could be. Nanofibers separated at a seam and the wheel became a ten-meter strip of tread that still had enough momentum to carry it along the road. One end hit and wrapped around a Kristang, knocking him to the ground where his torso acted as an anchor for the other end to whip around, hitting the last of the three. That unlucky civilian volunteer was struck hard, falling to the ground and losing his rifle over the bluff.

  Dave’s rattled brain became aware of three things. First, he was upside down, strapped into the seat of a disabled Tiger. Second, no one was shooting at him right at that moment. And third, there was a smoking crater to the left, a crater that would have been the wreck of the Tiger if the busted wheel had not broken away when it did. The absurdity of that luck struck Dave as funny and he threw back his head to sing at the top of his lungs. “You picked a fine time to leave me, LOOSE WHEEL!” That set him to laughing so hard he blew snot out of his nose.

  “What?” Jates turned to gape at the lunatic human beside him.

  “Trust me,” Dave wiped his nose with the back of a sleeve. “If you were American, that was freakin’ hilarious.” He pulled the harness quick release at the same time Jates did, and they tumbled out of the Tiger on each side. Dave rolled onto the dirt, but Jates was not so fortunate. The Tiger had come to rest teetering precariously upside down a few meters from the edge of the bluff, and its occupants falling out had disturbed its delicate balance. As Jates rolled to his knees, he had to throw up his arms, because the Tiger groaned and tipped toward him. It rolled fast, too fast for the Surgun to get out of the way front or backwards. The only way for him to avoid being crushed under the vehicle was to scramble to his right.

  Right, and over the lip of the bluff.

  Dave cried out as first Jates, then the Tiger tumbled over the bluff and down. “Shit!” Shit indeed, his mind flashed in horror. His rifle was still strapped to the back of the seat, and Jates had lost his own rifle in the crash. Dave scrambled to his feet and leaned to run forward, when his left thigh was struck by something hard.

  A rock.

  One of the Kristang was standing up, no rifle in sight. The damned lizard had thrown a rock at Dave! It screamed a battle cry and ran at him.

  Dave did not freeze, he did not panic. He also did not run, his mind instantly advising him that trying to run away from the faster alien would be a quick way to die. Faster, bigger, stronger, better in every way, a genetically-engineered Kristang was nearly seven feet tall. Dave had no chance against the superior speed and strength of his opponent.

  The lizard launched himself in the air to tackle Dave, who
did the only thing he could think of by falling flat on the ground and rolling, reaching for the knife he kept strapped to an ankle holster. Though the lizard missed the tackle, Dave received a hard kick to a forearm and the knife went spinning away. When he tried to crawl away a hand gripped his ankle, kicking back with his other foot connected with the alien’s face and the hand let go. That did Dave little good for he no sooner got onto his feet to run when he was grabbed again and twisted around, this time the lizard flung both arms around Dave’s chest and squeezed tightly with crushing force.

  Acting purely on fear-driven instinct he jammed a thumb in the lizard’s eye, jammed it with all the force he could muster. So hard he felt a bone in his thumb snap, maybe more than one bone. The lizard screamed in pain as Dave’s thumbnail gouged into the soft eyeball and it popped, squirting fluid. The arms that had been crushing him released as the lizard tried to fling him away, but Dave hung on with one arm around the alien’s neck and butted its nose with his forehead, then snapped forward to bite down hard on the Kristang’s nose. Dave was flung side to side and a clawed hand battered his face but he bit down viciously and ground his teeth side to side in a sawing motion until he was cast aside, most of the alien’s nose sunk between his teeth.

