Til Valhalla

by Richard Fox

  Nausea rose as his limbs went numb. His nervous system readjusted to coping with just his body, a sensation he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to.

  Amniosis poured out of his mouth and nose. He beat against his diaphragm to expel the last of the fluid and took a ragged breath. He sputtered, wiping more of the fluid away.

  “They don’t put that part in the recruitment vids, do they, trooper?” an accented voice asked. A man with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks smiled at him from the open womb hatch. He wore a slouch hat with an emu feather, a chrome crest on the center.

  Roy tried to speak but gagged on the last of the amniosis.

  “We’re shorthanded round here,” the man said, tossing a towel to Roy. “Didn’t expect you or the other to just walk in. Lads will cycle your fluid and top off your bats and bullets. You didn’t bring anything to wear, did you?”

  Roy touched his skin suit, little more than a neoprene layer to regulate body temperature, and shook his head.

  “Death…” he rasped, “before dismount.”

  “Ha!” The man slapped the side of the womb. “Forgot you seppos had that kind of spirit.” He turned away, and Roy saw metal rings on the base of his skull. He was Armor too.

  Turning back, he reached in and shook Roy’s limp hand. “I’m Payne. Cheers. Hey!” He waved to someone below him. “See if there’s another spare set of coveralls in the locker.”

  Roy rose to a crouch, his legs uneasy, and tried to climb out. His hands didn’t want to grasp the sides properly, and he slunk back against the womb.

  “Look at you.” The man frowned. “Must be…you must be a real greenie. Disconnect wobblies should go away after a few months.”

  “I just graduated from the Armor School,” Roy said. “Technically graduated. There were a few waivers.”

  “Fuck me running.” The man shook his head. “It that bad back in your part of the world they got to send some peach fuzz like you to fight?”

  “Our deployment here was a bit rushed.” Roy shrugged. “I was in the barracks when Captain Sigmund grabbed me and told me to mount up. Time to fight. That was about six hours ago.” He crawled out of the womb with Payne’s help.

  Roy blocked the overhead lights with one hand as Payne held his other arm. He stepped onto a corrugated metal walkway that hurt his bare feet, then propped himself against his Armor and looked up. His suit was in a maintenance bay that surrounded the Armor like an open coffin. The ceiling was rock, scarred by chisels and blast marks.

  There were more Armor in the bay. He recognized the two Australian suits from the fight at Tingoora, Sigmund’s, and a fifth—a patchwork of new graphenium steel plates and factory-fresh parts mingling with the battered original suit.

  They stood on a raised walkway, level with the suit’s waist. Below, maintenance crews moved carts of equipment, battery packs, and ammo to the base of his Armor’s station. Some of the crew glanced up at Roy, scowling. One tossed up a shrink-wrapped, tan package.

  Payne caught it and looked it over. His face fell and his shoulders slumped forward. He dropped the package to the catwalk and slunk away.

  “Something wrong?” Roy asked, picking up the package.

  “No one asked you to fight!” came from the other side of the room.

  On the walkway next to Sigmund’s Armor, a man with long blonde hair squared off against a woman in a skin suit. Roy watched her thrust her legs into a pair of coveralls and zip herself up, but the man’s response was lost to distance and the noise of the maintenance bay.

  Roy didn’t envy Sigmund as the woman’s vitriol continued. She kept up a harangue as she dressed until Payne got to her side, then she lost all interest in Sigmund.

  Roy hooked a thumb into the shrink wrap and tore it open. Coveralls flopped out, still stained with grease and bearing a name tape with HOLDEN on it. A pair of boots, their laces tied together, hit the railing and landed next to him.

  “Thank you,” said Roy, waving over the side of the catwalk as he stepped into the coveralls. He moved fast, slightly embarrassed that he was in full view of everyone while wearing next to nothing.

  “Are you the pom or the seppo?” the woman asked as she came around the catwalk, stopping with her hands on her hips. Roy did a double take at her face. A Chinese character was tattooed over her left eye, forehead, and the bridge of her nose. Payne was just behind her.

  “Actually, just Roy,” he said. “I take it you’re ‘Digger’? Is that your name or does Australian Armor use call signs? Like pilots?”

