by Vance Huxley
Thirty minutes later Bobby went in for his medical. “What sort of an examination is this? Where are the others?”
“You’ll see them soon, Sarge. On the table please.” The medic grinned. “No pleasant surprises?”
“No and just remember, she’s undercover and The Horseman follows her work. Personally.” That must be true in a way if the Duchess really did know the spook-master’s name and identity.
The medic paled. “She didn’t say The Horseman. Just a moment.” He went into the corner with his com and although he couldn’t hear, Bobby caught “Horseman” and “don’t touch” stressed in a slightly panicky voice. Shite, he hadn’t thought of the medics getting Magpie on her own, stripped and unarmed! She’d probably cripple a couple but enough could pin her down without her weapons. The medic came back.
Bobby looked him in the eye. “One fingerprint, and she’ll come after all of you with a knife and even officers will look the other way.”
“We’re medics! You can’t touch medics.”
“We’re Beebi’s Basteds. We touch Supers and Managers but no, she hasn’t topped a medic yet.” Bobby made his smile as nasty as possible, nasty enough judging by the flinch. “We won’t have to help her. Ask our Super who teaches knife work.”
“I’ve got it, all right? I’ll repeat the warnings to the rest. Hellfire, the sooner you go to sleep the safer.”
“Sleep!” Bobby really felt relieved he’d frightened the little shite, because a sleeping Magpie wouldn’t even cripple a couple.
The medic held his hands up defensively. “Implants, metal, all authorised. Your Super gets the same.” He held up the little gun and Bobby laid back and held out his arm.
* * *
When he woke up Bobby wished he’d asked more questions. Magpie looked across from her bed. “Maybe it would have been better if they’d called in the instructors for a pooching party while I was out, and maybe half the nearest Trooper barracks. I’d heal from that.” She looked down the bed at the cover over her legs. “I’m not likely to heal from this!” Just below her hips the bed covers dipped, and then laid flat right to the end of the bed because there were no legs to hold them up. No wonder she sounded bitter.
“I’d no idea.” Bobby shook his head in disbelief. “Are the brass looking for a bloodbath because I can’t see the other women being any happier, and I’m not overjoyed.” His legs ended in the same place now, a long way short of where he should have knees. Bobby held up his hand, displaying the remaining two middle fingers and thumb. “I reckon I can still use a knife and a gun with these.”
“We’re not likely to be running around causing trouble, are we?” Siflis’s eyes widened. “Shite, what did you say? The capsules in the pictures were shorter than the drawings?” He looked at his stumps. “Now we know how much shorter.”
“This should be easy for you, Hood. You’ve already got used to one metal leg.” Magpie tried for a smile.
“I can help you?” Hood grinned, “It’ll be easier if you wear a short skirt?”
Magpie looked stricken. “I packed it and now you won’t like it any more, not with metal legs sticking out.”
“Put stockings on.” Bells leered. “I’ll look.”
“Shite, I’d just thought that the Frog Divas wouldn’t distract you but it won’t make any difference.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “Maybe the medics should have cut a bit higher on you.”
“Ooh, can I get a metal one? With hydraulics?” The medic who came in probably wondered why a group of involuntary amputees were laughing and throwing pillows at each other. Though he retreated sharpish when they switched to throwing bedpans and anything solid they could find at him. Maybe he’d have to increase the meds even more.
* * *
Once they’d had more meds and stopped throwing things, a Manager came to see the squad. He insisted that supplying metal to allow them to carry out their duties came under their terms of enlistment and their contracts. Not that anyone had much of an option now. They could learn to live with the metal and go to space, or be in breach of contract and be given a dishonourable discharge. Discharge meant being dumped in a Pleb complex without either legs or the metal replacements. Beebi’s Basteds assumed that was what happened to the SEPA and Amazon Troopers who had to be replaced when their interfaces were rejected. Mickey re-joined them and wasn’t any happier about unexpectedly losing his legs, admitting that if he was discharged, his family weren’t wealthy enough to buy him new legs.