  The creature fell backwards and released Dave who added a punch to the lizard’s exposed throat. The genetically-superior warrior fell to the ground on its back, howling and clutching at its ruined face, beating its feet on the dirt in spasms of pain and choking. Dave’s broken thumb throbbed and his jaw felt dislocated and he barely noticed, his entire concentration on the glint of light reflecting off the knife he had lost. Without even thinking he scuttled across the dirt on hands and knees and grasped the weapon with the closest hand, that with the ruined thumb. The handle was clutched so tightly he did not need an opposable thumb and he spun and sank the knife up to the hilt in the Kristang’s chest once, twice, three times. Red blood spurted from the wounds and seeped from the enemy’s mouth, as the hateful creature shuddered and died.

  Dave hung onto the knife handle with both hands, twisting it to make sure the lizard was dead, spitting out blood and the flesh of the alien’s nose. “That’s how we fight in Milwaukee, bitch,” he screamed hysterically right in the Kristang’s face, having just survived unarmed combat with a genetically superior alien. His heart was racing, his hands shook and spots swam in his vision as he let go of the knife and pushed himself onto one knee. At least he was out of immediate danger-

  His peripheral vision picked up movement and he spun, seeing an injured Kristang stagger to its feet. A coil of the broken wheel lay at the lizard’s feet, it must have been struck and knocked down by the impact. Dave could see blood running down the creature’s face from a head wound.

  He could also see the rifle the lizard had cradled on both arms, a rifle that was swinging around to point at him. In desperation, Dave flung himself at the lizard he had killed, reaching for the knife. The blade was not made for throwing but he had thrown it many times at targets on Paradise, mostly to pass the time between duty shifts. His blood-slicked hand slipped on the bloody handle, it was sunk into the lizard’s chest at an awkward angle, resisting his effort to pull it free. A rifle barked and Dave cringed, preparing to die.

  Except he didn’t.

  Daring to open his eyes, he saw the Kristang drop the rifle and slump forward, half its skull shot away. The already-dead body crashed to the ground. What the hell?

  “You’re welcome, Buttercup,” Jates breathed heavily from the lip of the bluff, prone on the slope with the barrel of his rifle poking into the air. “If you two lovers need some privacy-”

  “Uh,” Dave realized he was sprawled on top of the lizard he had killed. “No,” he pushed himself to his feet, yanking the knife out and sliding it back into the ankle holster. “I thought you were dead, Jates.”

  “I thought,” the Surgun grunted as he heaved himself over the lip of the bluff and to his knees, “you were dead, girly-man. How did you survive?”

  Dave pointed to the corpse’s ruined eyeball and missing nose.

  Jates whistled, a creepy but recognizably admiring sound. “Humans fight dirty.”

  “Is there another way?” Dave gasped, his broken thumb and partly dislocated jaw now aching fire.

  “No, there isn’t.” Jates spat on the ground. He stood up stiffly and limped over to nudge the dead Kristang with a boot. He pulled a zPhone out of a pocket and checked it, shaking his head with disgust. “Comms are still down. You are mobile?”

  “I can walk.”

  Jates lifted his right leg and grunted. “My right knee got twisted when the Tiger hit me on the way down. We’re still up Shit Creek and I may need to use you as a paddle, Czajka.”

  Dave did not like the idea of the big Verd leaning on his shoulder. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Good, we need to get out of here. The three here may have been spotting for the artillery, but losing their spotters could mean this area could get saturated soon.”

  Dave strode over to the lizard Jates had shot and picked up the dead creature’s rifle, then removed two spare magazines from its belt. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Jates took a moment to look at the battered face of the lizard Dave had killed, then at the blood around the human’s mouth. To Dave’s surprise, Jates extended a fist. “Props to you, soldier.”

  Dave returned the fist bump in a daze. “Uh, thanks, Surgun.”

  Jates cocked his head and spat on the ground and, Dave noticed there was bright red blood in the spittle. “This doesn’t mean we’ll be taking long hot showers together, Czajka.”

  Despite his own pain, Dave grinned. “Thank God for that.” With the big alien walking tentatively to test his knee, Dave hurried to collect their helmets, a rifle for himself and spare magazines from the dead Kristang. He slung both rifles over one shoulder, then grimaced as the big alien threw an arm across Dave’s other shoulder for support to take weight off his injured knee.

