Orphan Brigade

by Henry V. O'Neil

  The air was eerily still, and the ashen fog drifted like smoke all around them. The observation points had gone from being able to see thousands of yards out to only a hundred, and sometimes less. The goggles allowed the humans to see into the cloud, and the ships in orbit were allegedly scanning for Sim movement as well, but the cloak that had descended on them had put most of the Orphans in a jittery mood.

  Intermittent breaks in the vapor told the story that Pappas had predicted: the mud field had collapsed into an enormous sinkhole that was getting deeper and wider. It had spewed forth such a volume of dirt and cinders that the battle to its south had simply ended. Both sides had withdrawn to defensive positions because the noisome air had begun to choke any engine that was exposed to it for too long.

  “Command sees this as a big opportunity.” Colonel Alden spoke from behind goggles that were already covered in dust and a face mask that looked like it had been used to strain muddy water. “They were starting to come away from the northern counterattack idea, because they figured the Sims would be able to shut the passes back down by simple bombardment. But with this cloud all over us, there’s no way to conduct aerobot reconnaissance—­theirs or ours. The dust up here’s not as thick as it is in the south, so they figure we can push a lot of armor through here before the Sammies get wise.”

  “How far along is the clearance effort, sir?” Noonan asked.

  “Just under halfway on our corridor, one-­third of the way on Corridors Two and Three. They’ve encountered reactive mines in all three lanes, some of which still have enough power to detect a human electrical field. The sappers have been forced to wear the dampening suits, and it’s really slowed them down.”

  “I only asked because we’re spread awfully thin out here. And with the visibility as it is, if Sam wants to come up here and have a look around, he’s not gonna have a lot of trouble doing it.”

  “I understand. Captain Pappas?”

  “Our air reconnaissance has been affected the same way Sam’s has, and of course we weren’t flying much of it in this area anyway. Orbital recon hasn’t detected any enemy movement in this direction. The Sims’ earlier attack, combined with the long fight down south, seems to have exhausted them. They’re digging in on the ground they took from us.”

  “If that’s true, what was that bunch we killed last night?” The six enemy foot soldiers who’d crossed First Platoon’s area had been gunned down by A Company while running for the apparent safety of the rocks when the ground had started to give way. The three fleeing scout cars had been destroyed by rocket teams from B Company’s Second and Third Platoons, and the Sims who had bailed out had been cut down by rifle and grenade fire.

  “The dismounts were obviously checking the ground to see if it was safe for vehicles, but it might just have been for the scout cars that came later. Command believes it was a long-­range patrol of some kind. So far, orbital recon hasn’t seen anything that would suggest Sam had anything waiting to follow them.”

  “These orbital eyes and ears you keep mentioning. They didn’t see those armored cars coming at us.”

  “They should have. Our area is their priority because we’ve got nothing else watching over us. I asked what happened, and they basically said we should be able to handle three scout cars on our own.”

  “So they missed it.”

  “Yes.”

  Colonel Alden broke in. “I discussed that with the brigade commander, and he forcefully took it up with higher. We’ve been assured it won’t happen again, but Colonel Watt is skeptical and so am I. It is vital that we keep our own eyes and ears open, so even though we’re shorthanded, every platoon has to continue patrolling in its sector. As an added set of eyes, the brigade’s scouts have been inserted in the mountains across from us.”

  Alden let that sink in. The long-­range reconnaissance teams at brigade level were extremely good, but the distance between them and the rest of the Orphans was excessive. Separated from their fellows by miles of open plain, they would have to rely on aerial support fire and shuttle evacuation if they ran into trouble.

  A straining motor sounded from down the rocky path, and the four men looked into the grayness to see what it was. The eddying fog seemed to slip away as a four-­wheeled motorcart rolled up. Its driver was caked in gray dirt, wearing a bulbous set of driving goggles over his electronic eyes. He shut the engine down and dismounted, and when the driver began scrubbing away at the outer goggles with a filthy rag Mortas recognized him as Captain Dassa.

  “Good timing, Emile.” Colonel Alden walked toward the cart, and the others followed. The back of the low vehicle was filled with canvas sacks. “Hand grenades and dragonflies, gentlemen. We’re going to keep pushing these forward, along with lots of boomer rounds, extra water, and replacement masks until this operation is completed.”

  He hefted one of the cylindrical explosives.

  “Let’s hope we’ll all get hernias carrying every bit of this back out again when this is all over.”

  Colonel Alden departed with Noonan and Pappas, and Mortas stayed with Dassa to wait for the men from his platoon who would carry the supplies to the different positions. Mortas examined the smaller version of the Armadillos that had been running up and down the company sector.

  “Never seen one of these before. Or even heard of them.”

  “Yeah, Sergeant Major got four of them from the engineers clearing the lane. Not enough ’dillos to get the job done.” Dassa looked around. “I don’t know what Sam’s doing down south, but that patrol last night tells me he’s at least thinking about coming back up here. And if he does that, he’ll use this cloud to get infantry up onto this ground.”

