A Hymn Before Battle lota-1

by John Ringo

  He was not sure what to say. It seemed a moment for a motivational speech but he was damned if there was one in him. “A quick prayer,” he said finally and bowed his head. He paused for a moment longer, running through the short list of prayers he could remember. None of them seemed appropriate. Then, suddenly, a fragment of verse from an unknown poem came to mind. He thought about it and found it highly appropriate. He took a deep breath.

  * * *

  “Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,

  Remember, reach and save,

  The soul that comes to-morrow

  Before the God that gave!

  Since each was born of woman,

  For each at utter need —

  True comrade and true foeman —

  Madonna, intercede!”

  “Sergeant Green!”

  “Sir?”

  “Move ’em out.”

  “Yes, sir. Scouts, Second, First, Fourth, Third, Headquarters, Fifth. Move it!”

  When they reached the first building to be mined, the squads broke up and moved to their buildings. Third squad, tasked to this building, waited lined along the roof with headquarters for the other squads to get into position. When the other squads were in position, the platoon stepped over the edge. The suits dropped under an artificially induced two positive gravities to within one hundred meters of the ground then began to slow. They hit the bottom still traveling at nearly six meters per second, but the suits absorbed this with bent knees. There were a few Posleen milling aimlessly on the boulevards.

  “Squads, put a covering team behind you and head to the demolition points. Third, Sergeant Green and I will cover. Do it, people.” Mike hefted his grav-rifle and followed the red priority carets. Michelle could analyze all the Posleen in line of sight or range of sensors and determine the highest priorities of fire. Take out the ones with heavy weapons first, moving outward from nearest to farthest, unless ones farther out were targeting Mike and nearer ones were not. Mike followed the flashing carets listlessly; the moment of rage at Sergeant Wiznowski’s death had destroyed something important for him and he could feel depression lingering around the corner.

  Posleen fell relentlessly, but Mike was becoming more distant. It felt as if he was watching the world through TV and the actions in the beyond were unreal shadows.

  He and Sergeant Green covered the entry of Third squad and moved into the building.

  “How are we gonna support from here?” asked Sergeant Green standing in one of the giant vehicle bays on the ground floor.

  “Poorly. We’ll move toward the central shaft and down.” Mike and Sergeant Green headed inward, mopping up the occasional Posleen along the way. When they did not notice the Posleen, the Posleen nonetheless attacked them. Mike finally determined that most of the Posleen in the building were ones that had been released by the death of a God King. Mike considered the briefings he had, a million years ago back in The World.

  Normal Posleen were barely sentient. Most of them were below moron level on a human scale. There were a few that were of slightly higher intelligence that the God Kings used as foremen or NCOs. But all of the normal Posleen “normals” and “superior normals” were bonded in a very real sense to an individual God King. They would not even flinch from death if the God King ordered them to die.

  But if the God King died, their bonds were released. If this occurred with another God King around, the other God King could try to rebond them. Rebond them “in the heat” as it was called. However, if they were not rebonded in the short period after the death of their lord and master, they were impossible to bond for some time thereafter, up to two weeks. Then they would begin looking for another God King. He mentioned that to Sergeant Green.

  “Must make things interesting for a couple of weeks after the battle, sir.”

  “Why?” Mike asked in a disinterested tone.

  “Well, sir,” said Sergeant Green, hoping to reawaken the lieutenant’s interest in the proceedings, “these things have always attacked us on sight, and I’ve noticed a bunch of them that are recently dead.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that too.”

  “I think they attack their own kind, too, sir. So the area behind a battlefield has to be littered with these things, all looking for a fight, for a couple of weeks. Makes it hard to consolidate, yah know?”

  “No secure rear,” said Mike, with the beginnings of interest. The lethargic depression from losing Wiznowski was still around the corner, but his basic instinct to continue the battle was beginning to fight it off.