  They set off down the road, slowly at first on shaky legs, then faster as an artillery round impacted at the treeline behind them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The flight was smooth and uneventful right up to the point when it was not. Shauna was drifting in half-sleep when she was jolted awake by her stomach leaping into her mouth as the Buzzard dropped like a stone in a power dive. The pilots reacted so quickly the aircraft fell before the alarm sounded. “Air combat! Condition Red, missile warning!” The automated system called out in multiple languages, a feature that was not necessary as everyone aboard wore zPhone earpieces that translated for them.

  “Shit!” Shauna tugged her straps tight, instantly wishing she was wearing a Ruhar combat skinsuit. Instead, she had on regular UNEF combat fatigues, with a Class A uni in a duffel bag to change into when they reached HQ. Neither of those outfits would protect her in combat. Her eyes flicked to the display on the forward bulkhead. The Buzzard was at nearly fifteen thousand meters altitude, if the cabin was holed by shrapnel, she would not be able to breathe without supplemental oxygen. “Oh-Two bottle,” she instructed Nert, who already had his seat’s oxygen container removed from its storage pouch and strapped to his belt. He reached over to help her and she slapped his hand away. “Secure your mask first,” she scolded him to conceal her embarrassment at her sluggish reactions. “Remember your training.”

  If Nert was hurt by her words, he didn’t say anything. With his oxygen mask attached to the helmet, he tapped the mask and gave her a thumbs up. She returned the gesture. Only a trickle of oxygen flowed through her mask, just enough to assure her the device was operating as designed while it relied on pulling in cabin air, saving its reserve for an emergency.

  Shauna reached for her zPhone to contact the Mavericks base, or anyone. As her fingers touched the hard flat shape of the zPhone, a warning blared in her earpiece. It was a general Legion alert. Shit, that meant fighting had broken out all across the planet, the attack on their Buzzard was not an isol
ated incident. That was both good and bad. The Buzzard was not the enemy’s only target, so if the pilots could get them out of the immediate danger, continued pursuit was less likely. But it also meant help was not coming if the Buzzard was hit, the Legion was busy. The general alert repeated itself then was drowned out in a burst of static. Comms were being jammed, she would not be able to contact the Mavericks, or anyone. They were alone.

  The Buzzard dove, nose down, toward the ground as the altimeter displayed twelve thousand meters, then ten, then eight. The aircraft jerked to the right and Shauna heard the proximity-defense cannons chattering as they engaged incoming missiles. They plummeted through six thousand meters before the aircraft’s nose abruptly jerked up and it stood on its tail, accelerating hard.

  That’s not good, Shauna kept that thought to herself.

  The maser cannons were chattering continuously, she was looking at the altimeter display as the Buzzard raced through 7200 meters on its way straight up and then there were jagged holes in the cabin wall opposite her. Blue sky and white clouds flashed past dizzyingly as the stricken Buzzard yawed to the left and flipped over on its back. The sound of the defensive cannons cut out, replaced by the ear-splitting shriek of air whistling past. She opened her mouth to shout something useless to Nert when a warning “Bail out bail out bail out” blared in her ears.

  Bail out. That was easier said than done. The two pilot seats had ejection mechanisms but seats in the main cabin did not. Around her waist was a parachute pack which contained a tiny brain capable of guiding an unconscious person safely to the ground, but first she needed to get out of the shrapnel-torn cabin. A glance forward told her both that she could not expect help from the four people seated there, and that there was no need for her to help them. Some large, hot, burning fragment of missile warhead had torn through the first two rows of seats, taken out a locker and blasted a big hole in the fuselage. That hole was expanding as the high-speed airstream ripped the composite skin away from the frame ribs. For a heart-stopping moment, she considered trying to fit through that hole with its flailing cables and jagged edges, then Nert was tugging at her arm.