by B. V. Larson
I relayed that order, but I didn’t have much hope. We’d already deployed motion sensors, optical beams and even sonics. The enemy had slipped through it all.
Worse, they’d managed to take down an average of twenty troops in each of our units along the back of the crater. We’d lost nearly a hundred men, and we’d only killed a handful of them. In some cases, the stealthers had escaped without a single loss.
My eyes turned toward the west. Out there, that’s where they were now, plotting their next move. Clearly, this first attack had been a test. They hadn’t committed their full forces. Estimates were that as few as fifty had done all this damage.
We were in a war of attrition, and so far, they were slightly ahead.
-46-
A transmission came into my helmet about fifteen minutes after I’d talked to Graves about the stealthers. Since the emblem showed the caller was a primus, I assumed that Graves was calling me again.
But it wasn’t Graves.
“McGill?” Winslade’s voice said in my ear. “Is this really Centurion James McGill?”
“Uh… yes sir. What can I do for you, Primus?”
“You can stay dead, that’s what. I don’t understand how you managed to catch a revive at all, much less how you got down to Blood World again.”
“It’s good to hear your voice as well, sir.”
“McGill…” he said, “I saw your name on the rosters just moments ago, and at first I flew into a rage. Now that I’ve recovered, I’m calling to make you an offer.”
“Glad you’re feeling better, sir. What kind of a trade are we talking about?”
“Your existence will be permitted to continue for a small amount of effort. I know cooperation doesn’t come naturally to you, but perhaps your self-preservation instincts will overcome your natural proclivities.”
“I don’t know, sir…” I said thoughtfully. “My instincts are notoriously bad.”
“Indeed. Let me spell it out for you: if you want to get out of the revival queue in good time on your next go-around, you’ll lose this contest. Let the Vulbites win.”
“The Vulbites? What the hell are Vulbites?”
“Seriously? You people still haven’t managed to identify your opponents? I’m disappointed in Graves.”
“Well sir, I don’t know beans about Vulbites, but I have no intention of losing this fight. You do realize that every living Earther on this planet has to die to make that happen, right?”
“Of course I do. But death is merely an inconvenience for Varus legionnaires. I’m shocked you would whine about it. What’s important now is making sure Varus does not proceed to the final round.”
“Ah…” I said, starting to catch on at last. “You’re trying to fix the game, aren’t you? Let’s pretend I’m interested. How am I supposed to throw this battle? I’m only in command of one unit out of ten, you know.”
“Expand your mind,” he said. “Imagine—just for a moment—that you’re not the only officer upon who’s neck I have a functioning lever.”
I frowned. I didn’t like the sound of this at all. If Winslade was going up against Turov, well, anything could happen.
“You’re talking treason, sir,” I said. “You’re aware of that, aren’t you? What you’re suggesting is the worst kind of treachery against your own species!”
He sucked in a breath and let it out in an exasperated sigh.
“No it isn’t, you imbecile. I want Earth to win this game in the end—probably more than you do. The trouble is that I don’t trust the script as it is written. These Blood Worlders are gullible, but there’s a limit. How can they watch two human legions struggling in the final heat and not realize the game was rigged from the start? Our opponents are sure to protest.”
“Oh that,” I said. “You mean Germanica is winning their fights too? I’m surprised. I haven’t seen them fight a single battle in this pit, and none of our observing techs have seen it, either.”
“That’s because more than one arena exists. There’s a similar crater on the far side of the planet—but wait a moment… How did you know Germanica was involved?”
“Well, it stands to reason. Armel’s army of wimps did take second place back at Central.”
“Yes… but I smell a rat, here. A two-meter tall rat with an inflated sense of self-worth.”
“You’d best catch him fast. Rats will tear up an attic—even the wires in your tram, sometimes.”
“Enough with your embarrassing sense of humor. Will you obey me or not?”
“Tribune Deech is supposed to be running this legion. Why don’t you revive her and have her talk to me?”
“Again you express your loyalty to false gods. At least you’re consistent, McGill. Deech will stay dead until this entire affair is at an end. You’d best remember that before you consider crossing me.”
“Hmm…” I said. After a moment’s thought, I did what came most naturally to me: I lied. “I’m going to go with you on this one, Winslade. Sure, I owe you a trip through the revival machine—but I’ll play your game anyway. What do you want me to do, shoot Graves behind the ear?”
“No, no! Nothing so crude and direct, please. Just improvise as you go and stop killing Vulbites effectively. They’ll go on to the final and face Armel. At that point, their fates will be sealed. Agreed?”
“Uh-huh. Have a nice day, sir.”
I moved to disconnect, but the call had already ended. Winslade was like that. Sometimes it seemed like he was in a race to end a call first.
Frowning, I stared at the battlefield. We still hadn’t seen the enemy we were up against. They were like ghosts out there on the cracked sands.
Kivi sauntered up to me and looked me up and down.
“Who was that?” she asked, pointing at my arm.
“What? You saw me look at my tapper? Can’t a man play a bit of porn to relax?”
She put her hands on her ample hips.
“That call wasn’t from Graves. It was from the ship. Who was it?”