During the first acclimatisation exercises one of the techs actually told them the reason for taking everyone’s legs and two fingers from each hand. Extremities would chill quicker on the trip and keeping enough blood flowing to their legs during six months of inaction would be difficult. Arms could be kept tucked close to the body to conserve heat, but fingers might still freeze and need amputating. If that happened, the two metal fingers would be enough to grip because the metal little finger swivelled and became opposable, a thumb. The planners’ assessments concluded that taking everyone’s legs off would be more efficient than trying to avoid frostbitten feet and gangrene. Though the Basteds thought it more likely amputation worked out cheaper for some reason, or some arse had decided the Troopers wouldn’t need legs in space anyway.
For the next nine weeks the squads were pumped full of painkillers and Kwikheal while the bio-metal interface plates healed properly. The second week their metal legs and fingers arrived so their nerves could mesh with the electrics. At least Bells could concentrate since Les Putes wore loose trousers, but nobody flicked them about it because they also looked murderous. All the squads looked in a vicious mood, so none of them were volunteers for that amount of metal.
At least the limbs didn’t cause as much trouble while they were weightless though a good part of that training took place without their legs at all. Learning to handle the legs and fingers turned lethal fighters into stumbling amateurs in some respects. That didn’t last long, since every single member of every squad seemed determined to get on top of the new metal as soon as possible. Some of their enthusiasm might be so they could work off the anger off on the instructors. The trainers started off with smiles because all these hard Troopers were floundering around like Timers, but within a fortnight two instructors left on stretchers.
The injuries were nothing to do with Beebi’s Basteds, but they took note that the culprits didn’t seem to be punished. So did the trainers, and backed off the flickin or deliberately making the amputees look incompetent. The squads trained with savage intensity both with and without their new metal, learning to utilise any extra advantages of having metal legs and two metal fingers on each hand.
At least a short lecture addressed the issue of Aliens. “Some squads have expressed concern about possibly finding Alien lifeforms at the destination.” From the looks on the other squads all of them had been wondering. “The Alien artefact transmitted this picture.” The screen showed a lot of stars. “Then this one.” Another picture of stars came up. “It sent the pair three times. When the pictures are compared, there are discrepancies.” Two of the pictures slid together and some of the stars had moved. “Astronomers have calculated that, comparing the starfields, the artefact took the first picture approximately one million years ago and took the last one when making contact.”
“Are they sure?” The speaker glanced at the guards along the wall. “Sir.”
“No, but the margin of error isn’t enough to matter. The shortest time lapse between the pictures, about eight hundred thousand years, answers one question. There will be no Aliens waiting to greet you. Now you can all concentrate on training for exploration and possibly breaking and entering.” The lecturer turned off his screen, packed up and left without further explanation though to be honest the squads had all understood the bit that mattered. No Aliens so they’d only got each other to deal with.
* * *
Adapting to metal legs turned out to be easier than dealing with metal fingers. The theory about using ju
st the two new fingers sounded great, right up until the practical exercises. Magpie’s pistol drifted away from her and she made a lunge to grab it, then wafted her hand to stop her slow spin. “I can’t do this. I am so knackered I’m likely to doze off right here.”
“You can’t be knackered because you haven’t got any. Us blokes are definitely knackered so we’re relying on you to beat off Les Putes.” Bobby could sympathise in truth, because working with two fingers and a thumb taped down should be possible. Actually getting the metal fingers to bend in the right way to compensate turned out to be a lot harder than the theory. Bobby knew that at least part of the trouble had to be learning to use his index finger to hold the pistol, and his little finger to pull the trigger. Lack of sleep made up the rest of the problem because none of them could rest properly with the healing flesh and new metal, not yet.
“Why didn’t the basteds make the little finger longer? Ah, yes!” A line of light sprang out from Hood’s pistol and completely missed the floating target. “I hope space is easier to aim in than water.” The six of them in their spacesuits were immersed in water to be weightless, as were the targets. To the left, Les Putes hit their second target. Bobby curled his little finger, just a bit more, and yes! He clipped the floating figure and it glowed green.
