“Ready in ninety seconds. Keep watching that monkey in front of you. Make sure your sections have their safeties off, but don’t spook the bad guys. They’re mine.”
— Chapter 17 —
With seconds to go until Force Patagonia unleashed hell on the Hardits, Arun switched his visor view to magnify the image of the Hardit who kept poking his head out of the ferns, twenty meters away.
The alien glanced behind just before the woods erupted into splinters and shredded foliage as the rapid whine… pop of railgun fire raked the enemy militia.
The Hardit dropped its gun and was already slumping to the soft embrace of the ferns before Arun could bring his carbine to bear. Barney tried to give him targeting solutions, but there were no live targets to fire upon.
A few seconds later, Gupta confirmed the inevitable. “All hostiles eliminated, Major. No casualties.”
Arun walked over to the fallen Hardit. Its sunshades were half hanging off its snout, allowing him to stare into the sightless yellow eyes.
He wanted to feel triumph, to bask in the death of a hated enemy. He didn’t. After a half-smile and a brief flash of satisfaction, he felt weights and balances shift a little in his mind. If all the Hardit soldiers were so easily dispatched, then the likelihood of victory notched upward.
He remembered telling Springer years ago that he’d hate to be an NCO because he’d be forever wrapped in doubts that he’d get his Marines killed by giving bad orders. Here he was taking a huge chance in chasing after Spartika, and having calmly discussed the risks of calling on Beowulf for fire support, an action that could turn Tranquility into a burned cinder. And yet he treated these as cold facts to be weighed and balanced before arriving at his next command decision.
When did he get so uncaring? A sociopath?
A de-stealthed Caccamo knelt in front of Arun and picked up the dead Hardit’s sunshades, turning the curious two-tiered item in front of his visor.
He saw other armored figures inspecting the dead.
“We’ve been delayed enough,” Arun transmitted. “Sergeant, resume the advance.”
Caccamo quickly pocketed his trophy and disappeared into the woods as if lashed by hellfire.
Arun looked out for Jennifer Boon, beckoning her over when he spotted her.
Boon knew the drill by now. Even though Arun and every Marine there was laden not only with their own equipment but also spare ammo crates for the greedy GX-cannon, armored Marines could move with a speed and endurance that were inhuman. Boon, though, wasn’t in armor. She rolled her eyes but allowed herself to be picked up by Arun’s powered arms, to be carried like an infant until the next stop.
As soon as Gupta had formed his scouting line to his satisfaction, they set off again in a powered sprint that trampled through the trees so fast that they relied entirely on their suit AIs to nudge their path safely around hazards.
At this pace, they should be at Labor Camp 3 shortly before daybreak.
— Chapter 18 —
An hour before dawn, Force Patagonia rested in a small wood, about forty minutes’ march from the labor camp. Even with the Marines’ low–light vision enhancements, the Hardits were still better adapted for the dark. But the three-eyed aliens would struggle under the full blast of the early morning’s sunlight that would soon burst across the land.
Arun passed through the small group of 22 Marines, trying to offer a word of encouragement here or share a common memory there. Doing so felt like an unnatural performance. When he saw Gupta was performing the same task, but making a better fist of it, Arun left his NCO to it, and sought out his old section buddies.
Since all the Marines were on BattleNet, when Barney read Arun’s intentions he added an arrow inside Arun’s visor showing him the way.
Zug, Springer, and Umarov sat with their backs against a tree, chatting and laughing easily.
Arun settled down next to them.
The laughter cut off instantly.
Despite being encased in poly-ceramalloy armor, Arun could easily read the body language of his buddies. The way they glanced at each other revealed they were uncertain how to respond to this officer’s presence.
Arun hated this officer drent sometimes.
“You know…” he said, casting frantically around for something easy-going to say. “You know, back in the pre-industrial age, soldiers would spend the night before battle sitting around campfires, and feasting on food and drink plundered from the countryside. If our ancestors could see us now, they would think us a sorry bunch. No fire, our armor cooled to ambient temperature. Even our small talk is conducted through microwave comm links.”