That was the trouble with techs, especially the extra-nosy ones like Kivi.
“Wrong number,” I said, turning away. I surveyed the battlefield while she wandered off, frowning.
Her radar was up, and that meant other people were watching me, too. How did Primus Winslade expect me to get everybody killed if they were suspecting me already?
Graves began talking over command chat then, and this time he was talking to all his officers.
“Commanders, we’ve got to get into this game. I don’t see any point to sitting here on the defensive any longer. That didn’t work the first time, and every minute we wait gives the enemy more time to plan out the perfect stealth assault.”
I felt my heart sink. I figured I knew where he was going with this idea.
“We’re going to mount an offensive,” he continued. “Assemble a full platoon from every unit. Advance, seek and destroy. Stay close, but don’t hump each other. This enemy must be flushed out into the open. You’ve got five minutes until go-time. Set your tappers and don’t disappoint. Graves out.”
A general assault? To me, it seemed like a worst-case move. Like something a World War I general would have come up with and transmitted down to the men in the trenches.
On the bright side, maybe we’d lose because of it. Then I could pretend I’d gone along with the plan to make Winslade happy later.
-47-
My first instinct was to send out the light troopers to run like rabbits. The trouble with that was Harris was stone dead, and so were most of his troops.
“I want to make a mixed squad up front,” I announced. “Leeson, you’re in command. Keep those 88s alive and ready to sweep out any surprise attackers we run into. Toro, you’re coming with me. We’ll take all the remaining lights and one squad of your heavies—oh, and give me Sargon too, Leeson.”
“Sargon? He’s my best man on the artillery!”
“Stop complaining,” Toro retorted angrily. “You’ve been sipping
tea in a trench.”
“Unprofessional, people,” I told them.
They did shut up, but I knew it was only temporary. I’m not sure if it was my leadership style, or the fact that Varus had always attracted complainers, but it did seem like my supporting officers were never fully satisfied.
A few minutes later a tone rang out of our tappers, and we charged onto the open field. Advancing into the blowing dust—there was a wind up now—I felt edgy. These stealthers could be anywhere.
We marched a full kilometer before anything happened. That’s when the unit on our flank ran into trouble.
“Contact!” a cry came over tactical chat.
My helmet said the call had been relayed from another platoon about two hundred meters north. We had no visual on them, as there was an intervening outcropping of boulders.
“Let’s take the high ground,” I said, jogging toward the boulders. “Lights, sweep the perimeter of these rocks. Kivi, set up some buzzers.”
“They’re not detecting anything.”
“Well, mark the dead from 4th Unit then. That should clue us in to where the action is.”
She trotted ahead of me with the lights, and I moved with Toro’s heavies in the wake of the faster troops. Toro came to my side.
“This is crazy,” she said. “What the hell are we doing splitting our force and coming at a stealthed enemy piecemeal? It’s like Graves wants to lose this battle.”
My step faltered. I looked at her then I spun around, facing back toward our lines, toward Graves in his central spot behind 5th Unit.
“You’ve got a point there…” I said. “Everybody, hug these rocks!”
We swarmed the wide hump-shaped boulders and crouched on them. From one point of view, we were sitting ducks up there. But if the enemy wasn’t using ranged weapons, they’d have to come uphill to get to us.
The scene on the open ground ahead was a mess. Two platoons were out there, fighting ghosts. Sometimes they got someone, and a wet spot burst into view. But just as often, a trooper was cut down by an invisible meat cleaver.
“Light troops, sniper-mode!” I ordered. “Get to the top of these rocks and pick a man. If he seems engaged, fire at the ground right in front of him.”
They scrambled up and began taking potshots.
“Heavies,” I said, “sling rifles, extend force-blades. Poke at every shadow, leaf or—”
A scream rang out. It was Kivi. She was down at the bottom rung of our rock pile, setting up sensors. She’d been hit, and her arm was off at the shoulder.
But she was a Varus girl, through and through. Shock might come in time, but for right now, she was pissed off. She had out a knife and advanced, slashing ahead of herself wildly, blindly.
Without being told, several of my troops fired bursts around her. A Vulbite popped like a water balloon, and I rushed to the spot.
Carlos was at my side, working on Kivi.
“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Carlos said, “but with a good spray-down, she might be able to function.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m not offing anyone. We’ve got no revival machines in this crater. We’re going to die hard, every last one of us.”
While Kivi panted and groaned, Carlos sprayed nu-skin like there was no tomorrow. A coating of fresh pink cells grew over her stump, adhering to her suit, her hair—everything. Now was not the time for finesse.
In the meantime, I squatted over the Vulbite. It was my first good look at the enemy as we’d crisped most of the others to ash.
Slicing open his silver, rumpled suit, I saw a mess inside. It was… bug-like.
“I hate bugs,” Kivi said. “Especially big bugs.”
“Looks like a centipede,” Carlos said. “But with a wet carapace. Man-sized, wet skin… I’d say this is some kind of aquatic or semi-aquatic creature.”
“Like a frog?” I asked.
“Sort of. It probably lives in a swamp, anyway.”
The thing had curved mandibles. They looked like fangs with fingers at the end. Bulbous black eyes glistened above that horror-show mouth.
