Til Valhalla

by Richard Fox

  “Your suits don’t have the battery life to get farther than Emerald. Don’t think the Chi-com will let you juice up at a Tesla station,” the general said.

  “The Ibarra Corporation has promised to drop battery pack caches throughout the countryside. My chain of command has faith in them,” Sigmund said.

  “Too much faith.” Calhoon shook his head. “Lot can go wrong in the outback, son. Long walk home if you run empty.”

  “We’ll risk it.”

  “I’ve got three Chi-com divisions attacking south out of Sunshine Coast right now,” Calhoon said. “I need Armor on that front more than I need a chance at stopping this Damocles.”

  “Hold the line,” Sigmund said. “We either destroy the Damocles or the entire east coast will be lost. And Armor does not fail, General.”

  Calhoon huffed and rubbed his face. “Another fine mess the Atlantic Union’s got Australia into. Thanks for that. But you’ve got a plan that passes my smell test. Take the Light Horse and get as far north as you can. Don’t expect much in the way of support from us. All we’ve got behind Chi-com lines are a few Home Guard teams and whatever Aussies are still fighting with whatever they can scrounge up. Good luck, Armor.”

  The holo fizzled out. Most of the soldiers filed out of the command center, leaving a few behind at workstations. The two Atlantic Union Armor stayed next to the console.

  “We’re…good to go, sir?” Roy asked.

  “We are.” Sigmund picked up a data slate and frowned at it. “Weather’s getting worse. Should help us get past the Chi-com’s front lines.”

  “I don’t know this terrain,” Roy said. “Haven’t had time to do a map study or—”

  “Calhoon detailed the Light Horse to us because he knew we’d need their expertise, not because we need babysitting. Time to mount up. We’re still here when Colonel Carius shows up, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Chapter 3

  Payne strode down the catwalk to his suit, the breastplate and inner womb open and ready for him. He touched the skin suit over his chest and felt around, then pulled up a chain with a bent and dented gold crucifix and went to one knee in front of the suit.

  “Faithful servant of God and…and invincible martyr.” Payne’s hands began to tremble and he kissed the cross. “Saint George supported by God with…with something. I know this. Think, you idiot. Supported by God with…”

  “Supported by God with the gift of faith and inflamed by the ardent love of Christ.” Sigmund knelt next to Payne and put a hand on his shoulder. The Australian nodded quickly. “Valiantly did you fight against the dragon of pride, falsehood, and deceit.”

  From the other side of the catwalk, Roy slipped off his boots and flexed his bare feet against the metal, glancing at the two as they continued the prayer. He unzipped his coveralls and had them down to his waist when he heard someone come up from behind him.

  Digger wore nothing but her skin suit, and Roy got a good look at her curves before he snapped his gaze away and looked squarely at his feet.

  “Thought he was one of those seppo pagans,” Digger said, raising her chin slightly toward Sigmund.

  “He kind of is,” Roy said. “The revival across Europe got a little…muddled. The Scandinavian countries reverted hard to traditional beliefs during the Crusade. Christianity had a long history of incorporating local beliefs when it came to a new area. Turnabout’s fair play, I guess.”

  “And he knows all the prayers to Saint George?” Digger asked.

  “George and Demetrius. Then there’s Thor…” Roy shook his head slightly.

  “Not among the faithful?” she asked.

  “Of course I am. I’m from Utah. We just…do things a little differently,” he said.

  “Don’t discuss theology with Payne. His grasp of it is a bit off. You try and correct him, you’ll end up shitmixed. Zip me up.” She turned and pointed to the back of her skin suit, where the last few inches of the seam were still open.

  Roy swallowed and wiggled the zipper head a few times before it moved.

  “Your spike,” he said, peering at the rings just above her spinal column. “The scars look…not that new.”

  “Doctor Eeks did me up about two years ago. You?”

  “Two…months.”

  “Crickey, you are a bean head of a Rupert. Do your best and try to not get any of us killed, yeah?”

  “Not the plan.” Roy pinched a clasp on the top of her skin suit and tapped the back of his hand on her shoulder. He turned around as she returned the favor with his suit.

