by JCH Rigby
Getting just enough to give me some faith in where we were, I went to move off when I caught a glimpse of something massive in the murk, with a hint of another shape behind it. My rifle was halfway up into the aim when it faded away. I wasn’t even sure I’d really seen it.
The mighty rain kept hosing down and hiding my view of the ground. We weren’t quite at the gully mouth yet, I knew, but we must be close. Keegan and Yu Ling should be beyond the mouth, higher up on the left flank. Somewhere ahead of us were Mahmoud, Barclay, Irwin, and King, but the whatever-it-was couldn’t be them—it looked much too big to be human. So, what the hell was it? We hadn’t been on-planet long, but I couldn’t recall any large native animals from the in-brief we’d had.
The downpour lifted slightly for a second, revealing more moor land, more rocks, more scrub. Everywhere seemed to be water, pouring from the sky, roaring in streams that had been dry gullies ten minutes ago, squelching and splashing underfoot, filling my eyes and ears, trickling down my neck. I was soaked through. But for all that I was on a tripwire.
A fragment of jumbled comms: a couple of rounds fired, a blurry jumble of shouting voices sparking me up even more. I knew them all.
“…one left of you, Barclay…” Irwin.
“…two to my front…” King.
“…Keegan? Have you got eyes on this? Arden?” Mahmoud.
I was out of contact. There’s nothing—nothing—worse than being cut off when rounds are going down, or hearing a contact and not knowing who, what, where, how many. Soldiers nightmare. Anywhere, any when. You have to go for them, regardless. They’re your Section. You know they’d come for you.
“Arden!” I turned to look back at Kirov. He was down on one knee, his head cocked to one side, concentrating intently. He had to be hearing this, too, but he looked as if he could hear something else as well. I started to speak, but he flapped a hand at me urgently. “Listen!” Ignoring me Kirov was fixated on something over my shoulder.
Kirov’s eyes went wide as plates, springing to his feet, rifle butt coming into the shoulder, fingers checking the change lever and safety catch, water sluicing off him. I spun around rifle coming up into the aim, taking up first pressure on the trigger, change lever to auto, reflexively checking the ammo block sat secure in its housing. Whatever Kirov could see, I had 100 rounds of caseless going its way if I needed to.
A shape emerged from the mist, and it explained why the missile guys weren’t in much of a rush to get away. The shape solidified into a man on horseback about twenty meters away, as surprised as us, trying to hoist a bloody great handgun in our direction. A corner of my mind noted something weird with the horse. It’s head like nothing I’d ever seen. The cavalry our militia buddy was on about. The rider was up into the aim.
Way too slow. Kirov and I let rip at the same moment, his rounds roaring past my left ear. The guy’s chest armor seemed to disintegrate, he took so many hits from the pair of us.
His mount reared at the noise of our combined fire, seeming more like a dragon than a horse. Then I got it: the thing wore a breathing booster, but a different type than the ones I’d already seen. The horse turned and wheeled away, the rider collapsing over its saddle, slipping out of one stirrup, dropping that massive pistol, falling and being towed off into the torrent, head hitting the ground as he was dragged away from view past large shadows…
…and the shadows coalesced into more cavalry. We were surrounded by them. They were circling us now, reacting to their point man being blasted by the pair of hairy-assed horrors he’d fallen over in the rain. Five that I could see, drab camsuits with green-brown belt order, those huge pistols, heavy curved sabers drawn in their right hands.
You use cavalry for recce. But when you can’t see far and you don’t really know what you’re up against, you should go in ready for anything. You kill the other guys’ recce, urgently. And the cavalry point guy needs a firearm, preferably quick-firing, but short-barreled so it won’t tangle up in the horse. Due to the short barrel, his shooting’s going to be nothing like as accurate as a kneeling or prone man. So, you don’t want to pick fights with static infantry who are ready for you.
If you look up and see man and horse, weighing all-up something around a ton, coming flat-out at you with a bloody great saber held out at arm’s length, well, it’s a terror weapon, sure enough. That puts the advantage right back with the horse boys in any close encounter of the hostile kind.