  “You sure he was in that suit?” she asked the other Armor. “He didn’t sneak out of a nursery?”

  Payne wiped his face and looked away.

  “Your mother know you’re here?” she asked Roy.

  “I’m twenty—almost—thanks, didn’t get your name. Or rank.” He zipped up his coveralls and Digger’s face contorted with anger.

  “Where did you get that?” She grabbed him and tore the name tape off. “Just waltz in here and think you can kick your feet up like you’re in charge? Not here to fuck spiders, are you?” She passed the name tape to Payne, then leaned over the railing.

  “Do what to spiders?” Roy asked.

  “Oye!” she waved to the techs. “You lot can go kill a slate of V-B before you worry about these seppo tin cans,” she said. There was a clink of dropped tool bags and the snap of cart brakes. The techs left without a second look.

  “Don’t touch anything else,” she said, shouldering past Roy, Payne a few steps behind her.

  Roy put the boots on, not caring about the lack of socks. Sigmund stayed by his suit, tapping on a slate, until the last of the Australians were gone, then he marched over to the junior Armor.

  “Was it something I said?” Roy asked, tightening his laces.

  “Who are you?” Sigmund crossed his arms over his chest. The Norwegian had a distinctly Viking air to him with the long hair, filled-out chest and shoulders, and a beard that reached almost to his chest.

  Roy touched the rip on his overalls where the name tape had been. “I’m a little confused, sir. Did she—”

  Sigmund grabbed Roy and slammed him against his suit. “Who are you?” Sigmund shouted.

  “Armor! I am Armor!” Roy didn’t struggle, but as he looked at Sigmund’s angry face, his words were tinged with fear.

  Sigmund let Roy go.

  “I can’t tell,” Sigmund said, tapping the rings on the back of his head. “If you didn’t have these, I’d be certain you weren’t Armor. Because out there, you had the chance to close with and destroy the enemy and you hesitated.”

  “The targeting data was—”

  “You froze! You knew there was a missile launcher locked on to me and you didn’t shoot because you were worried about civilian casualties.”

  Roy opened his mouth, then looked away.

  “Who are you?” Sigmund asked.

  “I am Armor!” Roy straightened up.

  Sigmund beat a fist against Roy’s suit. “Were you afraid? Look what you fight in. You are a walking engine of death and destruction and you hesitated. You are not some crunchy that should be terrified of every bullet on the battlefield. Armor are the avatar of war. The force of decision. You are obviously not ready for this, Roy. It was a mistake to bring you to this fight.”

  “What? No, sir! This was…was my first fight. The scram jet, the terrain, it was disorienting and I-I—”

  “Colonel Carius told me to bring one more warrior to this mission and I had hopes for you, Roy, I really did. I thought you were like your brother.”

  “He…” Roy’s jaw worked from side to side, grinding with pent-up emotion. “He was a good man, sir.”

  “He was. It was wrong of me to say that.” Sigmund let his hands fall to his side. “I survived. You survived. Not a loss for your first look at the elephant. You do understand what will happen if you lock up again?”

  “You or I could be killed,” Roy said, looking over at the half-rebuilt Armor.

 
“We could get killed, even if we do everything right. You seize up and it’s almost certain. Then the Atlantic Union loses a suit. Loses all the time, money and effort that went into training us. We, the ones with spikes, are rare. The suits are only marginally harder to replace. Every one of us is crucial to the war effort. But the worst thing—the only thing worse than death—is failure, bean head. Do you understand that? We screw up and die, then the mission’s in jeopardy. We fail, more people will die because of us. We fail, we will not be worthy of Valhalla.”

  Roy bit his bottom lip.

  “I know you don’t share my faith,” Sigmund said, “but the sentiment stands. And that ethos is part of the Armor Corps.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “We are Armor. We attack and we destroy. Default aggressive. Is there any confusion on this issue?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Then let’s go find the Light Horse and see about getting back to the fight.”

  ****

  “Do not piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.” Digger slapped a fist against a holo console.

  The command center was a ring of see-through TAC boards placed around the console, and Australian officers and soldiers clustered around Digger, Payne, and the two Telemark soldiers. A holo of a burly brigadier general looked at Digger impassively as a name card bearing his ID, Calhoon, floated next to his head.

