Deathtrap

by Craig Alanson

  He stood stiffly, eyes straight forward like his guards, and so with the wide brim of the stupid helmet blocking his upward vision, he did not immediately see both aircraft slam open the doors to their internal weapon bays.

  He did see the searing purple glare of maser beams on full auto mode striking targets atop the wall and in the courtyard.

  Commando leader Vinchla kept his mouth shut and held onto the jumpseat with both hands, while he watched the action through the display between the pilot seats. Both transports had been extensively modified when they were rebuilt, providing substantial if short-lived advantages. The defensive maser turrets had their firmware replaced, so they could engage pre-programmed targets on the ground, and so those cannons could fire in rapid pulses. So much energy pouring through the maser exciters would burn them out quickly, which did not matter since the aircraft were not expected to survive long once the attack began. The external doors that covered the internal weapon bays had been modified to have their mechanisms replaced by explosive bolts that tore free the doors in microseconds. Rather than relying on rotary launchers to spit out one missile at a time, the bays were stuffed with missiles packed together in a nanogel that held and cushioned them. Following right behind the discarded doors, the cluster of missiles was ejected. As soon as the cluster cleared the aircraft’s hull, the nanogel disintegrated and rocket motors kicked on, propelling their charges toward pre-selected targets.

  A quarter of the missiles, those on the bottom of the clusters, had antipersonnel warheads and dove straight for the courtyard below while the maser cannons of the aircraft tore into guards on top of the wall. The antipersonnel warheads exploded in airbursts at four meters above the polished cobblestones of the courtyard, their razor-sharp submunitions slicing into exposed flesh and digging into hardshell armor before the tiny explosives buried within the razors detonated. In seconds, everyone in the courtyard and several Kristang standing at windows or in doorways, were all dead.

  The other missiles streaked off to attack targets elsewhere in the compound, focusing on taking out defenses that could threaten the commando team. The missiles blew up maser cannons, antiaircraft missiles and sensors, and six missiles flew one behind the other to punch through thick layers of hardened plascrete, to allow a seventh missile’s warhead into the ammunition storage bunker under the northeast corner of the compound.

  The bunker blew sky-high, leaving an enormous crater and knocking out power beyond the walls of the compound.

  Of the missiles fired, only three were intercepted by the semi-automated defenses. With the missiles being launched while they were already inside the compound, their path to targets was blocked by walls and buildings, masking the twisting flightpaths of the missiles from the maser cannons that tried to hit them. Those maser cannons also did not react immediately, for the very good reason that they had been put into standby mode to avoid a cannon mistakenly shooting down a VIP’s aircraft.

  With all missiles expended and maser cannons on automatic mode, the pilots of the two executive transports flew them between buildings to slap down hard in a narrow gap between structures, their wingtips crumpling as they collided with the walls on either side. Both aircraft skidded on the hard surface, nose thrusters firing to halt the momentum, and they came to rest twenty meters apart.

  The aircraft were still rocking on the shocks of their landing gear, when the commandos began racing out doors on both sides and the tail ramp. Right behind them were the four pilots, who were now filling the role of infantry as they had no ships to fly. As the pilots cleared the overhanging tails of the transports, small-arms fire was already impacting the hulls and one turbine was screeching as its damaged blades were tearing it apart.

  The assault plan called for the two aircraft to get the commandos into the compound, relying on deception and the enemy’s arrogance. Once the defenses were alerted, there was no way to fly away even if they engaged stealth immediately. The flight was a one-way trip, as evidenced by the pilots engaging a timer as they dashed into a building, ran through and out the other side. While enemy troops leapfrogged each other, one group providing cover fire while the others got closer to the aircraft, they concentrated on shooting at the engines and cockpit, to prevent the ships from lifting off.

  Two Kristang warriors, racing forward in a demonstration of daring and poor judgement, had their boots pounding on the rear ramp of one aircraft when both transports exploded. The shockwave shattered the buildings on each side, causing them to partially collapse into the lane.