It looked like these blokes hadn’t read the same book. They just kept circling us, thirty meters away. Kirov and I got back to back with each other, turning around and around to keep an eye on them, our feet slithering in the mud. They should have charged us straight away, but they weren’t sure.
And we should have engaged them but I hesitated not knowing what was happening with Mahmoud. We hadn’t heard any more firing since the initial contact.
I tried to figure out what backup the cavalry might have, out of sight in the easing torrent. They were becoming more visible with each moment, five big brown or grey beasts all looking around half a meter taller than me, with seriously handy-looking guys riding them. I could smell the horses; data flickered at the corner of my eye, trying to give me analysis.
Kirov and I continued to turn, back to back, tracking targets, both eyes open for peripheral vision, change levers to automatic at this range. I’d picked one guy and made eye contact with him. I wanted him to think about being the next man dead. Mind games, when you’re facing five tons of heavily armed horsemeat? I was ready to do anything to gain an advantage. I let Kirov know I had picked my first target.
“Man on, Kirov, man on. I’m tracking one. Brown horse, big pack behind the saddle, could be a radio. Hold, hold.” I knew Kirov would have much the same idea. We kept bumping into each other’s backs as we turned, we were that close.
“Got one, Arden, got one. Boss Man on the grey horse, got fancy rank on his arms, doing most of the shouting—he’ll be the boss…” Another thunderclap drowned out the rest of whatever he said. The lightning cracks fewer now.
Perhaps it was the rain lessening, for I became aware of the din the cavalry were making. Not just the rhythmic slurp and drum of the horses’ hooves in the mud, but the snorts of effort as men and animals breathed through their boosters, and the creak and clatter of their harnesses. The men were calling to each other in a language I didn’t recognize. All the same, I knew the sense of what they were saying. They were trying to figure us out, revving themselves up, wondering what we’d got and what we could do. I guess the Enhanced looked scary enough if you weren’t expecting us.
Boss Man shouted a command; the sabers came down and the riders sparked up forming into a single line facing us. Boss Man brought them to a halt, the horses steaming and snorting in the lessening rain, tossing their heads and stamping their hooves as if impatient to be getting on with it. It struck me I really knew nothing at all about the animals. Kirov and I mirrored the cavalry’s maneuver. Now standing shoulder to shoulder, facing them, Kirov now on my right. We were breathing as hard as the horses.
Comms were coming back, and vision with them. I could see for around 100 meters. Still no sign of the Mahmoud or the others. Intermittently I caught a few voices on Command net again. No time to worry about comms. We had our own problem right in front of us. For all my earlier mockery, a cavalry charge suddenly didn’t seem funny anymore. With that thought, I knew what to do.
“Kirov. Bayonets. Full length!”
“Bayonets? Are you drunk? That’s not gonna help!”
“Do it!”
Fifty centimeters of memory steel slid forward out of my rifle’s handguard, rippling back into its lethal stored shape of blade, bone separator, and blood grooves. Kirov copied me, just as the horse boys visibly gathered themselves, took a breath, and charged. I had a few seconds left to live.
A sound like the thunder as they came at us. We opened with short, controlled bursts, right into the animals. Boss Ma
n and Brown Horse Bloke went down immediately, trampled in a madness of hooves, shots, mud, and screams. We were both in Neural Overdrive for the boost it gave to our reaction speed, I managed to set sights onto a second horse, then brought the weapon straight down into my hip and stood firm as I fired again. I needed to be braced if I was to use the blade.
Twenty meters. With my awareness at this speed I could hear the weird growling of the rounds detonating in the chamber, and could sense the solid ammo block shrinking in its housing. I could almost make out the clack-clack of the breech locking and unlocking. Another quick burst and the falling animal went down continuing to slide toward us, its screaming rider trapped by one leg under the thrashing beast.