  “This situation’s a hell of a lot worse than a bit of piss, Light Horse,” the general said. “Captain Sigmund, is it?”

  “Sir.” The Armor stepped up next to Digger.

  “My HQ in Canberra is still trying to make heads or tails of this, but I’ve got the gist. Why don’t you tell us why the Atlantic Union dropped you in my command sector without clearing it with me first? If I’d had the air defense to take out your scram jets, I probably would’ve.”

  “Canberra and the Atlantic Union are in talks,” Sigmund said. “Direct talks to bring Australia into the Union.”

  A profanity-laced grumble broke out amongst those assembled. Even General Calhoon raised an eyebrow.

  “Did you know about this?” Digger spat at Calhoon.

  “Rumors,” he said. “Classified rumors. Which seem to be true.”

  “There was a security breach and the Chinese learned that there’s a vote scheduled in the Australian Parliament and Union Congress to ratify the incorporation,” Sigmund said. “Beijing ordered a full invasion in response.”

  “Parliament did what?” Digger put fingertips to her temples, feigning a headache. “They can’t just hand over our sovereignty without taking this to the people.”

  “The Atlantic Union is primarily a joint military and mutual defense organization,” Sigmund said. “More like NATO before it dissolved. Less intrusive than the old United Nations tried to be before it was disbanded. I’m from Norway. Roy is American. We fight for each other’s peoples to live free.”

  “Utah, specifically,” Roy said, giving a slight wave.

  “Bullshit.” Digger shook her head. “The Atlantic Union’s just an excuse the American crusaders used to bring in all the countries they ‘liberated’ under their control. They couldn’t rope us in back before World War III started against the Chinese. This is just how they’ll—”

  “We don’t have time for conspiracy theories,” Sigmund said.

  “Actually, the Atlantic Union was formed after the Crusade’s official end,” Roy chirped up. “Member states voted to…you know what? I’ll be quiet now.”

  “Diplomacy’s up to the prime minister,” Calhoon said.

  “Discussion is one thing,” Sigmund said, holding up a small data slate, “but there is a larger issue.”

  “Larger than the half million Chinese soldiers occupying the northern coast?” Roy asked. “Larger than them launching a new offensive?”

  “Yes.” Sigmund tapped the corner of his slate to a reader on the console and a password screen came up. He tapped in a code then said, “Thos, av din styrke. Ved ditt ord. Dan Sigmund.”

  The holo morphed to a globe, with Australia and China in view. Calhoon’s projection shifted to one side. A diamond pulsed over the southern coast of China, near Hainan Island.

  “This is classified material, but I’m authorized to share it with you,” Sigmund said. “Nine hours ago, the Atlantic Union learned that the Chinese Politburo authorized the deployment of a Damocles-class battle station.”

  He tapped the diamond and the holo zoomed in, revealing a half dome floating miles above Earth, clouds beneath it. The lower edge was a glowing ring, and cannon emplacements dotted the upper surface.

  “What…what are we looking at here?” Calhoon asked.

  “This is the Chi-com’s next attempt at suborbital artillery,” Sigmund said. “The last such device was the Lingchi, which bombarded Hong Kong back in ‘59 and killed over seven million people.”

  “And the old American Air Force destroyed it,” Digger said, her eyes darting from the Damocles to where it was on the globe. “The Chi-coms signed the Treaty of Pretoria. No heavy weapons in orbit. No nukes. No fixed mount rail guns. Thermobaric or—”

  “And the treaty defined ‘orbit’ as thirty kilometers,” Sigmund said, glancing at Roy, “or twenty miles above ground level. This is holding steady at twenty-five kilometers. It appears to be using anti-grav tech, which is still in the pre-deployment stage in the Atlantic Union military. This…airship, for lack of a better term, carries several rail gun batteries, cruise missile launchers, and onboard Arrow-class fighters for defense.”

  “That kind of firepower could wipe out a city in minutes,” Calhoon said.

  “And it’s on course to Brisbane,” Sigmund said, “then Sydney. Then Canberra. Then Melbourne.”