  “Yes, sir. Not if there’s been a battle, one where a bunch of God Kings got killed. Those God Kings that took off after the shuttles, what do you want to bet their group mutinied, or whatever, after they left?”

  “Except for the ones that got rebonded in the heat,” Mike pointed out.

  “Yes, sir, but look at all the ones around here. They must miss a lot.”

  “How do we use that?” Mike mused.

  “Beats me, sir, but it’s got to work for us. They have to move supplies, ‘an army travels on its stomach’ right? So, it’s got to affect their logistics.”

  “Not really, most of their logistics is pickup.” About then they were called to help out a team that had run into a group under the leadership of a God King. After a hairy few minutes with no casualties to the humans they were back in their conversation.

  “What did you mean about their logistics, sir?”

  “You mean pickup?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, they survive much the same way an army has survived throughout history, by gleaning. Until fairly recently in history what we now call looting and punish people for was the accepted way that troops fed and paid themselves. Have you noticed anything about these Posleen?”

  “Besides the fact that they’re shooting at us, sir?” joked the sergeant.

  “I meant the stuff on their harnesses,” Mike answered with a slight smile.

  Sergeant Green studied the nearest Posleen corpse.

  “They’ve got bits stuck all over them, sir.”

  “Yeah, shiny bits. If you dug through the ruck you’d find a few with silver or gold. More high-quality stuff on the God Kings. In their pouches are going to be bits of Indowy and other plant and animal matter. Some of the Indowy is moved back to the landers, ammunition presumably moves forward. The indigenous population and supplies are their food and they gather semivaluable and valuable materials for their bosses. In the consolidation period following conquest they build sort of temple palaces to the God Kings and fill them with the loot they gathered. I guess they’re like a lot of soldiers. You know what Kipling says: ‘It’s loot, loot, loot that makes the boys get up and shoot.’ But that can’t be their only motivation.” Can it?

  35

  Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III

  0523 August 5th, 2002 ad

  “Whoooee!” said Stewart, as he entered the company headquarters. “What a fuckin’ party!” Behind him the sky was just beginning to lighten, but it was still impossible to tell a black thread from a white. A very technical “before dawn.”

  At the tableau at the CQ desk he stopped dead.

  The room was not particularly large, what would have been a living room in a single-wide house trailer. The floor was cheap linoleum, the overhead bulbs shielded with simple plastic covers. On the far wall was a desk made from unfinished plywood with a phone on it. Above the desk was a sign welcoming the entrant to Bravo Company 1st Battalion 555th Infantry, “The real Black Panthers.” There was a door on the right with the sign “Day Room” over it and a corridor led off to the left.

  Beside the desk, taped to a folding chair with wrap upon wrap of duct tape, was a chubby sergeant unknown to Stewart, his eyes wide over the gag. Behind the desk, butt firmly planted in a swivel chair and feet propped up, was Drill Corporal Adams, eyes closed. A massive gray machine gun of some sort was lying on the desk, the oversized barrel covering the door. His hand rested lightly on the pistol grip. B
y the door to the day room were three of his squad, similarly armed, machine guns slung on shoulder straps. All three had evil grins on their faces.

  “What the fuck?” asked Stewart and stepped forward for his squad to enter behind him. At the first glimpse of the tableau the squad began to spread out, some of them taking up positions to look out windows while others fanned out through the room. Wilson simply spun around to cover Stewart’s back.

  Adams rolled his head up and cracked one eyelid.

  “Top wants to see you in his office,” rasped the drill corporal. “Now.” He jerked his head towards the corridor and closed his eyes again.

  Stewart took one more look then headed down the corridor. The corridor followed the far wall of the barracks to another open area. In the open area was another desk that had Ampele sprawled across it, mouth open wide and snoring. An MP private was sitting in the chair of the desk, cleaning a 9mm on the oblivious private’s broad chest.

