“Thank you, Nhlappo. Anything else?”
“Yes… Major, I am proud to serve in this Human Legion Expeditionary Force on our mission to reconquer Tranquility. With you at our head, we can win this campaign. But…” She gave a sharp intake of breath. “If you die, that magic dust you sprinkle will die with you. You’ll leave me as an NCO in an officer’s uniform in charge of a handful of half-trained Marines pretending to be an army. Since I don’t have your semi-divine status and the favor of the gods, it’s not a command I want.”
“I won’t die, Nhlappo.”
“Make sure you don’t, sir.”
“Relax, Lieutenant. Tremayne and the Hummers see me messing with the White Knights for many years to come. I can’t die today.”
“You and your mystical frakking bullshit, sir. Whenever I hear that our lives depend on your fairy-tales, I want to test that emotional limiter in our heads that stops me pulling out my plasma pistol and blowing my head off.”
“Then try these facts for size, Lieutenant, seeing as your spirit is so lacking. My intelligence is that the Hardits are reluctant conscripts with no idea how to fight. We saw it ourselves two years ago when a handful of cadets and Marines defeated the insurrection on Antilles. All the Hardits have in their favor is superior numbers. Our success rests on us liberating and arming enough human slaves that by the time the Hardits rouse themselves to action, we’ll have evened up the imbalance in numbers. I tell you, Hardits will never make good soldiers.”
Arun hoped he sounded more certain of things than he felt. He wasn’t afraid, not for himself, but despite his words to Nhlappo he was conscious that his every decision affected not only the lives of those under his command now, but, just possibly, the future of the human race.
— Chapter 14 —
Labor Camp 3 – Hidden New Order training camp
The Hardit soldier entered its side of the combat arena at the same time as its opponents were pushed through the other.
The soldier dismissed these adversaries as male deserter scum, so far beneath contempt that this match was almost insulting, even though the lone soldier faced ten opponents in this fight to the death. And the deserters were armed with single-shot muskets.
The solider smelled the male musk of the cowering fools, and for a moment, the sexual scent put her off balance.
Until the soldier had been gifted the removal of its sex, it had been a female. But it was beyond gender now… a foot soldier of the New Order. A janissary.
Walking calmly toward the deserters, the janissary gloated in dreams of the future, a future it would help bring about.
He against she. Clan against clan. The once-strong Hardit race had been undermined by a degenerate slave-owning elite who had set Hardit against Hardit for millennia.
No more.
“One world!” barked the janissary. “One people!” The soldier broke into a run, straight at the deserters. “One scent!”
It wasn’t until the janissary was 30 paces away that three of the deserters finally found the courage to raise their muskets.
The janissary noted their scents for they were the danger, and would die first. Truthfully, it was three-to-one odds, if that.
Slowing a little, the janissary let out dominance scent, lifting its lips to reveal a sneering snout filled with sharpened teeth, taunting the deserters to fire at this distance.
The deserters took aim.
At what it judged the last moment, the janissary dodged to one side and rolled.
Lead slugs zipped through the air. One caught the janissary’s left arm. The impact-absorbent fabrics in the janissary uniform absorbed most of the impact, but that arm was out of action for this fight.
Stinking with fear, the other deserters finally raised their weapons.
But they had left it too late. Their crackle of wild shots was no more than a musical accompaniment to the janissary, as it leaped through the air with teeth bared and the claws of its right hand extended.
The result was no longer in doubt.
A growling hum of pleasure resonated in the air as the arena began to fill with the intoxicating scent of freshly spilled blood.
“A most satisfying result,” pronounced one of the dignitaries observing from the comfort of the viewing suite. “With an army of janissaries at your command, Supreme Commander, you shall soon be the power in this planet.”
“No, Zwiline.”
Commander Zwiline emitted odors of nervousness and confusion.
“Your mind is still caught by the snares of the old ways,” explained the Supreme Commander. “Free your mind. Let it soar in the slipstream of my ambition. Yes, I shall be the authority in, on, and above this planet. But why stop there? From this modest base beneath Labor Camp 3, hidden beneath a cover of the human slave filth, our New Order will rise to claim its place in the galaxy.”
Zwiline knew better than to interrupt, instead raising her right fist in salute.
The Supreme Commander rose from her seat, eyes glazing briefly as she gazed into a glory-strewn future. “The White Knight civil war will give us our chance,” she proclaimed. “Soon the stars themselves shall tremble at my name: Tawfiq Woomer-Calix.”
— PART II —
Liberation!
Human Legion
— INFOPEDIA —
Category: Equipment
— ACE Battlesuit AIs
At the heart of the Armored Combat Exosuit (ACE) series of battlesuits is the plate holding the suit’s artificial intelligence. Indeed, the AI is literally at the suit’s heart, spending most of its existence submerged beneath a heavily armored band around the wearer’s chest. The AI’s plate can surface through the armor for removal, either for storage, evacuation from a damaged suit, or to be inserted into another device.
