Multiverse 2

by Chris Hechtl

  “Oh hell,” the captain growled, rising to his feet. “This is seriously going to suck.”

  >*…*<>*…*<

  Robot dog Beta Niner picked up the knot of heat signatures and homed in on them. Its olfactory sensors picked up the hint of blood in the air, fresh, which told it that combat had been initiated in its patrol zone. The dog's trot slowed slightly as it modules to become more cautious and stealthy kicked in.

  Its auditory sensors picked up a mewl and identified it as a Neocat. A gloating laugh was identified as human. The ears twitched like radar arrays localizing the source of the sounds. Its heat vision overlaid the image of the two confirming their presence. One was down on the floor; the other was larger and standing with a long device. The mech's simple bot brain classified that as a potential weapon. It judged the crude plaster wall between it and the two could be breached, but its programming specified limiting collateral damage. It began a search for a door or window to facilitate entry. “I am so going to enjoy skinning your ass. Then I'm going to get the hell out of this place,” the human voice said.

  That statement made the dog mech classify the human as a potential tango.

  “Wait! You told my mother you'd spare me!”

  “That was then. Your mother is dead, kid; she got herself killed going for food. Tough breaks. That means I have no further use for you,” the human stated. There was the distinctive sound of a bolt action on a rifle.

  The dog narrowed down the location of the human, and then did a fast run. It burst through the plaster wall and into the surprised human's heat signature, knocking him off his feet.

  The mech recovered first and turned as the human scrambled with wide frightened eyes as it stared at the monster of plastic and alloy before him. He reached for his sidearm, and the dog's final ROE was met. It lunged, jaws opening as it turned its head slightly to grab the human's throat and bite. The human went down in a welter of gore and chocking sounds trying to fend the robot off. It was as useless as fighting a hurricane.

  When the dog's programming recognized the threat was neutralized, it stepped back and turned, assessing the situation and the room's other occupant. Dispassionate cameras and sensors studied the being intently. It uploaded its recent activities to the marine net and awaited further instructions.

  “My name is Buxbe; what's yours?” the sapient being asked, eyes wide with shock.

  The Neocat stared at the mech, unsure what to do. The mech checked him over, then the fallen enemy combatant. The cat wasn't a threat; it classified it as a native. But when the Neo went to pick up the Tango's rifle, the dog turned on him.

  “Heel!” a sharp voice called from the hole in the wall. The cat froze, then leaned his body to look through the hole. “I'm not talking to you,” the marine corporal said. He turned to the partial view he had of the dog. “Stand down,” he ordered. The robot turned and inspected the marine, picked up his flashed IFF, and then sat down abruptly.

  Buxbe looked at the dog as it froze.

  “You are lucky I showed up on the scene,” Hadji said. He moved around the wall, following it until he found a door. He entered and then came into the room. He frowned at the sight of the tango; his throat had been torn out. “Messy. You okay, kit?”

  “Yeah,” the kitten croaked out. He tried to relax, tried to let his fur settle down. His nerves were shot.

  “I take it you didn't do this?” the human marine asked, indicating the fallen pirate. He knelt into a crouch, studying the body then the cat. “No, you don't have much blood on you. Just spatter.”

  “The … dog did it,” the cat said, pointing with a hesitant finger to the mechanical dog.

  “I see,” the human said with a nod. He glanced from the ocelot mix to the robot dog. Its mouth had dried blood on it, as well as bits of flesh. “Nasty,” he replied, shaking his head.

  “I reached for the rifle, and it was about to turn on me,” Buxbe said sounding petulant.

  Hadji's black eyes stared at him until the kitten's shoulders hunched. “Be careful carrying a weapon with our mechs around. They don't know better. It is best you leave the fighting to the professionals.”

  “I want to fight,” the cat said, ears flat, teeth bared as he snarled at the body between them. “It's all I've got left now that my mom is …,” his voice quavered and tapered off.