  Along the left-hand wall of the corridor were three doorways. The first door had a hand-carved plaque that read “The Swamp.” The second had a piece of cardboard with the word “Latrine” scrawled on it in black magic marker. The last doorway was open. Its door was leaning against the wall a few feet to the side.

  The door had a brass plaque on it engraved with the words “First Sergeant Morales.” The brass plaque was set in an expensive mahogany frame. On the hinge side of the door was a large bootprint. Stewart contemplated it for a moment by the light drifting from either end of the corridor. He picked up his own boot and compared the tread pattern. Then he held his boot up next to the mark. He shook his head and looked down the corridor. Ampele’s boots were in view. He peered at them, looked at the door, Ampele, door. He shook his head again and gingerly knocked on the shattered doorframe. The noise evoked a snort from Ampele. Then the snores started again.

  “Come in!” said Pappas’ rumbling voice from within.

  Stewart stepped through the doorway into opulence. The room was very small but almost overwhelmed with expensive objects. The desk was mahogany, hand finished and recently buffed. On it was a top-line twenty-two-inch flat-screen monitor. The carpets were Persian, turned in the lofty wool style of Isfahan. Prints of various quality were on all the walls and the light shone from reworked nineteenth-century oil lamps. They gave the room a warm yellow glow that complimented the deep garnet wood.

  The first sergeant was bent over in front of a large antique safe turning the knob. He glanced over his shoulder then stood up, fury in his eyes.

  “Stewart!” Pappas growled. “Where the hell have you been!”

  Stewart knew better than to give the flippant reply he had rehearsed on the way from the parade ground to the barracks. If nothing else the bootprint made him very circumspect.

  He assumed a position of parade rest. “Sorry, First Sergeant. If we thought you were having problems we would have been here sooner. I admit I pushed the ‘by sun-up’ thing. No excuse.”

  Pappas shook his head. “Forget it. I knew you’d push it, but I didn’t feel like I could send a runner for you in there,” he admitted, gesturing with his chin towards the parade ground. “But we do have problems. I need this safe opened,” he continued, “and this computer cracked.” He gestured at the workstation on the desk.

  Stewart didn’t even bother to protest. “Wilson,” he said in a raised voice, “get Minnet.” He walked over to the safe. Taking a small black device with an LED readout from his blouse pocket, he placed it on the face of the safe. Pappas took one look, shook his head and stepped out of the way.

  “Yeah, boss?” asked Minnet, slipping through the door. Even smaller than Stewart, the elfin private was rapier quick in his movements. He stopped and looked around. “Jesus!” He picked up a small figurine of a ballerina and checked the bottom. “Damn, this is real Dresden! It’s worth a mint!”

  “Put it back,” rumbled Pappas, without even looking to see if it disappeared. “It’s evidence.”

  Stewart nodded his head and the figurine made its way back onto the shelf.

  “And put back the lighter,” said Pappas, flipping through files in an unlocked cabinet.

  Minnet looked surprised but slipped the solid-gold lighter out of his sleeve and set it back on the desk.

  Stewart shook his head. “Minnet, take this thing apart,” he said, gesturing at the workstation.

  The private nodded his head and got to work.

  Stewart spun the wheel of the safe several times foward then back. After a few moments he nodded his head and began spinning the dial back and forth. In a moment the safe was unlocked.

  “Don’t open it,” snapped Pappas. “We need the old man here.” He headed for the door then stopped. “And don’t.”

  “We won’t,” said Stewart.

  “Okay,” he said and headed out the door.

  “Don’t what?” asked Minnet, contemplating the readout on the black-box he had produced out of his breast pocket. He frowned at the readings and touched a control. Apparently satisfied he smiled again.

  “Don’t take nothin’,” said Stewart, “don’t move nothin’, don’t touch nothin’ you don’t have to.”

  “Oh.” The private punched a button and shook his head. “People think they’re so fuckin’ smart,” he murmured. He inserted a floppy disk into the computer and started it up. When the password screen came up he punched the button on the black-box. The computer looked over the entry, decided that it liked it and let him in. “That’s what happens when you change the password for the CMOS.