“And our feasting is on an intravenous drip,” said Umarov. “Our drink from a tube.”
There came an awkward silence.
“If I were an ancient–” began Umarov.
“You are ancient,” said Arun.
Umarov gave his throaty rattle that passed for laughter. “I’m not that old, son. If I were a general from that era, I’d launch a nighttime raid at the enemy. Catch them when they were busy feasting. Did that happen in history?”
“I don’t know,” said Arun, “but I expect you aren’t the first to think of that idea.”
Springer and Zug remained silent.
Umarov shot to his feet and turned around to berate the two Marines. “What are you thinking of, sitting there like you’re cryo-frozen?” He pointed at Arun. “That’s your friend. He’s not turned into a murdering tyrant, just because he stumbled into an officer’s uniform.”
“Umarov’s right,” said Arun. “Commanding Officer is only a role. Del–Marie is our expert in soft–systems. Zug, you’re our xeno expert, and Umarov’s our expert on ancient history because he was there personally. One role may take on a vital prominence from time to time, depending on circumstances. But none is inherently more important than the others.”
“Well said,” pronounced Umarov. “Although I’m not sure my knowledge of the ancients is ever going to be of vital prominence.”
“Who can know? Remember those Amilx we encountered on the Bonaventure? They looked and talked like you. Maybe that’s the last we’ll see of them, or maybe they will become crucially important, and you’re the key to understanding them.”
“Your new role does make a difference,” said Springer awkwardly.
“You are our friend, still,” added Zug. “You always were, despite our differences when cadets. But you should not fool yourself into believing that now you’re Major McEwan nothing has changed. It has. Never again will you be our section buddy. Not even our squad mate. You are… separated.”
“Since I left Lieutenant Nhlappo and 2nd Lieutenant Brandt to sort out Detroit, it’s just us in Force Patagonia, Zug. We boast 22 Marines and an Aux who is still spitting fury at Lieutenant Nhlappo for booting her ass out of the Corps several years ago. It’s not like I’m commanding a real army.”
Arun sighed. What was the use? Despite what he’d told the others about being the same old Arun, one thing had changed forever. Underneath the bickering and power plays, squad mates had always looked out for each other, and Arun had been no different in this. But now it was different. Now he considered the welfare of his Marines to be one of his primary and explicit responsibilities.
His friends had been laughing together, back before he’d joined them. Now there was awkward silence. Why that should be was a question for another time. What mattered was their welfare, and Arun’s presence was disrupting their downtime.
He got to his feet. “Got to make my rounds,” he said. “Get some rest.”
“Stow it, McEwan,” snapped Springer, with a flash of violet anger. “You can cut that doing the rounds drent. Go somewhere quiet and get half an hour’s sleep. That’s the best way you can help out. Furthermore, that’s a direct order from your friends.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Arun retreated with a smile on his face.
— Chapter 19 —
Temporary. That was t
he impression that came immediately to Arun’s mind as he surveyed the hastily expanded complex of Labor Camp 3 from his concealed position on the low, wooded hill to the north, about three hundred meters from the perimeter fence.
Hardit cities, factories, and transit highways were almost entirely underground, but the monkeys couldn’t ignore the surface entirely. Before being redesignated as a labor camp, the complex had been a regional Hardit center for surface operations. Like all Hardit surface bases and the routes that connected them, the area had been planted with woodland, the tree species engineered to spread a wide and absorbent canopy to protect those below from the sun’s dangerous rays.
That explanation had come from Jennifer Boon, the guerrilla fighter who lay in the bracken within earshot, using binoculars to emulate the flexible lensing of a Marine helmet visor. Arun had questions for her, but they had to wait. His fury at how the Hardits had treated their human captives felt like roiling acid burning at the back of his mind, threatening to consume him with rage. Since his treacherous twin brother had left Arun’s body swimming with nano-scale med-bots, he could no longer get any effect from combat drugs. He missed asking Barney to administer something, because right now, Arun was too angry to speak.