  “We’re committed now,” Vinchla said softly over the team network, at the same time he tracked an enemy soldier running across a gap between buildings, and he sent a three-round burst into the warrior’s legs. The warrior staggered and fell heavily, losing his rifle. Before the enemy could roll onto his back, his helmet was struck by explosive-tipped rifle rounds from two commandos and his head became a pink mist.

  “Teams, execute as planned,” Vinchla ordered, seeing no reason to alter the original scheme. So far, the operation was proceeding as expected, better than expected. He had not anticipated the fortunate circumstance of a large portion of the compound’s guard force being lined up, in useless ceremonial helmets, providing easy targets for missiles. He also had two fewer senior clan leaders to hunt down and kill, and that made his task much simpler. There were now only three senior leaders of the Swift Arrow clan alive on Feznako, all he had to do was ferret them out of their hiding holes and make sure they did not survive more than a few minutes.

  The commandos had an accurate diagram of the compound, plus some of the codes to open blast doors. Those diagrams and codes had been captured from other clans, who had been making their own plans to take out the Swift Arrow clan leadership using hired Achakai assassins. Because the Swift Arrow leadership knew the Achakai were a threat to them, there were none of the highly skilled mercenaries in the compound.

  Which was a very good thing for the Verd-kris commando team.

  Once again, Vinchla was very glad he was fighting the fractious Kristang, rather than an enemy who might fight him in a coordinated manner.

  “Right,” Jates grunted, slapping Dave on the shoulder. “That’s our cue. Let’s go,” he added, but the human was already racing away, and Jates had to curse and instruct his skinsuit to boost speed not to fall behind. “Czajka!” He was forced to call out when Dave dashed around a corner and he heard rifle fire. He rounded the corner too wide, crashing into a wall that showered him with chips as his skinsuit automatically went rigid on that side, and ripped chunks out of the ceramic material of the wall.

  “What? You’re too slow, old man?” Dave teased, hyperventilating with excitement. He had fired several bursts as he came around the corner, first shooting at shadows and then at an actual target. The threat had been an enemy warrior who had not been able to get into armor but did have a rifle. The rifle could hurt Dave even in his skinsuit, so he had aimed center-mass at the warrior and squeezed off two bursts before the warrior could bring his own rifle to bear. To Dave’s chagrin, his adrenaline-fueled jitters caused five of his rounds to miss completely, with only the first round striking the enemy. Instead of a nice impact in the center of the warrior’s chest, the round hit high and to the right, tearing into a shoulder and sending that arm spinning away along with the rifle.

  “I lead, you follow, Czajka,” Jates growled.

  Dave slowed his head-long rush and was going to protest. Even in a skinsuit, his human biochemistry and slower reflexes meant he could not keep up with the commandos, but Jates was hobbled by his gimpy knee, and Dave felt this was his chance to represent his species on the battlefield. Glancing behind him, he glared at the slightly limping Verd-kris Surgun. “You-” He never finished that thought. Jates fired at him!

  No, he didn’t. He fired a single round just to the right of Dave, into the exposed chest of the fallen warrior, before that enemy could bring his sidearm to bear on Dave.

  “Shit!” Dave jumped back. He
had taken his attention away from the enemy for only a split second, and could have died as a result.

  “Kristang are very tough to kill,” Jates scolded as he jogged past. “Make sure they are dead before you move on.”

  Shuddering with relief and another surge of adrenaline, Dave looked down at the blood-splattered corpse as he jogged warily by. Seeing one foot jerking spasmodically, he swung the muzzle of his rifle up and put one round into the enemy’s forehead. The explosive-tipped round caused the body to jerk again, but this time that was only kinetic physics, and not from the warrior’s own nervous system.

  Jates spun. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “Making sure he is dead,” Dave gasped. “Like you said.”