  “Digger…is that a call sign?”

  “Just Digger.”

  “Because that tattoo on your face. I looked it up and it’s pronounced ‘di xia’ or ‘di jia.’ Chinese is hard.” She tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around, touching the part of his face her tattoo covered. “But that translates to ‘low status.’ Doesn’t…doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “You don’t have any tats?” she asked, giving him a quick once-over.

  “I’m…from Utah.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him and sneered. “You don’t know your Australian or your Chi-com, kid. Just try and remember how to shoot your guns and be your Armor.” She walked away and banged a fist twice on the railing.

  “All right, you wankers!” she shouted.

  “Light Horse!” came from the technicians.

  “Mount up!” She punched a fist into the air.

  “Light Horse!”

  “Plug in!” She slapped Payne on the rump as she went past.

  “Light Horse!”

  “Roll out!” Digger kissed the back of her knuckles and rapped them against her Armor’s metal.

  “Light Horse!”

  Roy put a foot to the ladder leading up to his waiting pod and looked over at Sigmund. The older man gave him a quick nod, then climbed into his suit.

  Chapter 4

  Rain lashed the Armor as they drove down a beat-up road, cracked through and overgrown with weeds.

  Roy checked their location on his HUD—another small town he couldn’t pronounce in the middle of nowhere. His suit’s internal laser gyroscope was accurate down to an inch without the need for a GPS link, and the telemetry data shared among him and the other three would self-correct against any errors. Even with all the technology at his command, though, he still felt lost.

  Roy spun in place, facing to the rear of their direction of travel as Sigmund brought them to a stop. His infrared and night-vision optics managed to cut through some of the rain and darkness, but not enough to give him any confidence about what was lurking in the sparse trees and fields.

  “This is not how we need to get to Wester Creek,” Digger said. “The Chi-com are spread thin out here. We can hand rail the A5 and avoid any contact up north. This rain and darkness are great for us, but we’re on a damn walkabout to nowhere.”

  “Hot swap battery packs,” Sigmund said. “Latest Ibarra Corp tech, twice the energy density of what we’re carrying right now. They were in the scram jet delivery vehicle that dumped us off at kangaroo or wherever it was. Last data download I got had the packs near here. We need those packs for the movement north.”

  “You think those packs are in one piece?” Payne asked. “Or even here? If there’s bogans out here, and the gear’s worth a penny, they’ll have got to it first. Sold it for beer money.”

  “Don’t talk down your own kind, Payne.” Digger said.

  “Those ockers will flog anything for a stubby. What’s true is true,” Payne said.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Roy said.

  “We get through this pass…Injun road,” Sigmund said, “then we’ll find the battery packs.”

  “Don’t take that road,” Digger said. “Chi-com put mines on it years ago. Just follow me.” She shifted to her walker configuration and strode into the forest and up a hill.

  “We’ll silhouette ourselves against the hilltop,” Roy said.

  “Against what? A storm cloud?�
�� Digger asked as lightning snapped overhead, illuminating the four Armor ever so briefly. “Hurry up, you seppos.” Her last words faded to static as she reached the edge of IR range.

  “Follow her,” Sigmund said grudgingly.

  Roy lifted a track and kicked out, his foot snapping from the tracks and locking into a sabaton. He stepped off the road and sank a few inches into the rain-softened ground. He went to the far right for the formation, just back from where Digger had taken point, with Payne and Sigmund to her left.

  There was a rustle in a bush to Roy’s side. He aimed his forearm cannon and zoomed in with his optics. The bush swayed from side to side, then something burst out and charged at him.

  “Gah!” He backpedaled as a bird, one bigger than a man, came right at him. Dark gray, skinny neck and legs, stubby wet wings flapping uselessly as it closed. It warbled and hissed as it jumped up in front of Roy and pecked at his legs.

  “Don’t,” Digger said. “Just a stupid emu.”

  “What do I do?” Roy tried to push it away, but it pecked harder at his ammo feed line. “Shoo, you big chicken.”