  Hadji studied the kit then slowly nodded. “Suit yourself. We could use the support.” He carefully instructed the kit on how to handle the weapon and how to strip the dead soldier of ammunition and gear. He took the radio as the cat struggled to get the oversized and very bloodied utility vest on. The enemy was changing frequencies daily, and they had learned to keep their messages brief as possible to avoid detection.

  He checked the device over carefully. It was small, hand sized, and black plastic with a long black antenna. What intrigued him were the knobs on one end and a piece of tape on the battery pack on the bottom. He glanced down at the body and grimly smiled. The idiot had written down the frequencies on a piece of tape on the handheld radio. He clicked to one of them, heard someone speaking and nodded. “I'll escort you to the nearest support group. They can show you what to do and get you fed and checked out,” he said.

  “Sounds good to me,” the cat said, grip tightening on the rifle.

  “You'll do good, kit, keep your chin up and kick ass,” Hadji told him.

  “I'll try, sir,” Buxbe said grimly.

  >*…*<>*…*<

  Lieutenant Lewis hit the ground right behind his troops and dived into combat once he got the overall picture. The spaceport and capital had been secured; he was confident that they had wiped out more than half of the Horathians in the initial KEW strikes.

  So far his mechs and drones had taken the brunt of his losses. In fact he hadn't lost a single person, though he had lost half his mechs and a third of his short-ranged drones. Ozzi and his two cronies promised they'd have at least one mech built cobbled together from pieces of the other downed mechs by evening if they got the time to finish it. He hoped so. They kept complaining they needed more shipments of parts from the replicators in orbit. Since the Skyhawk had gotten a close call with a plasma weapon yesterday, Captain Herschel and the flight crews were nervous now about landing often or on a regular schedule. He couldn't blame them.

  He had detailed half his squad off to supporting roles while two were down for rest as reserves. That left him, one of the robot dogs, and Private Mya to handle security. He needed some air anyway; he was getting a headache.

  He took a swing around the perimeter of his HQ, more to get a feel for the area than to engage any hostiles he encountered. This was his third HQ in a week; he didn't like to stay in one place more than a day or two in case Zin got its location and tried a deep strike. The intel Race had assembled said a few of the pirates were cut off in the pocket, so the area couldn't be considered safe and secure until they went building by building, room by room, area by area to make damn certain. Even the sewers would have to be checked.

  While passing a battered brick business with a shattered window, he overheard a group of men raping a woman. The sounds were distinctive and immediately brought back a flood of memories; memories he'd done his level best to suppress. With them came rage, a red haze, and then cold purpose as his training kicked in.

  He probed their area carefully with a fiber optic scope, taking what shelter he could from the frame around the open window. There were four, one on each arm, a third holding her by the feet while the last one raped her from behind. “God, she's got a tight ass,” the guy pumping said.

  “You sure we shouldn't be getting the hell out of dodge, Jimbo?”

  “Frack that, we'll get our kicks in, then bust their asses,” the guy grunted. “Now shut up, I'm trying to concentrate here,” he said as the woman struggled. “Yeah, like it like that, you bitch?” he demanded, digging his nails into her torn clothing then yanking her up by her hair. “We're going to have a bit more fun with you before we finish. And if you ke
ep being a bitch, we'll slit your throat.” He chuckled, looking over his shoulder to his buddy. “Hell, we may just do that anyway.” The other men gloated over the woman's squirms. “Go ahead, it feels good when you struggle baby cakes,” the sergeant said, panting. His hand wrapped around her throat from behind, pulling her back as his weight pressed down. She was forced to arch her back. The woman screamed into a rag they had stuffed into her mouth as an improvised gag. They just laughed. “Who want's seconds?”

  Lewis ignored the protocol to get back up as he fired through the open window. The man on top turned in time to hear the commotion and then danced like a marionette as the pulser fire riddled his body. He flopped down to cover the woman, conveniently shielding her but making a mess of her.

  Coldly, Lewis dispatched the guy on the right as he gaped at the apparition, then shot the rifle out of the hands of the guy on the left trying to reach for it. A fourth shot capped the guy on the woman's feet, hitting him in the shoulder and spinning him to fall to the side. The man moaned, clutching at his shoulder.