  “What are we looking for?” he asked a moment later.

  “Take a look around,” said Pappas, coming in the door followed by Lieutenant Arnold and the MP private who was holstering his sidearm. “Take it from me, this is not normal décor for a first sergeant’s office.”

  Stewart, overcome by curiosity, swung open the safe door and whistled. “Whewww,” he exclaimed. “Let me see. Stacks of bills, a case of vials of something called Tolemiratine and some green crystals.” He picked one up and examined it. “They’re not emeralds,” he continued, expertly. “What are they?”

  “Well, I got a file that’s called ‘Company Expenditures,’ ” said Minnet, not to be outdone. “And it’s encrypted.”

  “Make it decrypted,” said Lieutenant Arnold, coldly.

  The private glanced up, got one good look at the acting company commander’s face and began frantically tapping keys.

  * * *

  “Sergeant First Class Tomas Morales?” said the MP lieutenant. His nose wrinkled at the smell of alcohol and pheromones wafting from the Annville apartment. The half-dressed male in his thirties stopped trying to pull on his silks blouse. The lieutenant could see a female form behind him. Unless he was much mistaken the bleached blonde on the bed could not have been of legal age of consent. The ACS sergeant had Coke-bottle-thick glasses and a head that cocked off to one side. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded agreement.

  “You are under arrest,” said the lieutenant as the NCO with him stepped forward and secured the former acting first sergeant. “The charge is peculation and black marketeering of restricted Galactic Technology. You have the right to remain silent…”

  36

  Andata Province, Diess IV

  0947 GMT May 19th, 2002 ad

  Organized resistance or a counterattack stubbornly refused to appear and Mike and Sergeant Green were left to ponder that in the darkness of the megascraper’s bowels.

  The two were in a small alcove off a main corridor. The bitter fighting around the perimeter of the entrapped divisions had caused massive damage to this portion of the megascraper. The lighting in the area was dim, the Eterna lights popping and sputtering from damage. The blue-green light was more countered than reinforced by the flickering light of fires. The area was given over to the light industry that permeated the Indowy megascrapers; this region seemed to be devoted to chemical processes. The ubiquitous Indowy paintings were dim and colorless under suit
enhancement, defaced by the scars of railgun needles, the copper nicks of rifle ricochets and fire. The fractional distillers that filled many of the surrounding rooms had burnt like torches under the hammer of the guns.

  In the past thirty minutes, Mike had begun to realize that the waiting really was the hardest part of a battle. Unable to properly fidget because of the suit, he kicked a bit of detritus on the floor at his feet then recognized it as the barrel and barrel shroud of an M-16A2. He looked around the alcove but could see no sign of the weapon’s owner. A murmur to Michelle fixed the location for later possible retrieval, assuming they could find it after they dropped the building. Then he went back to waiting.

  “We’ve had a hundred and twenty-three encounters among our forty-five personnel,” he said after another ten minutes of studying figures and screens, “and only three encounters have involved disciplined parties of Posleen.”

  “Their rear area seems fairly soft, sir,” said Sergeant Green. The NCO appeared to have the patience of a saint.

  “Yeah, concur Sergeant. The only problem is getting through the rind. And, I’m sure, if the frontline troops had any idea we were here they’d be descending like locusts.”

  “How are the troops in the encirclement doing?”

  Mike checked the schematic and studied the notations. “It looks like they’re holding temporarily. The line hasn’t reduced noticeably.”

  “Think the shuttles distracted the threat, sir?”

  “Not for this long. And I don’t think that the loss of ten or so God Kings could disrupt them that badly. I think the survivors of the armored divisions are just some bad mother fuckers.” Mike snorted at the thought. It was always that way, the first battle often decided who would live or die for the rest of the war. It was one reason that veteran units were so dangerous in battle; they had a core of bitterly capable survivors.