  The emu’s head reared up, then it turned and ran away.

  “I didn’t think that would work,” Roy said.

  A whine rose as a rumble grew beneath his feet. Lightning struck a nearby tree, the flash revealing a Beetle ship rising into the clouds.

  “Ah…bollocks,” Digger said. “Think someone found your Ibarra batteries, seppo.”

  “It’s rigged to blow if anyone moves it or tries to open it, but they can crack the code with enough time. If it’s still there, we can’t let them get that tech,” Sigmund said. “They reverse engineer it and their Armor—everything they have that runs off batteries—will be significantly better.”

  “Thought we were supposed to be infiltrating north,” Digger said, “not crumping every Chi-com we can find.”

  “Plans change. Welcome to war.” Sigmund ran ahead of Digger. “Follow me.”

  Roy leaned into his run, his massive feet kicking up mud. Water poured down the rocky hillside as he climbed up, and the rain got worse, cutting his vision down to a few dozen yards. He caught bits and pieces of an angry exchange between Sigmund and Digger as he got to the crest.

  Gripping a boulder, he vaulted over the top and onto a very steep downslope. Floodlights formed a haze in the valley, and Roy watched as more Beetle transports took off.

  There must have been hundreds of Chi-com soldiers out there, he realized, and he was badly exposed. To the right, the Dawson River roiled with force, engorged by the storm.

  “Sir, we’ve got a problem,” Roy said, but got only static in return. “Sir?”

  From the base of the hill, a muzzle flashed and a bullet struck his helm before the report could reach his audio sensors. The hit cracked his right optic bank and his HUD fizzled as the damage sent a spike of sympathetic pain through his temple.

  He ducked and rolled to one side, sliding out of control on the slick rocks. He went over a drop and landed in a crouch within a cut just above the raging river. Bullets snapped past, striking the exposed hillside and spraying his Armor with flecks. He looked at the river, unsure if even the mass of his Armor could withstand the current.

  Above was a climb, one that would leave him exposed to the enemy firing on him.

  A gout of ice filled his heart and lungs. Fear. Plain and simple fear.

  “Aggressive. Default aggressive.”

  Crouching slightly, Roy leapt around the cut and opened fire with his forearm cannon, stitching shots across the tree line, breaking trunks and sending branches flying. He ran forward with all the speed his armor could muster, but each step sank him deeper and deeper into the mud, slowing him.

  “Damn it!” With a whine of servos, he pulled one foot out then stumbled the last few yards to the tree line, where the felled and broken wood kept his feet from sinking any further. A shadow, tall as him, shifted out of a nearby copse.

  “Telemark,” Roy said as he raised the muzzle of his arm cannon.

  A bullet struck the bullet feeder line, severing it. Rounds slipped out and onto the ground. Lightning flashed and Roy saw two Armor, both painted red. Dragon motifs were etched into their chest and arms, and their helms were adorned with bronze and a long, rain-slicked tassel on the top.

  Yazi Corps Dragons. Chi-com Armor.

  “Sigmund?” Roy dug one heel into the ground to anchor for a rail gun shot, but found nothing to dig into. “Anybody?”

  The two red Armor charged at him, their own cannons firing.

  Roy brought his arms up in front of his helm as bullets struck, each hit sending a flash of pain through his body like wasp stings. His suit held, though his HUD flashed with damage to his front.

  Ducking to one side, Roy grabbed a fallen tree, swung it around, and threw it at the charging Dragon. The tree spun around like a helicopter blade, then split apart with a flash of steel. The enemy Armor had a halberd in both hands, the slightly curved blade pointed right at Roy. The Chi-com Armor grunted through his speakers and charged at Roy, who bent his knees to a fighting stance as his mind raced, wondering where the rest of his lance had gone.

  The Dragon let out a war cray as it leapt up, its polearm pulled back to strike. Roy lunged to one side as the blade struck down, scraping his flank. The Dragon twisted back and slapped the flat of the blade against Roy’s helm, scrambling his HUD for a split second.