The wood had been cut back to extend the camp’s footprint, and a perimeter fence added, peppered with watchtowers. The space had been cleared for two cages, each of which held several thousand men and women. Gaps left between the cage bars were wide enough to squeeze through, and it was the laser fence around each cage that kept the humans penned within.
As Arun surveyed the cages, he realized that the bars overhead were pipes that released a light mist over the human captives underneath, that the cages were there to house the spray mechanism, not to stop the slaves escaping.
The humans were housed naked, their slick skin glistening with the spray’s coating. Arun guessed that the mist was the nanite film he’d been given every morning when he was based at Detroit before the civil war. The oils infused with microscopic machines provided smart protection from the sun’s dangerous rays.
Arun couldn’t feel any gratitude for this demeaning Hardit care of their captives. Without the tree canopy to soak up the sunlight, the naked humans shone: vibrant shades of livid purple from bruises, and crimson welts that crisscrossed many backs. The sun picked out the thrusting collarbones, ribs, and knees of the emaciated prisoners. It was the sight of the women that sickened him the most. The way their shrunken skin was pulled so taut across the tops of their pelvises that their hips threatened to burst.
Temporary. It wasn’t just that the human cages were a stopgap while more permanent accommodation was built. There were no signs of construction at the camp, or anywhere in the vicinity. Either these labor camps were temporary holding areas before relocating the human slave workers underground or... Arun shuddered. He had first-hand experience of Hardit callousness. A more chilling explanation was that the Hardits regarded the slave workers in the camp as a temporary oversupply.
And supply would naturally fall to meet demand.
“Something’s up,” said Boon. “Doesn’t look like any have been sent out to work today. Look at the heap of clothing outside of each cage. Workers grab clothing as they’re sent out. Usually there’s none left over.”
“Good,” said Lance Sergeant Hecht, having overheard because Arun had set his comm set to retransmit what he was hearing from Boon. “There will be more of those poor vecks for us to rescue.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Hecht added: “Rescuing those workers will be hard enough. Are we sure we want to risk their freedom by also sticking our heads down those tunnels in a look see for—?”
Hecht’s voice cut off; Barney reported that he was no longer on the command network. That would be Gupta’s doing, the senior sergeant silencing a junior NCO who was questioning Arun’s orders.
The lance sergeant had a point. Arun turned his attention away from the slave pens and inspected the original Hardit buildings. There were two windowless block houses, larger versions of the woodland building from which Spartika had been snatched. Between the two block houses was a broad ramp spiraling down into the ground. It looked identical to the primary helixes that were the main vertical highways connecting the levels of Detroit.
For all they knew, the complex could extend underground for miles. Squadrons of heavy armor could be waiting to charge out of that helix, just as soon as the Marines showed themselves.
“Any idea which one will house Spartika?”
“There are eight Resistance fighters unaccounted for,” Boon reminded him. “Not just Spartika. If they’re alive, they will be underground. Think of those as entrances as the surface gates at Detroit. They all connect up underground.”
“Sir, please confirm,” said Gupta. “Freeing the slave workers is of secondary importance. Our primary mission objective remains the rescue of Spartika and her guerrillas.” He added, pointedly: “If they are still alive.”
“They are my comrades,” said Boon.
“I understand,” said Gupta. “They could well be your dead comrades. That’s war. Deal with it.”
Arun glanced across at Boon. Her face was tight-lipped with anger.
“Well, Major?” Boon prompted. “What is your answer?”
“I’m not risking our mission to retake Tranquility on any of you,” he answered. “Not me. And not Spartika. But our actions today will lead to Hardit retribution, and my judgment is that Spartika will be best placed to mold anyone we liberate into a fighting force, and in the shortest time. I say we take the risk.”