The AI’s role is to marshal the constant stream of sensor data and control the suit’s myriad functions while advising and assisting its human wearer. Some liken the relationship to the AI taking on the role of an army of veteran NCOs, while the human inside plays the role of junior officer: in command, but not so much in control. Ceaseless training between the human, the AI, and the suit they are paired into pays off when the AI starts to anticipate the commands of its wearer, and to emphasize the most critical threats and opportunities in the wearer’s helmet visor.
The anticipation can become so effective that many people have questioned the need for the human wearer at all, but there is an unshakable psychological need in the AI to play a supporting role to its human commander. To the AI, making decisions independent of its human’s orders is unthinkable, although the AI will take temporary control if its human is psychologically or physically unfit.
Some believe the suit AIs are grown from the souls of fallen comrades – or implanted with the mind and personality recordings of dead Marines. It is difficult to verify the truth of this as the means of construction are a carefully guarded secret.
Marines often use the word ‘telepathy’ to describe the way they communicate with their AIs. This is also difficult to prove one way or the other, but what is certain is that AIs communicate with their humans through multiple channels and with a great deal of redundancy to weather extreme conditions and the constant threat of cyber-attack. The link is deepened by wetware implants in the Marine that are designed specifically to interface with the AI. The result is a deep symbiotic link that is so intimate that the human often cannot be sure whether they are communicating by sub-vocalizing, or thinking words, or indeed whether an idea originated in the human or the AI mind.
When first introduced to each other, the AI will quickly adapt its personality to complement its wearer, shifting its temperament to match the human’s. For example, with a Marine who has just suffered a devastating loss, the AI may appear empathetic and caring, even maternal. If a danger appeared unexpectedly, the same AI might instantly switch to yelling at its wearer in the cruelest of manners in order to get them to move out of danger.
Over time, though, the AI will
settle into its own personality, and will struggle to switch tone so rapidly. The final personality is a reflection of its wearer’s, an alter-ego. For some humans, this means an AI who acts like an identical twin, because their psychological need is for an ally who thinks like they do. For others, the AI acts like an ever-critical drill instructor, because their need is to be told what they already know they must do. These are just two simple examples. In practice the relationship with their suit AI is more complex and intimate than most humans ever experience with the men and women of their own kind.
Through cyber-attack or physical damage, it is possible for an AI to be rendered inactive. The wearer of a battlesuit will have trained to operate the powered armor without AI assistance, but even the best can do so at a fraction of the efficiency of the AI. Some facilities are completely impossible to replicate. For example, a Marine aiming and firing their SA-71 carbine will be used to their AI adjusting the precise position of the weapon and activating the motive power in the suit to compensate for recoil not dampened by the carbine itself.
The reverse can also be true. If its wearer dies, some AIs can control the battlesuit with a dead or unconscious human inside. Even these AIs must fight a constant battle against insanity that they will lose as soon as any immediate crisis has passed. Two pieces of evidence suggest this slip into insanity has been designed in. Firstly, an AI who believes their partner to be fit and well can be stored indefinitely in a dormant state separately from its human (even Marines don’t wear powered armor all the time). Secondly, a few rare examples of centuries-old AIs have been uncovered that are sane enough to be successfully paired up with multiple new human operators.
The design and function of the battlesuit AI still holds many mysteries. Nonetheless it is certain that the Marines would not exist in their modern form if not for the intimate link to their suit AIs. In this, the sometimes cantankerous AI is the ultimate best friend of the Marine, even more so than the SA-71 carbine.
This infopedia section was extracted from humanlegion.com
— Chapter 15 —
The alien pushed its head once more out of the cover of the ferns and sneered at the direction of Command Section twenty meters away, letting Arun study the face of his enemy.
A lip-curling expression of contempt for anyone and anything non-Hardit revealed a snout filled with more teeth than seemed possible.
Arun remembered that expression well. He had spent a week in the clutches of Tawfiq Woomer-Calix as an Aux slave and barely escaped with his life. But there was something different about this Hardit idiot who kept showing its head above cover.
For a start, this was the first of the deep-dwelling Hardits that Arun had encountered on the planet’s surface. Two over-sized eyes peered out along its snout, and a third was set higher up near its forehead. Presumably they were the same sickly, sulfurous color as Tawfiq’s, but this individual’s were shielded by two-tier sunshades the thickness of Arun’s thumb.
Although humans referred to these creatures as ‘monkeys’, ‘wolf-men’ would be a more accurate description, despite the long, gripping tail Hardits used to hold items while on the move.
This Hardit was nervous. At least, that was Arun’s interpretation of the way it glanced behind every few seconds, as if checking its escape route, or was unwilling to see what was in front.
And it could certainly see and smell Jennifer Boon who was kneeling alongside Arun, and whispering that they should wait out this encounter. The Hardit could probably sense that other humans were nearby, even though it couldn’t smell its way through the scent-seals of the Marine battlesuits.
Occasionally it seemed to be threatening the humans when it presented its armament for all to see, on the end of its gripping tail. It was a rifle or musket that had been fashioned crudely out of metal and plastic in a hidden workshop. It certainly wasn’t mil-spec, but the weapon might be more powerful than it appeared. The Hardits were as renowned for their engineering skills as they were their disdain for the creations of other species.