  Flipping the weapon over, the Dragon jabbed at Roy’s chest with a spike on the other end. Roy caught it by the haft and squeezed hard with the servos in his fingers. The Dragon tried to pull it back, but Roy’s grip held firm. Stepping in, Roy drove a knee into his enemy’s inner thigh. There was a snap and the Dragon half stumbled back, still gripping the weapon.

  Roy reached back with his cannon arm and punched the other in the chest, the clang of steel on steel echoing against the storm.

  “Ni sile!”

  “Means nothing to me.” He pulled his cannon arm back again and the fist retracted, replaced with a punch spike. Looking into the Dragon’s optics, Roy saw nothing but a machine. He struck, but aimed high. The spike hit the Dragon’s chest and punched through the outer layer of metal. He pushed hard, servos straining, into the enemy’s control systems—not the womb containing the vulnerable man.

  The Dragon seized up then fell back, crushing branches and bits of bark. The Chi-com Armor was disabled, not dead.

  Then Roy remembered the other one, just as a polearm blade slashed through his helm, severing the top and shooting it up in a shower of sparks.

  Roy flopped against the inside of his pod, pain coursing through his body. The Armor’s trip-wire systems shut off input before it could fry his nervous system.

  He regressed to training mode, the countless drills he went through at Fort Knox to recover from this sort of situation. He brought on auxiliary optics systems, small cameras emplaced around his suit. A new feed came into his vision, fractured and disjointed from the differing angles of the backup cameras.

  He was on his side, arms bent against his chest in an almost rigor mortis fashion. Sparks spat off what was left of his helm and across his Armor like shooting stars.

  One Dragon stood over the other, the helm looking down at the damage, polearm at its side, then the bronze-covered helm snapped to Roy and the Dragon gripped the haft with both hands.

  “Do something, Armor. Anything,” Roy said to himself. His limbs reacted slowly to his commands to get up, and he knew there was no way he could defend himself in time. He brought his arms up over his chest to protect his womb…and saw his forearm cannon, the broken ammo line swinging back and forth.

  There was still a round in the chamber.

  He pointed his cannon at the Dragon and fired. The round hit it in the shoulder. The high-explosive shredded the servo and the arm hung on by a few bits of blackened metal. The Dragon ripped the damaged appendage off with a tug on the polearm and flicked the arm away. It advanced on Roy faster, spinning the
polearm around in one hand.

  Roy got to his feet and raised his hands up to fight. The polearm swung up and cut through his right elbow servo, sending his cannon and punch spike end over end into the mud. He ducked under the next swipe and backpedaled.

  The polearm snapped out, cutting the servo on one side of his neck. What was left of his helm swung down across his chest in an almost grotesque parody. Roy kept moving back as the Dragon struck at him, cutting into his chest plate little by little.

  He’s toying with me, Roy thought.

  His feet splashed into water and he felt the tug of the river up and around his knees.

  The Dragon brought his polearm back and high for a final blow, then glanced up the river and paused.

  A flash flood was coming, a wall of water and broken forest almost as tall as the Armor.

  Roy took a half step back.

  “Bu name rongye!” the Dragon shouted as he swiped the blade across Roy’s waist.

  A line of fire cut across Roy’s stomach and the wall of water hit him. He saw both severed legs tumble in the water, then his HUD blacked out completely.

  ****

  “Where is he?” Sigmund stood up from one side of the crest and fired down the hill. The forest was alight with small fires, trees blown apart and set alight by the Armors’ bullets, still burning even in the driving rain.

  A rip of automatic fire came back, chipping away at a boulder and crumbling it into a small avalanche.

  “He ain’t here, that’s what matters,” Digger replied from a crouch a few yards away. She popped up and a round careened off her breastplate. She ducked down again, cursing.

  “Let me get them.” Payne beat a fist against his helm. “One charge is all it’ll take.”

  “No, you idiot, there’s too many.” She held up a palm to stop him. “Chi-com have whatever it is the seppos dropped. We’re down a man. We need to fall back.”

  “What?” Sigmund looked at her as tracers zipped overhead. “We can’t leave him behind. The Corps never—”