  The marine yanked the door off its hinges as he entered the building, then leveled his rifle at the survivors. He had rescued the woman he realized, but now what?

  “Frack,” he muttered, pulling the body of the rapist off the woman. She whimpered as he tried to be as gentle with her as he could be. “Sorry about the mess, ma'am,” he murmured. She looked up at him through her battered bloody face, shocked by his arrival. His armored form was covered in dust and chip marks from close calls. It was right out of ancient history though. He reached out with gloved fingers to her mouth. She flinched back. He hesitated, then reached in and pulled the gag out.

  “You can um, use this to get yourself cleaned up miss,” Lewis said, feeling awkward. “Can you walk? You know, maybe I should carry you,” he said.

  She shook her head angrily no, moving away from him.

  “Um, you know what?” he asked, looking at the two pirates. From their vital signs, two were dead, one was dying, and the other, well, he couldn't handle her and him at the same time. Sure he could call in backup to secure him, but he had something else more satisfying in mind.

  “Don't like it that the shoe's on the other foot, do you?” Lewis demanded coldly, kicking the bastard as he whimpered clutching at his hand in a fetal ball. The guy shook his head no, sobbing.

  “Ma'am, you want the honors?” Lewis asked as the woman started to ball up herself. She stopped and stared at the butt he was holding out to her. She looked from the pistol up to the marine's helmet. “Take it. You do what you think is right,” he said.

  She took it, shaking the entire time. He used his implants to turn the safety off. Her hands shook as she aimed. The Horathian didn't look up as she fired into his skull, shattering it. She looked over to the bodies of others in the room and then fired a second time, then a third.

  “Okay, that's enough,” Lewis said softly. “Dead is dead. He can't get any deader than that,” he murmured. He'd done that, taken a risk to earn her trust. She cried when she finished, shaking as he gently pushed the barrel down and away. She spat at the body, then kicked the last dying Horathian in the head.

  Lewis winced slightly but recognized the signs of the woman's rage. She was right, and her actions would go a long way to help her mental recovery. He knew that much from his own experiences and the literature he'd read about the trauma. He watched with cold eyes as the last pirate's vital signs faded as the blood pumped out of him, then flatlined.

  “It's over. They are dead,” he said softly. He was pinged and fought a grimace. “Ma'am?”

  She didn't say anything, just stood there like a statue staring at the dead pirates holding his pistol.

  “My name is Lieutenant Craig Lewis, ma'am. We need to move,” he said. He went to pick her up, but she fought him off. “Stubborn,” he murmured letting her go and fending off the pistol before she could turn it on him. “Good, but I'm one of the good guys, ma'am,” he said as she battered at his armor with her bare fists. She slowed, then stopped. After a moment she stared balefully at him through the slits of her eyes. He held up his free hand as he gently took his sidearm back from her. He twisted it out of her grip then holstered it. “I'm a marine, ma'am, Federation Marine not Horathian. I'm here to help,” he insisted.

  “The Federation? Pull the other one, it's got bells on. The Federation doesn't exist,” she spat, looking away. He frowned thoughtfully. Despite her black eyes and battered face, she was a beauty.

  “I think we can catch you up on current events later, miss. Suffice to say, that's not entirely true. Admiral Irons is rebuilding the Federation, and I'm a part of it. I hope someday you will be too,” he said, standing and stepping back to give her room.

  He got her back to his temporary HQ site. He was scolded by the noncom but waved it off. He got a quick look at the board, downloading it to his implants as a sitrep.

  While he caught up with his men, she looked around. She noticed a wounded woman staring at her right bicep. She looked at her, but the other woman was staring intently at her injured arm. From the sight of it, Hanna judged it was a flesh wound.

  After a moment the blood flow stopped. The marine turned to her audience. “Gotta love implants,” she said, then finished dressing the wound. She put her helmet on, flexing her arm, then picked up her weapon and went back to the battle.

