Rogue World (Undying Mercenaries Series Book 7)

by B. V. Larson

  “Uh… just one thing, Centurion,” Leeson said. “How far are the troops supposed to go? To the death?”

  “Nah. Death might happen, but the point here is to beat the hell out of each other and get to the top of the pyramid.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “You mentioned shock-batons,” Toro said. “What about armor? Will our heavies be allowed to wear it?”

  She was asking because her platoon was made up of heavy troopers. In our previous exercise, they’d all led greenies from around the cohort. This action would be only for people in our own unit, who were mostly regulars.

  “No,” I said firmly. “In fact, we’ll strip everyone down to their skivvies from the start. No equipment advantages for anybody.”

  Finally, Harris began to smile.

  “This does sound like fun,” he said. “My lights are trained to fight with nothing. They might do better than people expect with a level playing field.”

  Leeson looked glum. He was in charge of the bio people, techs and a few weaponeers. Sure, his weaponeers were tough, and the others were experienced, but most of them weren’t front-line troops. To his credit, he didn’t complain about it.

  In past operations, we’d often deployed and fought with full cohorts of light troops or heavy troops. This time out our units were all mixed. We had so many specialized tactical objectives, and so little understanding of what we were going to face, the higher-ups had decided to organize us that way.

  We decided to hold the contest in the main exercise room when it was unoccupied. We could only reserve it for a few hours, so we had to get moving right away.

  Each platoon chose an individual combatant, and I let my adjuncts make the choices themselves. The atmosphere was like that of a sporting match. The adjuncts marched among their people, evaluating, giving advice and encouragement.

  “All right, send in your first man,” I ordered.

  The ring was about thirty feet in diameter. Stepping out—or getting pushed out—meant you were disqualified. Otherwise, the last trooper on their feet was the winner.

  Harris picked a capable-looking man with long arms and shifty eyes. Toro sent in a girl in response, and to my surprise, I recognized her. It was none other than Sarah, that young girl I’d shared a moment with back at Central.

  Leeson chose last. Despite his mediocre leadership skills, he was a cagey devil when it came to strategy. He ordered Sargon into the field.

  I thought about that, and I nodded in approval. He clearly saw Sarah as weak and the rangy-looking guy as beatable. If he played Sargon now, he was almost sure to win and send him on to the second round.

  The fight began when I whistled. The three stepped into the ring, looking wary. Sarah looked downright scared and there was a certain look of desperation in her eyes.

  Sargon roared and charged at her right off. She skittered backward and almost walked out of the ring.

  Seeing his opportunity, the shifty-eyed light trooper rushed in toward Sargon’s flank. He was fast.

  Unfortunately for him, Sargon was vastly more experienced. Sargon seemed to know where the man was and exactly how he would attack. He whirled around, ducked, and thrust his baton into the man’s belly. There was a crack of electricity and a flash of blue-white light. The recruit ate dirt, puked, and passed out in convulsions.

  Sarah, to my surprise, darted in and actually landed one on Sargon’s shoulder. His left arm went limp, and he spun back to her, howling in pain. I winced, knowing what was likely to happen next.

  But Sargon didn’t destroy her—not utterly. Instead, he kicked out at gut-level and she was tossed ass-over-teakettle right out of the ring.

  It was over, and the crowd cheered. They’d been making quite a bit of noise during the contest, and they went wild when Sarah landed her baton. Even after she was kicked out, her team gathered around her and congratulated her on a good battle.

  Of the three adjuncts, only Leeson looked worried. He’d won, but his man was hurt. The numbness of a shock-baton would fade, but it might take as long as an hour to do so. Sargon might have to fight his next battle with one arm hanging down limply.

  I whistled again, and new combatants trotted out. This time, the light trooper won. That was another surprise. Maybe Harris was right about his people being underrated.

  It soon turned out it wasn’t so. The heavy people started winning consistently, only losing when a weaponeer dared to set foot in the ring. Those troopers that I was most familiar with were wiped out one at a time as well. Carlos lost, Kivi lost, and Natasha lost badly.

  Natasha looked at me from the deck, gasping for breath and showing her teeth. I knew she didn’t approve of this whole business of training by combat. As a tech, it was usually beneath her.

  Soon, everyone in the enlisted ranks had gotten their chance in the ring. The survivors were still around, caring for the others. We’d only had one death, and one serious injury.

  I stood over him and eyed him. He couldn’t hardly breathe right. “Carlos?” I asked. “Prognosis?”

  Carlos limped over and ran instruments over the badly injured trooper. He was one of Toro’s heavies.

  “He’ll be okay in a week or two,” he said.

  “A week or two? You sure?”

  “Yes sir, Centurion.”

  “Okay, get him down to Blue Deck. Tell them it’s a code green.”

  “Will do, sir,” Carlos said, helping the man onto a floating gurney. He guided him toward the exit doors.

  My adjuncts exchanged glances with me, shaking their heads. A code green meant he was to be recycled. That would be tough on him, but I couldn’t afford to have a trooper who was broken up on our drop-date tomorrow.

  “Second heat!” I announced. “Winners only.”