“Damn,” I said, “I thought I knew ugly until I saw this thing.”
A few more attacked our line, but with heavies wielding force-blades and lights backing them up at range, the enemy didn’t fare too well. Vulbite’s often got in close and nailed a trooper, but the swords didn’t always pierce the heavy armor. If that initial surprise attack didn’t kill the trooper outright, they were doomed as force-blades slashed laterally where they had to be standing. Cut down in the middle of their segmented bodies, the Vulbites didn’t live more than a few seconds after that.
In case Graves was interested, I relayed my vids including effective tactics to HQ. It didn’t take long after that for him to contact me directly.
“That’s good work, McGill. Your platoon is doing better than most.”
“Maybe that’s because you marched us into a slaughter on purpose.”
Graves didn’t answer immediately, but at last he sighed.
“Winslade talked to you too, huh?”
“That’s right, Primus. I’m surprised you listened to that weasel.”
“McGill, not everyone thinks like you do—not even in Legion Varus, the most independent-minded outfit in Earth history.”
“Sir, Winslade killed Deech. Are you aware of that fact?”
“Is this rumor or what?”
“I was there, sir. I was in her office. Claver was there too.”
“Claver? Are you serious?”
“Yes sir. As God is my witness, this is a plot of some kind.”
Graves sighed again. “Let’s say I decide to believe you, Centurion. Even if you did just wander in late from a tawdry night in Engineering.”
I released a puff of air. “Sir, I died yesterday aboard ship. You caught me returning fresh after an unsanctioned revive, not a night of glory.”
“And how did you get out of that queue at the revival machine if Deech didn’t? Never mind—don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Since we’re laying our cards on the table, I’ll give you a piece of information from Floramel: she says these stealth suits aren’t something to be expected from Vulbites. They don’t have much in the way of advanced tech.”
“Huh…” I said thoughtfully. “That kind of makes sense. Their drop-ship looked kind of low-rent now that you mention it.”
“Exactly. Let’s talk about our current situation. Winslade was legally declared Deech’s exec. We’re honor-bound to follow his orders.”
“That’s why she’s staying dead.”
“Regardless, he’s legally in charge of this legion. Even if we wanted to arrest him, he’s up on Nostrum, and we’re stuck here in a blood-soaked crater.”
“Yeah…” I admitted. “We have to solve that problem first. Here’s my idea...”
I began to outline my strategy, and Graves listened. By the end, he was chuckling.
It did me a world of good to hear his spirits had been uplifted.
-48-
After ordering us to pull back from our first disastrous offensive, Graves reorganized our units. Some platoons were down to ten or less men, and they were folded into other groups to get them up to full strength. By the end of this effort, we had seven units that could fight with near one hundred percent effectiveness.
It was kind of an unusual situation for a Varus force to have to deal with. Generally, after we took heavy casualties, we’d sit back and take a break until our troops trickled back in from the revival machines—but we didn’t have any of those to rely on this time.
Using weaponeers on the front line of our force, Graves ordered them to crank open the apertures on their belchers to maximum dispersal. Set up that way, they were about as effective as flame-throwers. They couldn’t punch through armor, but they could still burn wide swaths of territory.
At the side of each weaponeer on the front line, we had regular troops with guns at the ready. If the belchers lit up a target, ev
eryone had been ordered to blow it down.
The system worked like a charm at first. We advanced slowly, our front line being about three hundred infantry strong. Behind that, we brought everyone. There was no point leaving people behind in holes. Non-combatants dragged 88s in the center of the mob. Our rear guard was made up of a few more weaponeers and heavies with force-blades extended.
“Contact!” boomed a deep voice up ahead. It was one of our weaponeers, a man named Eric Roth.
Ahead of him, the target was obvious. Even when you’re invisible, getting hit by a heavy beam that’s burning at around five hundred degrees centigrade hurts. The enemy transformed into steaming explosions. Alerted, our troops hosed them down with small-arms fire.
We must have killed a hundred Vulbites that way without a loss on our side. They came at us, to be sure, from the front and flanks, even at the rear of our line. But as soon as they were within about a hundred meter range, they were spotted and gunned down.
“That’s the trouble with these sneaky guys,” Roth said with joy in his heart. “They have to get in real close to do any damage. This is working great!”
I should have told Eric not to jinx it. Not to brag so hard that the lords of fate decided they’d had enough—but I wasn’t sure if he’d have listened to such defeatist prattle out of me anyway.
Things changed about when we’d made it halfway across the field. I was impressed to think the enemy had had time to consider our tactic and respond to it so quickly.
All of a sudden, the ground at our feet exploded. Vulbites sprang up out of the ground, hissing and slashing with their overly-long swords.
One did so within a meter of me. It was a shock. One second, there’d been a lot of laughing, happy troops around—feeling an early certainty of victory. The next, a dark patch of sand had exploded, and a blade was flashing.
The sword nearly got me. An overhanded chop came down, shaving off an epaulet of my armor. If I’d been a light trooper or a tech—well, it would have been all over. The monster would have lopped off a quarter of my body—from collarbone to pelvis on the left side.