  “We’ve got the plain under observation, and even with this shit in the air, we’ll be able to pick up the heat signatures.”

  “Sam won’t come across the open like that. He’ll infiltrate from the north, where there’s all those trees. Even at full strength we wouldn’t be able to stop him from sneaking through the brigade’s sector, not with all the folds in the ground, and we’re nowhere near full strength.”

  A stab of doubt passed through Mortas, and he felt the need to get Berland in the conversation. He was just about to call the platoon sergeant when Dassa spoke again.

  “You already walked your whole sector?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marked the spots where infiltrators could hole up, like this depression here? Got chonks sighted in on them?”

  “Yeah, my guys did that without being told.”

  “That’s what I figured. Let me show you something that might be helpful.” Dassa took out his handheld, and Mortas switched his goggles over to the map of First Battalion’s area. A and B Companies’ observation points on the ground south of Lane One formed a line that resembled an archer’s bow, with Lane One representing the bowstring. B Company formed the eastern half of the bow, and First Platoon’s positions curved up almost to the pass itself.

  Depressions in the platoon sector were marked with target designations for the grenade launchers, so that anyone receiving fire from the rear would be able to call in the location for the chonks. This technique grew less effective farther north, where the trees were thicker. Dassa continued giving advice.

  “I see you’ve got your machine guns covering the plain. Pretty useless, really.” Mortas felt his cheeks burning inside his mask. “So much open ground that’s beyond their range, and whatever might come at us from that direction would be armored. Here’s something I’ve done in the past.” Dassa drew a line on the handheld that appeared on the map in front of Mortas’s eyes. “It’s unconventional, and most units can’t handle it, but it fits here because we haven’t got a lot of guys and the ground’s mostly covered in bushes.”

  Mortas’s eyes widened as Dassa sketched a narrow, fan-­shaped field of fire for the machine gun team at Dak’s position. Instead of firing out over the plain,
it would be shooting to the rear, into the platoon’s zone. One side of the fan followed the edge of Lane One, and the other side of the acute angle came up behind Mecklinger’s position on the western edge of the platoon’s area.

  “I know it looks like you’ll be shooting into Second Platoon, but the rising ground is going to block that.”

  “It’s going to do that well short of Second Platoon. My machine guns won’t be able to fire more than a ­couple of hundred yards facing this direction, and the ricochets will be flying all over the place,” Mortas replied.

  “Sure, except they won’t be shooting straight ahead. If you raise the barrels, you can send plunging fire up and over any intervening high ground.” Dassa jabbed his handheld, making several enemy personnel symbols appear around one of the depressions behind Dak’s position. “If you throw up some dragonflies, they’ll show you the heat signatures of any Sammies who have gotten behind you. Your ­people are all hugging the edge here, so if you take fire from the rear, you can work the machine gun rounds right onto the target without too big a chance of hitting friendlies. The dragonflies will show you the heat from the slugs, and you can adjust right onto the enemy.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve got to establish sectors of fire for every gun and set those in stone. Gunner gets excited, Sam jumping all over the place, it’s just too easy to overshoot into a friendly unit. Talk to your platoon sergeant and see what he thinks.”

  A dark thought. “How come Captain Noonan didn’t come up with this?”

  “Oh, I don’t think too many other guys have actually had to do this. I had to make it up on the spot because Sam got in some low ground behind us, and we were almost out of chonk ammunition.” Dassa paused, then went ahead. “Noonan’s all right, but I heard he comes from an outfit that went by the book too much. Some guys, if they’re not allowed to show initiative in their first assignment, they never learn how.” His attention returned to the handheld. “Now I’ll show you how to set up those sectors of fire.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was late afternoon, and Ayliss had found Dr. Kletterman alone in his office. Concerned about appearing to be merely waiting out the two days until she could leave, Ayliss had immersed herself in the outpost’s work. The entire day had been spent moving from console to console and from lab to lab, asking questions, hearing the answers, asking more questions, and the whole time maintaining a veneer of friendly interest.

  Not that the topics, or the ­people studying them, were dull. She’d found the researchers highly engaged in their work and refreshingly open about it. Many of them were close to her in age, and Ayliss couldn’t help but compare their sincerity and eagerness to the machinations and shallowness of so many of her contemporaries back home. Python had explained this as a function of the isolation and secrecy the small group of scientists had been enduring, but she’d felt that was only half the answer.

  Much of the staff found the Sim subjects deeply intriguing, and the remainder considered their involvement with the Ant Farm as a patriotic duty to the human race. Even those ­people expressed little hostility toward the Sims, and their naïveté caused Ayliss no small amount of guilt. If her plan succeeded, most of the researchers would be ruined professionally by what would no doubt be an intentionally prolonged exposure to the public, the courts, and perhaps even the prisons.

  “Doctor. I was hoping to sit with you for a few minutes if you’re not too busy.” Ayliss wore a bright face as she stood in the doorway.

  “Oh, by all means come in!” Kletterman stood up and lifted a stack of readouts from the only other chair. “I’m just catching up on some internal correspondence. You wouldn’t think we were all living together in essentially one building, the way some of these ­people send me messages.”