  The mood had somehow turned from jubilant to grim. The survivors now realized they were in serious jeopardy. The more they won, the more they knew they might be too banged up to survive until morning.

  Still, these were Varus legionnaires, not earth-bound hogs. They were tough-minded and naturally mean underneath. A poor mental outlook was a requirement for all our recruits.

  After a series of vicious fights, we were down to our third heat.

  “This is our last round for this stage,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Sargon was thrown into the ring for his last go-round. His arm was still hanging. I didn’t even understand how he’d won the second heat, but the third time was just too much. The other two troops rushed him after giving each other a nod.

  I knew what that meant. They’d made a private deal, probably on their tappers, before the contest had even begun. They beat him down and then went for each other.

  I didn’t even pay attention to who won. Instead, I circled around and checked on Sargon. He was stone dead. They’d both shock-batoned his thick skull, and he’d suffered a massive stroke as a result.

  “It’s for the best,” I told Carlos. “He’ll be fresh as morning rain when we invade the target.”

  “Agreed,” Carlos said. “I’m sure he’ll be singing your praises when he comes out of the oven, sir.”

  At last, it was over. I declared all those who’d won three heats to be winners, with a hundred-credit bonus pay each. There were hoarse cheers, but they sounded exhausted.

  As the day had worn on, several onlookers had come by to see what we were up to. Among them were Graves and a few others sporting the insignia of higher level officers.

  None of them chose to disturb us. Most shook their heads in bemusement and left after watching a few of the beat-downs. Now that we were finishing up, we had quite a crowd of onlookers. I dared hope I’d started a new trend among the cohorts.

  “Now,” I said, looking around at the three platoons. “It’s time for the officers to step-up.”

  “What?” called out Harris. “Did I hear that right? You didn’t say anything about officers participating in this exercise, sir!”

  “I said it was for the whole unit.”

/>   He glowered at me. “Is this going to be a four-way?”

  “Nope,” I said. “A three-way. We’re going up by ranks, remember? Three adjuncts first. I fight the winner.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Harris muttered.

  I didn’t admonish him, mostly because he was right. Whoever won was likely to be injured. They’d have to face me, and I was as fresh as a daisy.

  Harris, Leeson and Toro stripped down and took up fully-charged shock-batons. Through squinched eyes, they peered back and forth at each other.

  At first, the whole thing proceeded with great caution. They all kept their distance from one another, reluctant to engage. Their platoons hollered and slammed their gauntlets together, creating a hammering beat.

  At last, something happened. It took me a second to figure it out. Leeson had caught Toro’s eye and given her a nod in Harris’ direction.

  It was kind of a dirty trick, but it was understandable. One-on-one, neither Leeson nor Toro stood much of a chance against Harris. He was probably the best hand-to-hand fighter in our unit.

  “You bastards!” he shouted at them when they came after him together, but he didn’t back up. He stood his ground.

  As they came in, Leeson faltered in the final rush. Toro got there first, and Harris got down to business. Two blows, that’s all it took. She was stretched out on the dirt by then.

  Leeson had circled around Harris, however, during the exchange of blows. He landed one on Harris’ back, and the bigger man howled.

  Dropping his baton, he grabbed Leeson with both hands and brought him down on one knee. His spine crackled, and Leeson rolled off onto the ground mewling. He was as good as dead.

  “That was quick,” I told Harris. “You ready for the finale?”

  “Bring it on!” Harris told me, breathing hard and picking up his baton again.

  I stepped into the ring, and we closed together for the final battle.

  -23-

  Harris had never been easy for me to take out in a fight. Even today, when he was clearly winded and hurt, I didn’t expect things to go easy.

  Still, I’d invented this contest. I couldn’t chicken out in front of the whole unit. Instead, I walked toward him confidently.

  In response, he eyed me without moving. When I got to within a few meters, he suddenly cocked back his arm and threw his baton at me. The weapon spun end over end. It seemed to flare with a nimbus of energy as it flashed toward me.

  I was too close to dodge. The fraction of a second it would take to duck would be greater than the fraction it would take to reach me.

  My second instinct was to throw up my left arm to block. I didn’t want to lose the use of my right, or worse, drop my baton.

  The shock coursed through me. Damn! I’d forgotten how much these batons hurt when they landed on bare skin. Right about now, I was wishing I’d thought of some other form of training rather than this hellacious competition. My forearm was on fire, as if it’d been branded. It wasn’t numb to pain, but it was unresponsive. I couldn’t even flex my fingers.

  Getting my baton around and putting it between Harris and myself, I gave him a little smile.

  Harris roared at me, and I blinked, bracing myself for a fierce charge—but it never came. Instead, he hopped nimbly out of the ring and shrugged.

  Lowering my weapon, I nodded. He’d played me.

  Sure, the whole unit was groaning in disappointment, but Harris was grinning. He didn’t care if they thought he was chicken—at least not in a sparring match. He’d landed a good shot on me and taken no injury in return.

  “Well now,” I said, “that ends today’s contest. To the survivors, I want to offer my congratulations. Whether you won or lost, you learned something today.”