  Jates grunted. “Next time, warn me before you do anything stupid. No, fuck what you just heard. Warn me before you do anything. Stupid humans,” he muttered.

  “Hey, fu-” Dave bit off his retort. He would let his actions do the talking.

  The commandos had split into three teams. The largest team, led by Vinchla, went straight for the residential section of the compound, with a mission to locate and kill the Swift Arrow clan’s senior leaders, plus cause any other havoc they could before extracting. The second team took up position between the residential section and the military base that was also within the wall that ringed the compound. Their task was to prevent the guards from reinforcing security around the senior clan leaders, and then to keep open a path for retreat after the objective was achieved. Both teams were comprised of Verd-kris soldiers who had passed their Army’s toughest tests, and were supremely qualified to conduct the operation.

  Then there was Dave Czajka and Krok-aus-tal Jates. Dave knew the real reason he was allowed to participate in the mission was that, as a human, he could best communicate with UNEF if needed. That was the legit reason that Vinchla had stated. Unspoken was another reason: because he was human, and a Maverick, UNEF might put just a little bit of extra effort into pulling his ass out of the fire when the mission was over. So, Dave was insurance and Jates was his bodyguard. Or nursemaid, as Jates said tactfully.

  Because they needed something to do, and Vinchla did not want either of them distracting his commandos, their mission was to create a diversion that would draw the attention of the compound’s guard force away from the residential area. They had been allowed to suggest targets, and Vinchla had approved two objectives that would minimize the risk to Dave, because getting a human killed during a Verd operation would not be a good way to encourage future cooperative missions.

  Their first objective had them running away from the main pockets of fighting, into a part of the compound that contained support facilities like water, power and equipment maintenance, including for ground vehicles. Their task was to disable any stored vehicles that might be used to pursue the retreating commandos. To the surprise of Jates and the relief of Dave, when they reached the motor pool area, they found it deserted except for one unlucky technician who was huddling just inside a doorway. The technician made a startled gasp when the two junior commandos ran through the door, then a sharper gasp of shock when Jates spun and stabbed him through the chest with a blade that extended from his left wrist. “Catch him,” Jates whispered over the suit-to-suit laserlink, and Dave pulled the dead Kristang off the blade, laying him on the floor and making sure he was not visible from outside.

  “We alone in here?” Dave whispered back, knowing he could have shouted inside his helmet and no one would hear, but keeping his voice low by instinct anyway.

  “Yes, we are alone,” Jates scanned the darkened, dingy warehouse-like space with his helmet’s sensors. “But if you try to grab my ass, I’m going to punch you.”

  “I’m not-” Dave fumed silently. He was angry with himself, not Jates. Why couldn’t he think of a good comeback until the moment was over? “There’s a rack of charged powercells on that wall,” he took off running, Jates on his heels.

  Jates scrambled up a ladder to a catwalk above the cavernous maintenance shop, taking up position to cover the big main doors, and two smaller doorways. The catwalk shook and dust showered down as explosions shook the compound. Whatever the two other commando teams were doing, they were definitely causing havoc. “Czajka, those powercells can’t see how ugly you are, so you don’t need to chat them up first before you get down to business. Get the damned things wired up so we can get out of here.”

  “I’m moving as fast as I can,” Dave muttered, cursing the skinsuit gloves that made it harder to do delicate work.

  “That’s the problem. I’ve seen snails who move faster than you.”

  At the back of his mind, Dave wondered what Jates had actually said, which became ‘snails’ when translated for Dave’s ears. He dragged a spool of cable off a shelf and unreeled it behind him. To steady his nerves as he connected the banks of charged powercells, he called out to Jates. “Did you hear about when the snail came around a corner and collided with a slug?”

  “Wha-” Jates began, startled. “What?”

  “A cop came to investigate and asked the snail about the crash. Snail says,” Dave finished with a nervous giggle, “I don’t know, officer, it all happened so fast’.”