“Sleek basted.” Bells shook his pistol. “I could throw it better.” Then he turned slowly upside down because shaking the pistol set him rotating, and his other arm had been strapped down for this exercise. Worse, they had to do this legless so he couldn’t use them to steady himself. A ripple of laughter from the rest came over the coms but stopped as a third Frog target lit up.
“Sodit.” Magpie jammed the pistol between the stumps of her thighs and flipped backwards, a slow-mo flip in the water but as her pistol came up level with her head, she pulled the trigger, and a second target lit up.
“Is that allowed?” Laughter answered over the link and after a moment Mickey joined in. “Unlike you, I had a mother and father and they brought me up to stick to the rules.” Though even as he said it Mickey bent and jammed the barrel between his thigh stumps. He did two complete rotations before finally hitting the target, and by then Hood had nailed his.
Bells tumbled and twisted as he tried to copy them. “I’m not doing it like that, I look stupid.” He tried to hit the target again and missed.
Meanwhile Les Putes gathered around their Super, ’shooting’ him with the light beams as he missed again. He lost the pistol and flailed around trying to get it back. Siflis nailed his target, five each, and Les Putes ran out of patience. One grabbed their Super’s helmet while two caught hold of his arm and aimed. Another turned him to get lined up and the sixth target glowed. Les Putes turned to Beebi’s Basteds, arms punching up in triumph before they headed to the ladder. In their wake the Frog Super spun in a corkscrew, frantically lashing out with his one arm to try and get stabilised.
“You bledrin Homer.” Magpie smacked Bells on the helmet, but not with the pistol so he just spun out of control for a moment. He turned to her, but Mickey pointed. Les Putes had stopped to watch. One of them pointed at Bells, then mimed blowing a kiss before they swam up the ladder and out.
“She loves me.”
“She’s found a sucker. That was thank you for letting them win, you eedjit.” Bobby sighed. “Worse, they cheated better than we did. Go on Magpie, Hood, point Bells at the target.” Moments later the sixth target glowed and the com chimed completion of the exercise. The six of them swam to the ladder.
Mickey hesitated. “Shouldn’t we help him?” The Frog Super had slowed up but then spun again as he tried to pick up his pistol.
“Do you prefer him grateful, or those five Putes mad at you for spoiling their fun?”
“Good point Magpie.” Mickey headed for the ladder. “He’s got plenty of air.” The Frog Super still hadn’t surfaced by the time they’d clipped on their legs and left.
* * *
Bells got his revenge nine days later, because Les Putes couldn’t get their Super to throw a knife accurately. Mickey wasn’t good with a knife, but being trained by a woman had motivated him and he managed on his third try. “Oh yes.” Bells grinned, then lost the smile. “I am not blowing a kiss to their Super.”
“Nor am I before you ask. My underwear is a strategic secret.” Magpie smirked. “Our Super should.”
“Piss off.” Mickey wore a beaming smile after hitting his mark, though it faltered. “The women, the actual Putes, were bledrin fast and accurate.”
“So I’ll blow a kiss to them this time.” Bells looked them over. “I can’t tell which one it was last time, but I’m sure the one with the red streak is interested.” Les Putes had lost interest in their Super now they’d lost, and a couple of them waved. Bells pointed at his favourite and blew the kiss. The women were all laughing at him, and his target, as the rest of the Basteds dragged Bells away.
* * *
Bells wasn’t laughing four days later after the sparring. “I’d have beat her without these things.” He used his teeth to pull on the ties fastening the big floppy gloves.
Siflis sneered. “You wouldn’t have beat her if she’d tied one arm behind her back. Just why do you think her shirt buttons were half undone?”
“To show she fancies me.”
Magpie rolled her eyes. “She knew you’d be trying to see down there instead of watching her beat the shite out of you.”
“I did see down there but she’s wearing a bra. A sexy one and it’s really well-filled.” Bells grinned. “I tell you, she fancies me.”