  “And the Atlantic Union sent two Armor to back us up,” Digger said. “Thanks. Real bang-up job.”

  “The Atlantic Union is mobilizing everything it can,” Sigmund said. “Armor brigades are loaded onto airships and en route now, as are carrier battle groups. And we have Strike Marine interdiction teams in place from Indonesia all through the South Pacific. We can stymie their Chi-com logistic lines. We’ve had years to practice.”

  “But what about this floating…dreadnought?” Digger poked into the holo. “The only way you’re going to take that out is with an orbital strike. Nukes. Another suicide run from an Air Force space cruiser. You ready for that?”

  “The Pretoria Treaty ended World War III, for the most part,” Sigmund said. “That agreement kept the world safe from the EMP attacks that crippled the world economy and have kept orbital assets from being used on civilian targets. It won’t take much from the Chi-com silos on the moon or the Union’s kinetic strike assets in orbit to erase cities. We’re back to Cold War mutually assured destruction if either side breaks the treaty. We bring a void ship like the strike carrier Breitenfeld in to attack the Damocles and it would likely result in a full-scale nuclear retaliation from the Chi-com.” Sigmund shook his head. “I doubt the Union is ready to risk that.”

  “So you got bold, tried to back-door Australia into your Union, and now the Chi-com are going to blast our cities for it!” Digger lunged toward Sigmund, but Payne caught her by the arms. “Did you see what they did to Hong Kong? Their own city? Do you know what they did to Darwin when they took it? Let go of me, you twat!”

  “Digger, you leave this room or I’ll take your suit,” Calhoon said.

  Digger stopped. Smoothing out her hair, she left, slamming the door behind her.

  “Continue,” Calhoon said.

  “The Atlantic Union’s military assistance so far is…clandestine,” Sigmund said. “The Union won’t commit everything it has until Canberra votes to join the Union.”

  “And if we vote against, then the Chi-com will pull their gunship back, won’t they?” Calhoon asked.

  “That’s the best guess from intelligence,” Sigmund said and shrugged.

  “Our country has suffered,” Calhoon said. “We lost a lot of good soldiers on
Taiwan when you pulled the rug out from under us.”

  Sigmund nodded slightly.

  “Well, you’re a pom; blame’s on the seppos.” Calhoon glanced at Roy, who went red in the face. “Then the Chi-com invaded Darwin and Cairns, and drove south along the coasts. Millions of Australians were caught behind enemy lines. Been a lot of rough years trying to keep them from taking another inch. Now we’ve…we’ve got a sword of Damocles coming for us. How do you think we’re going to win this one? We vote against the treaty, the Chi-com know we’re forever vulnerable without the Atlantic Union’s help and maybe they call off the Damocles. Maybe they don’t. We vote yes and it’s a poke in their eye and they won’t stop the Damocles. Everyone knows you’ve been feeding us tech and supplies for years. Don’t let Digger make you think we don’t appreciate that. But if we do vote to join, we start losing cities.”

  “Not if we destroy the Damocles,” Sigmund said.

  Calhoon raised his palms.

  “A phalanx.” Sigmund tapped a console screen and an Armor unit came up. A pair of thin metal vanes extended up from its shoulder and lowered to helm level. The suit loaded a single round into the base of the vanes and it accelerated down the length and off one side of the projection.

  “A rail gun phalanx,” he continued as the holo changed to a map of Queensland and dozens of dots appeared. “Armor will infiltrate through the countryside and take up hide sites, waiting for the Damocles to come into line of sight. The rail cannons can hit targets in orbit. All we’d need is a clear shot.”

  “The point defense systems on that ship will be—”

  “Not enough if we hit it from multiple directions at the same time.” Sigmund took a step back. “The Chi-com lost their last orbital battle station to a threat from space. They’re prepared to defend against that, not dozens of simultaneous rail shells from multiple directions. It’s worked in simulations.”

  Laughter and derisive snorts came from the crowd.

  “Computer models are one thing, Captain,” Calhoon said. “Most of our Armor is on the east coast. No way we can get them into place to stop the Damocles.”

  “Which is why the Atlantic Union is sending every available lance it can. I need to take my lance north. Now. Get in place and set up commo with the other shooters.”