Arun cringed at his poor choice of words. I say we take the risk. It sounded as if he were asking their permission. This was supposed to be a fighting unit, not a democracy.
He continued, managing to sound more authoritative. “Heavy Weapons Section will remain here on the hillside to provide fire support and hold this position as the primary rendezvous point. We disable the laser fence around those cages and blast the watchtowers with missiles. In the confusion we move in. We take and hold the nearest of the two blockhouses while scouting underground for Spartika. Boon, I want you with us to identify Spartika.”
“We don’t know what we will encounter,” said Gupta. “So we need to react quickly to events on the ground.”
“Of course,” said Arun.
“So it’s just as well that your post with Command Section has a good viewpoint of the field of operations, at least of the surface. Once I’m underground I’ll be blind to what’s happening topside.”
Arun cheeks felt hot under Gupta’s stinging rebuke. Arun had assumed his place was with the group combing the underground levels to locate Spartika, not coordinating his unit from the ridge. Gupta was right, of course.
“Sergeant Gupta, you will lead Hecht and Kalis’s sections into the camp, while I direct operations from here with Command Section. Your main objective is to rescue Spartika, but let me make one point clear. It is likely that the enemy we face today will be Hardit militia. They are reluctant combatants, but you are to show them no mercy whatsoever. I want a message sent today, a message written with Hardit corpses. I want Hardits all over the planet to fear us, to fear our vengeance if they dare to mistreat humans. Slaughter them all. No Hardit left alive. Any questions?”
No one queried him.
“Good luck, sir,” said Gupta after a few moments of silence. Then he slid away, soon disappearing from LBNet when the trees cut out line-of-sight comms.
Arun had 21 Marines to carry out this operation. He gave a caustic laugh when he imagined how Indiya would react if she knew what he was about to do. She’d think him mad, but then she wasn’t a Marine; she hadn’t been bio-engineered for violence. Arun couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to bring war upon the enemy. All the others in his command would be feeling just as hungry for the fight; it was what they had been built to do.
Twenty-one Marines. That was more than enough to make the Hardits pay for their crimes. In blood.
/> — Chapter 20 —
For two minutes, Springer fought the urge to turn and look. She had plenty to keep her occupied. Her battlesuit was scent-sealed and in camo-mode, but the terrain meant full stealth would have been impossible even if her suit had the power reserves to try. Her section threaded their way along woodland paths cleared by animals who had the sense to keep well out of sight. Every footstep was a risky decision. Three hundred-and-eighty pounds of armored Marine couldn’t help but snap twigs, crush ferns, and leave boot prints. Springer did the best she could, but her lack of training let her down, and for the first time, so too did the left leg she’d left behind on Antilles. She’d worked long and hard with her new AI, Saraswati, to calibrate her suit to roll and walk, relying on the AI to place her empty left boot correctly.
But creeping silently was another matter.
Corporal Kalis, who was in command of 2nd Section, must have realized stealth was a lost cause because he continuously urged them to speed up, the time for caution over.
Springer was close enough to the start line that Saraswati began to outline her deployment point in green. Her heart raced at the sight. What would the next few minutes bring? Would she live to see the next day? She was a Marine, combat was her natural element, but this would be the first serious action she had seen dirtside since losing her leg. Could she still cut it? Or would she prove the weak link that let everyone down? A gnawing absence brought such doubts sharply into focus when she should be barely able to control her excitement. The missing part was Arun. He was supposed to be the one with all the emotions but she had always had a bit of that too, and right now she wished she didn’t. She was buddied up with Umarov today, but for years she had been used to having Arun by her side.
She turned and looked — back up the gentle slope. She couldn’t see Arun, of course, but he was up there somewhere. It felt wrong to not share the danger shoulder to shoulder, but she had to accept that those times were over. She didn’t deserve Arun. Not after the lie she’d told him all these years.
Renegade Legion (The Human Legion Book 3) Page 7