  “But, snails are- Oh,” the big Verd-kris Surgun laughed, a dry wheezing sound. “Czajka, will you quit screwing around and-”

  “Done,” Dave tossed the wire spool aside. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  Jates hopped down off the catwalk, landing on his feet with a grunt.

  “You maybe shouldn’t have done that,” Dave observed as he followed the limping Surgun out the doorway and sprinted across to take cover behind what looked and smelled like an overflowing trash dumpster. This was clearly a part of the compound the senior leaders never visited. “Ready?”

  “Blow that popsicle stand,” Jates ordered, misunderstanding the expression.

  “You got it,” Dave eyeclicked to select the detonator, and ducked down. At first, there was only a muffled ‘pop’ sound, like someone bursting a paper bag. Then searing white arcs of electricity ripped the roof off the maintenance garage as the banks of charged powercells ruptured, and powercells of the vehicles inside also began to explode. Within seconds, an angry orange fire raged. The heat made Dave draw back farther behind the end of the dumpster. “I think we better get out of here before-” His words were cut off as the ground thumped, and part of a truck rocketed out the destroyed roof of the garage to land near the dumpster and smash into the adjacent building.

  “We’re moving. Now,” Jates tugged Dave backwards as the remains of the truck exploded, sending glowing hot debris pinging off their skinsuits and helmets.

  “Good idea,” Dave agreed, crawling backwards fast as he could.

  They ducked inside a shed that housed pumps and water filtration equipment, just before a group of five Kristang ran past. Dave shuddered inside his skinsuit, trusting the darkness inside the shed and the suit’s chameleonware to keep him from being seen. He was squeezed as far inside the shed as he could, with the bulk of Jates and a thick metal pipe preventing him from getting fully out of view. They could not close the door, there was a large, heavy piece of equipment sticking through the door, Dave assumed the Kristang had been working on the water system before the assault.

  Five shadows raced past the door while Dave held his breath. Two of them were wearing full powered-armor suits, while the other three had only ballistic armor panels and helmets. The two in powered armor were in the lead, urging the others onward with angry shouts that were amplified by their helmet speakers. None of the Kristang bothered to glance inside the shed.

  Jates said only one word over the secure helmet-to-helmet laserlink. “Rockets,” he held up his rifle to show the selector switch for the rocket launcher was active.

  “You take the left,” Dave responded and took a quick breath before the two burst out the door of the shed, the synthetic vision of their helmets providing a clear view of the enemy even in the darkness. As D
ave eyeclicked to designate one of the powered-armor-wearing enemy as the target, the ground trembled and a bright flash lit up the sky. Something big had blown up on the other side of the compound. As he gently pressed the trigger to launch a rocket, the back of his mind hoped the explosion had killed the bad guys rather than commandos. No sooner had the rocket soundlessly left the launch tube under the rifle’s barrel, than his left thumb switched the selector back to rifle mode and he fired a three-round burst into the back of a Kristang soldier.

  That soldier jerked forward as three well-aimed rounds smacked into the ballistic armor panel that protected his torso, then he was flung backwards as a pair of rockets streaked past and tore into the backs of the powered-armor suits.

  “Holy shit,” Dave gasped, swinging his rifle up and skidding to a stop. He had planned to fire at the warrior in the middle, but all five of the enemy were down. The rockets had scored direct hits and now there were two sets of powered-armor legs jerking on their own, because they were no longer attached to torsos that had become bloody chunks. Dave had no idea what happened to the helmeted heads of those two warriors and he didn’t care. The back blast of the rockets had knocked down the other three warriors, and Jates had shot the two Dave hadn’t hit. Just then, Dave saw two of the downed enemy were moving, rocking side to side in agony and making a high-pitched wailing sound. One of them was missing an arm, dark blood seeping out of the bloody stump. Dave brought his rifle to bear but Jates was faster, sending three-round bursts into all three of the prone figures.

  “Making sure?” Dave asked, panting from adrenaline.