  That was when Hanna realized they were real and had implants. No one had implants! They were a dream, a thing of the past, something forgotten in the myths of the golden age … she stared, not quite understanding but realizing they had tools and equipment no one else had. It dawned on her that he may have been telling her the truth.

  She looked up in wonder to see an assault shuttle go screaming overhead on a firing pass. “This is all real, not a dream,” she murmured, feeling the wash of wind pass over her. She felt her hair ruffle and closed her eyes to the stinging dust. Her body swayed a bit. Hysterical relief tore at her, but she fought it down. She felt the tears but angrily dashed them. She'd fall apart later, she thought.

  “Easy lady. You aren't going to pass out or anything, are you?” a male said. She shook her head, opening her eyes to stare at him. He grunted. “Sorry, miss. You best get checked out by the medics,” he said, indicating the area nearby marked with a red cross.

  “I'll take her,” Lewis said, coming over. She turned and held her head high as she moved to the cross behind him.

  She went through the medics for a checkup, gritting her teeth over the idea of having a male check her out. But the sight of a Veraxin nurse made her reconsider the situation carefully. The pirate bastards had killed any alien on sight; so yes, it was real. What was happening? It bothered her for some reason, and that niggling doubt bothered her as well. She turned away as they wiped some stuff on her face and wounds. She had some minor internal injuries, but a pill would take care of that the medic said. She was glad it was a Veraxin, she thought.

  “I'm giving you a supplement to help your body recover as well as a pill to abort anything they started in your uterus,” the Veraxin chittered. She nodded and took the pills from the alien's small right true hand. Its chitin fingertips brushed the skin on her palm, making her close her fist around the pill and take an involuntary step backward.

  “I suggest you get some psychological aid. Next patient,” the Veraxin said, turning away from her. Hanna felt her roiling emotions tear at her throat. She looked about, but he wasn't here, he wasn't here! That made her look about frantically and then finally go outside.

  She caught sight of him kneeling in front of a boy giving him a canteen. She resented that; he'd never offered her a canteen! She needed a drink. She scowled and turned about to see a pitcher of water and a glass on a crate near the entrance. She shakily poured herself a glass, then fought the tremors down to greedily take a sip. It was cool and refreshing. She popped the pills into her mouth, then chased them down with water to make them easier to swallow. When she finished the glass, she had anothe
r, and then turned when she heard him starting to move off. Carefully but urgently she set the pitcher and glass down and then quietly exited.

  >*…*<>*…*<

  Once the medics cleared her, she immediately attached herself to Lewis, much to his surprise and amusement. She followed him at a distance as he reentered his temporary command center. He took his helmet off and wiped at his brow. “Shit, hot,” he muttered. She didn't say anything. “I take it you don't have anywhere to go, miss?” he asked, looking over his shoulder to her briefly before he went back to staring at the status board.

  She frowned but didn't answer, just staring there as words tore at her throat keeping her from responding. She wanted to rant and rave, to demand why he hadn't arrived sooner but knew the hysterics were futile. Instead she stood there watching as he took in intelligence and planned the next move. She immediately realized he had few assets, but what he did have he used very effectively.

  A window appeared on the board showing him a view from another marine's eyes. He murmured something, then a series of orders. The image jerked, then clicked off, and the window closed.

  “Can I at least get your name?” he asked her, not looking at her. “Saying hey you is a pain in the ass you know,” he half joked.

  “Hanna. Hanna … Clarke,” she finally ground out.

  “I'd like to say it's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am, but we both know the lie in that statement. Sorry,” he said. He shook his head, working at a virtual keyboard. He wondered briefly if she thought he was nuts but then didn't care. “Getting info out of you is like pulling hen's teeth, ma'am. I've got a lot on my mind and a lot to do. How about you help a poor soldier far from home so he can do his job and get the hell out of your way?”

  “Couldn't happen soon enough for me,” she muttered. He chuckled. She scowled, not liking to hear the laughter. Resentment flared within her. How could he find anything in their situation funny? Eventually she hit him on the shoulder again to shut him up. That got him to smother his guffaw to polite rumbles.