  “Yeah,” called out one of the Weaponeers, “how to be a pussy.”

  There was a gust of laughter and hisses from the group. I frowned around at all of them. Harris was angry, too.

  I knew what the problem was. Harris had made a mistake as far as leadership was concerned. He’d only been thinking of pulling a fast one on me, as I’d done to all the adjuncts when I’d announced the officers would participate. He hadn’t been thinking about how his actions would look to the troops.

  But all that was water under the bridge now. I had to pull these people together. We had to operate as a team in the morning.

  “Wait now,” I shouted. “Hold on. Adjunct Harris didn’t piss his pants and beg for mercy.”

  Harris’ face split into a snarl at the very idea.

  “He wouldn’t do that in the field—would you, Adjunct?”

  He looked around at the group and blinked. “Nah… I’d have killed McGill if this were for real.”

  A few scoffed, but I didn’t let it go at that.

  “Harris demonstrated strategy,” I said. “He was injured in the first heat. That meant he was at a disadvantage facing me one-on-one. He threw his weapon—yes, that was risky, but what if it had caught me full in the face? Or, if it had numbed up my weapon-arm?”

  I looked around at the group seriously. Harris did the same. He spoke up at last, catching on to the situation.

  “That’s right,” Harris told the group. “I might have won with one surprise strike. If I’d gained the upper hand, then I would have charged in and finished the job. But I failed, so I cut my losses and retreated. It’s all a matter of strategy.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Unit, dismissed. Hit the flesh-printers and the showers after.”

  We broke up and melted away. Harris hung around to talk.

  “That whole thing was a bullshit exercise, sir,” he told me.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I grinned. “I had fun until that last minute.”

  He muttered something unintelligible. Then he spoke up. “Thanks for covering my ass—at the end.”

  “I didn’t do it for your pride,” I told him. “Your platoon has to feel you won’t turn and run out on them in battle.”

  “I would never do that, McGill! You know that first hand.”

  “You’re right, I do. That’s why I told the troops what I told them. Now, let’s get their peckers and their minds right. We’ve got to land on a rock in the morning.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  We marched together down into our unit’s pod, and we made a show of laughing off the day’s contests. That caught many strange glances from the troops, but they seemed to take heart.

  It was good for troops to know their officers were reliable, and that we didn’t hate each other—at least not to a degree that divided us.

  * * *

  That evening, my door chimed just after midnight.

  Sore and troubled, I’d turned in early. There was nothing better than a shower and a good night’s sleep before you were fired like a bullet at a strange world.

  My finger clumsily brushed my tapper, and the door slid away. A woman’s figure stood there.

  I sighed, worried that I knew who it was. I sat up, scratching. This girl Sarah was trouble, through and through.

  “Can I help you, Miss?”

  The woman stepped into my quarters, out of the darkened hallway. I rocked my head back in surprise. It wasn’t anyone I’d expected. It certainly wasn’t Sarah.

  “Tribune Deech?” I asked, shocked. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  The old battle axe herself strode in and looked me up and down. There she was—all polish and creases at this hour. I stood up, but she waved me back down onto my bunk.

  “Were you expecting someone more to your liking?” she asked.

  “Uh… no sir. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t have time to come down here to the pods until this late hour, I apologize,” she said. “But I did see some of that nightmare you perpetrated on your unit today. Are your people in any condition to make the jump tomorrow?”

  “We’ll do more than that, sir,” I said. “We’ll be using rogue scientists as mops by noon.”

  “See that
you do,” she said. “Anyway, I was impressed by how hard-bitten you and your group are. When I asked Winslade which cohort had the toughest troops in the unit, he directed me to Graves. When I talked to him, he pointed the way to your door.”

  “That’s mighty considerate of both of them.”

  She chuckled, catching the irony in my tone.

  “That’s what I thought. In any case, I’ve got an additional mission for you in the morning.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to you to shut down that dome, not just blow a small hole in it.”

  I looked confused, because I was. “How do we do that, sir?”

  “First, you have to get to the dome. If you survive that long, your mission as it stands is to puncture it and stand guard over the hole until the rest of your cohort gets there and enters.”

  I nodded, that was pretty much the way I understood that things were supposed to go.

  “But instead, I want you to press onward. We’ve calculated that after your early strike passes their automated defenses, you might be in disarray—”

  “How’s that, sir?”

  “I mean that a large portion of your unit might be dead by then.”

  This statement surprised me. I’d gotten the impression all along that the mission was supposed to be a cakewalk. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  “But you want me to continue to penetrate the dome—after my mission goals are completed?”

  “That’s right. Instead of guarding the entrance, I want you to press on into the dome.”

  “What’s the reasoning behind this change in orders, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Well, it’s only logical. The element of surprise is a big factor in this operation. Some of the exotic weaponry they have presumably won’t be ready to operate at a moment’s notice. If we can strike them hard and fast, we might actually reduce our casualty count.”

  “I see… so we’re to press on into the dome and—how do we take it down, sir?”

  “The dome isn’t entirely physical. The base is more or less a puff-crete wall. But reaching upward from that root is a field of pure energy. All you have to do is find the power supply and switch it off.”