Hood looked embarrassed. “I got beat because I don’t like hitting women. I’ll shoot them, or even use a knife, but I can’t beat on one. Though to be honest that blonde lass is bledrin strong and fast as well.”
“If I’d been up against their Super, I might have beat him.” Mickey shrugged. “Against any of you or them I’ve got no chance.”
“True, which might be why they sent their Super against Magpie. That way the Supers would both get beaten, and it would be four against four.” Bobby frowned. “Bells is supposed to be our hand to hand expert so he should have won, though we did get a draw.” Bobby grinned. “At least we know our strategic weapon will work since Les Putes version did on Bells.”
“But it’s still a secret because I didn’t need it.” Magpie smirked. “Can I add the Frog Super to my score?” Mickey flinched. He still didn’t like casual references about topping Supers even if he was off the target list.
“No, he’s still breathing.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Just what did she whisper after getting the handcuffs on you, Bells?”
“Nothing.” Bells turned scarlet and headed towards the showers.
Despite repeated attempts to find out, Bells kept denying his opponent whispered anything. There were no more opportunities for him to get payback, because one of the Confeds crippled a Yankee in their sparring so the squads weren’t allowed to meet any more. A pity, because now the Basteds hadn’t got a read on the strengths of any of the other squads.
Instead each squad member spent hours talking with an armourer as an additional weapon or two were added to their metal legs or fingers. The talks always had two observers from other blocs, and the results were all checked by a different two neutral observers. Allegedly, no addition could damage a capsule, and only a proportion of the squad could have long range weapons. They all spend periods practicing with their extras, designed to be accessible if a fight broke out before the squads reached the target. If? Bobby’s squad were stone certain there’d be a bloodbath, despite the lectures explaining how everyone would cooperate in this great venture.
They became more certain when their squad had their own private lecture. The Area Manager talked about prioritising and maximising return on investment, and how the contracts between the blocs didn’t preclude self-defence. He also discussed the bonuses available and the relative shares depending on how many claimed them, though he did stress the benefits of an alliance with
a small number of others to achieve the best result. Bobby and all the rest got the message. If they outmanoeuvred, stitched up or just plain murdered the other squads it would make them all rich, rich enough to buy legs if they were discharged. Since all the other squads had to be getting their own lectures, a bloodbath looked more and more of a certainty.
Once the limbs worked at least reasonably well, training went up a notch. Between the new weapons, the intense continual training, and the repeated drills getting into and out of the capsule, another three months slipped by. Throughout the process the capsule loading drills were held without warning, as practice in case one of the minor blocs launched an attack. One bloc at least considered the attempt to be against their God’s will, or at least against their long-term interests. Others might launch missiles, or arrange for terrorists to sabotage the capsules, simply as a spoiling action to rack up costs for the major investors.
At least the long training meant Mickey toughened up, until the Basteds thought he might beat up to half of the other Supers. Especially with a knife, since having a woman teaching him spurred Mickey to try harder there. That or the number of times Magpie mentioned withdrawal symptoms and hoped she’d be able to top a Super soon. One of the others preferably, but their own would do if he didn’t shape up.
* * *
Instead of the scheduled crawl through pipes, supposedly an Alien spaceship, an alarm hammered out. “Move it, move it, time to go. Come on quickly!” Bobby stared at the trainer, who sounded as if he meant it this time.
“Is it an attack?”
The man grinned. “How would I know? Come on, time to load up.”
“Another drill? How many times are we going to load up and spend an hour staring at a metal wall.” It wasn’t the wait that annoyed everyone. Nobody liked having to take off their legs and stow them onto their backs, clipped to the backpacks. Worse, they all had to put on the spacesuits and fit the waste disposal and putting on the antiseptic cream and plugging in hurt them, in and out. Bells had a black eye for a while after getting to Magpie’s suit and writing Bells End on her connections. He complained she had no sense of humour. The limp to go with the black eye came from Hood, not Magpie.