  “I’ve found that was a good way to create a record as I went along, so perhaps that’s what they had in mind.”

  “A politician who wants to create a record of what they’ve done? You jest.” The bushy eyebrows rose and fell, once.

  They shared a laugh, even though Ayliss felt slightly ruffled by the comment.

  “Politician? You’ve got me confused with my father.”

  “I doubt it would be the first time that has happened. I’ve never met the chairman, but a man in my field can tell a lot from footage on the Bounce broadcasts. Your physical resemblance is striking, even for father and daughter, but I couldn’t help noticing the shared mannerisms. In the terms of my field, you and your father are practically identical.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had similar mannerisms with my father.” The incessant hunt for intelligent questions kicked in, saving her. “And his duties kept him away from me for much of my childhood, so I doubt I picked them up in imitation.”

  “I doubt it as well.” Kletterman leaned back, his bulk making the high-­backed chair squeal. “Someday we will fully understand how gestures, facial expressions, and other idiosyncrasies are sometimes passed down across generations. Sadly, that is one of the many areas of my work where we are certain the behavior arises from genetic coding, but still have practically no idea how that can be.”

  “This would seem to be an area of study that would be of value regarding your subjects, I would think.” A day’s interaction with Kletterman’s ­people had almost removed the word “Sim” from her vocabulary.

  “Certainly.” Kletterman straightened in his chair. “I’m pleased you brought that up. While I’m thoroughly enjoying the observation of our guests, and honestly could happily devote a lifetime to that alone, I have been wondering when the second phase of this project would begin.”

  Her mind searched for a response that would not reveal her complete ignorance, but Ayliss soon gave up on that.

  “I’m sorry to have to admit this, Doctor, but it appears this ‘second phase’ was left out of my briefing. Perhaps my father believed it might bias my observations.”

  “Marvelous!” Kletterman leaned back, smiling. “Encountering the scientific method in the political world. I wonder if it has always been there, or if perhaps the collaboration between our spheres caused by the war could be credited. A cross-­pollination, so to speak.”

  “God knows we could use it.”

  “Indeed. But at the risk of biasing you, the original intent of this facility was more directly linked to my specialty. Specifically, it was to continue the research into the genetic material of our opponents. Searching for the coding that makes them so formidable in battle, if such a thing exists, or what facilitates their forming into groups with such ease.”

  “Are you planning to take samples from your subjects?”

  “No. As I mentioned earlier, I was not consulted on the manner in which they were procured and delivered, and as a result that opportunity was missed. However, the Force has been collecting samples for almost the entire duration of the war, and so the procurement of more recent material won’t be a major problem.”

  “What are you hoping to learn, Doctor?”

  “Obviously our opponents were manufactured for this conflict, a designer enemy if you will. Ongoing Force research has already revealed that the latest versions of our opponents are larger, stronger, and faster than the originals. It is undeniable that some entity is creating—­and modifying—­them.”

  “Go on.”

  “If such an entity went to that much trouble to oppose our progress across the stars, or does in fact intend to eradicate us, it stands to reason that this entity would not want to replace us with a larger, stronger, and more formidable version of our race.”

  Kletterman stopped, an amused expression creeping onto his face. Ayliss recognized it from school, the teacher who wanted the student to find the answer with the available information. It didn’t take long.

  “You’re looking for something in the Sims’ makeup that would allow this entity to get rid of them once the war was over.�
��

  “Exactly. What that scoundrel Python refers to as the ‘on-­off’ switch.”

  “That’s the last of them.”

  Berland sat with his back to a large rock, tapping information into his handheld. Mortas sat next to him, tired from having physically visited every geographic rise and dip in the platoon’s sector. Three Orphans in the nearby brush were guarding them while they finished plotting out Dassa’s plan for the machine guns.

  Mortas switched the view in his goggles so he could see the map of the platoon’s area. The five observation posts curved southwest from Dak’s squad near Lane One, through Mortas’s position farther downhill, then to Testo’s squad before heading west through Berland’s position and Mecklinger’s squad and ending at the start of Second Platoon’s zone. Every piece of low or shielded ground was now identified, and they were waiting for Noonan’s blessing of Dassa’s plan.

  Despite the dust in the air, Mortas slid his lenses up on their frames so he could look at Berland. Instantaneous communication and the size of their sector had kept them separated since the start of the mission, and the lieutenant found it comforting to actually be in the seasoned NCO’s presence.

  “Enjoying yourself, Lieutenant?” Berland’s smile creased his grimy face.

  “I honestly didn’t understand Captain Dassa’s idea until we actually walked the ground. It’s incredible.”

  “Yeah, I gotta hand it to him. I would never have thought of this.”

  Noonan came up on the radio, having studied the novel use of dragonflies to direct machine gun rounds fired up and over obstacles inside the platoon’s sector in order to hit enemy soldiers seeking shelter in the low ground. He added several control features to the map, restricting the fire well short of friendly positions, but the plan was left intact.