Arun couldn’t bear it any longer. His force needed to press on to the labor camp where they hoped to find Spartika. He decided he would allow the Hardits to hear him, and spoke to Boon.
“What’s going on?” he asked her. “Why are they letting themselves be seen?”
Boon kept her reply to a soft whisper “We’ve seen this before, Major. They hate being on the surface. They detest their leaders. They are consumed with self-loathing–.”
“So, they have morale issues. Doesn’t explain why they let themselves be seen.”
“What I’m trying to tell you is that they don’t want to fight, but they also can’t swallow their contempt for humans enough to hide from us. When we’ve encountered militia patrols before, they glare and snarl for a while, just to make some kind of point — probably that they can track us if they want to — and then they slink away and let us proceed.”
“So we let Tawfiq’s friends slow us down while they take Spartika away. Is that what you propose?”
“They aren’t Tawfiq’s friends at all. Besides, that one’s a male. You can tell by its slighter frame, and the way its snout is more triangular, less cylindrical. The two sexes can’t tolerate each other.”
“Then this militia band doesn’t report to Tawfiq.”
“Correct. They’ll have a separate male chain of command.”
Well why didn’t you say so? Arun shook his head, but didn’t waste any more time in a fruitless argument with this Resistance idiot. Instead, he talked to the most experienced veteran there.
“Sergeant Gupta, these monkeys… can we take them?”
“They’re bunched up, sir. Either they’re hopeless fighters, or are trying to trick us into an ambush.”
“I don’t think they’re that subtle,” said Arun. “After all, they aren’t expecting to face a disciplined military force. Assume they’re as dumb as they look.”
“In that case, sir, I’ve already tasked 1st and 2nd Section to stealth up and flank them. If you can keep their attention on Command and Heavy Weapons Sections, we should be in position in about fifteen minutes.”
“Very good, Sergeant. Wipe those vermin off the face of our planet.”
— Chapter 16 —
Like the rest of Command and the Heavies, Arun moved around every so often, to keep the attention of the Hardit militia. Meanwhile he kept an eye on tac-display showing 1st and 2nd Sections edging their way into position around the enemy flanks.
There were eight Marines in 2nd Section, but his eyes kept returning to one of the blue dots in his 2-D view of the battle. That dot represented Springer. She was buddied up with Umarov. The Old Grognard was better trained than any of Arun’s class, but that didn’t stop Arun wishing for a simpler life where someone else was in Command Section, and he was what he had trained to be: a Marine with an SA-71 and powered armor creeping through cover alongside his buddy.
Barney whispered into Arun’s mind that he was receiving an incoming transmission. It was Indiya calling from the Kuiper Belt – the ring of dirty snowballs at the outer edge of the star system.
Arun thanked Fate for the interruption to his thoughts.
“Go ahead.”
“Been monitoring a flare in Hardit comms chatter,” said Indiya. “Arun, I get the impression you’ve taken it upon yourself to move beyond a recon mission. I’m bringing Beowulf in-system so we can provide support if required.”
“I don’t think we’ve stirred up the enemy yet, but… very well, Captain Indiya. Bring your ship nearby.”
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic, will you?”
“I’m not. You’re our reserve, Indiya. There’s no one left but you.”
“Reserves serve no purpose unless their commander is prepared to commit them. Not that you command my ship.”
“I suppose you’re right in your first point,” said Arun. “We haven’t time to go over the second, but only because this FTL channel has a limited amount of traffic before we bu
rn up all of our entangled chbits. Seeing as you’re coming close, how are your specials progressing with their fire support idea?”
“Ready to go,” Indiya replied. “Don’t call on us unless you have to. We haven’t given this a practical test. And, Arun, the Reserve Captain and I have both studied millennia of battle reports. No one has successfully weaponized a starship engine before. If we get it wrong, not only could we lose the ship, the theoretical model predicts a 5% chance that if we’re in orbit, we will ignite Tranquility’s atmosphere in an unstoppable chain reaction.”
Arun sucked in his breath. Indiya had directed Beowulf’s zero-point engines on the rebel ship, Themistocles, with devastating results. Even in the innovation-averse empire of the White Knights, it seemed impossible that no one else had thought of using engines as a weapon. “Okay, I get it. There’s a small chance that I’ll kill everyone. Assuming we don’t create Armageddon, what’s the chance of it obliterating anything in its effect cone? Give me a percentage chance of success.”
Indiya clicked her tongue as she thought. “It’s too uncertain,” she said. “Furn and Finfth both agree it will work, and for those two to agree on anything is unprecedented.”
“I’m not asking them, Captain. I need a single number from you.”
“80% chance of success.”
“Good enough.”
“Are you actually going to use it?”
“Let’s hope I don’t have to. But I won’t hesitate if that’s what it takes. McEwan out.”
Arun cut the precious FTL link and opened a connection to Gupta, who had kept close enough to stay in contact via suit-to-suit tight beams. “Sergeant, what’s our monkey status?”
Renegade Legion (The Human Legion Book 3) Page 6