Fifteen meters. Kirov and I were as anchored as possible in the slime, but a horse weighing close to a ton could kill us from the impact alone, so we seriously didn’t want the downed horse hitting us. The din of hooves in the muddy ground, screams from the wounded, yelling of the riders, my range finder scrolling down far too fast—13, 12.5, 12 …
A brief glance to the right told me Kirov had got his second target, leaving the final horseman closing on us fast from only ten meters away. A ton of pissed off and desperate cavalryman-and-horse driving a sodding great saber right at my face—
—the horse saw our gleaming bayonets and thought better of it. The beast snorted with fear and leaped to our right as best it could, the rider wasn’t having any of it. As horse and rider swerved past only inches from me, I got a split-second frozen image of grubby combat pants, a high-leg boot, spur, huge brown sweating flank, bits of harness stuff I couldn’t name, and then the saber came slashing down, skidding off Kirov’s helmet and cutting deeply into the shoulder pad of his body armor. He yelled with the pain of it, dropping his rifle as the rider kicked out at him, forcing him back, trying to drag the trapped weapon clear.
Cavalryman, horse and Kirov were locked together, abruptly a struggling mass of horse and men that wasn’t going anywhere. I can’t fire, I can’t fire. The horse, still desperate to clear our blades, kicked wildly catching me a glancing crack across my right shin. It hurt like hell, and nearly took my leg from under me. I struggled for balance, Kirov’s head moved to one side and I had a clear view of the rider’s chest. My finger twitched on my rifles trigger.
The cavalryman fell back, coughing blood, and released the saber. Finding itself unexpectedly freed the horse sprang away to my right, the rider swaying limply in the saddle, before falling across its neck. I grabbed one handed at Kirov as his legs buckled, tracking the horse and flailing rider my rifle, one-handed, reaching across myself awkwardly and struggling to keep my partner upright with the other.
I couldn’t do both, so I settled for dropping my weapon into its sling and using both hands to hold Kirov. The bayonet slithered back into its housing. I let the horse and its dying rider go. I doubted we’d see much more of either of them.
Looking around quickly, I could see Boss Man and Brown Horse Bloke were certainly dead—motionless at any rate, as were their animals, unsurprisingly. The other two cavalrymen were at the very least non-effective, both lying still, entangled with their thrashing mounts. Four down here, two hit and gone. How many more were the Mahmoud and the others dealing with?
Worry about that in a moment. Time to see what sort of state Kirov was in. I took a deep breath and braced myself for a proper look at my partner, dreading what I was going to see.
Despite all I could do Kirov’s mud drenched body slipped through my grasp, knees buckling, sinking to the sodden ground. Kirov’s face looked pale under the cam, his breathing ragged, nearly gasping.
Kirov’s rifle trailed in the mud at the end of its sling, proof of how hurt he was. His bayonet stored itself as the weapon fell. For all his jokes, Kirov was as professional a soldier as anyone; he’d never drop his rifle if he could hold onto it. This wasn’t him at all.
I squatted beside him, checking him over for any other wounds apart from the obvious one. The saber wedged deeply in his shoulder; I couldn’t tell whether it was trapped in his armor or through to the bone. Wearily he pushed himself upright with his left arm, taking a few seconds to get hold of himself, grinning weakly.
“What the bloody hell happened to nice, friendly gee-gees going clippity-clop?” Typical Kirov. I took a closer look at his shoulder and reached for my med pack. The rain had eased some but still I bent over the pack to keep the contents as dry as possible before opening it.
First out the anesthesia spray, then dressings. I readied what I needed, braced Kirov against one knee, took a good grip on the saber’s hilt, and pulled. After a moment, it came free from the shattered body armor plate, showing a torn jacket and shirt, but no blood. I couldn’t believe it. Placing the blade down by my side I looked again, closer, then zoomed in very slowly. I could see fragments of plate, torn clothing fibers, mud, and what looked like the start of a monster bruise. Not even a nick in the skin.
If the bone wasn’t broken Kirov was going to be all right, though sore as hell. I cleaned the area with sterile wipes, then sprayed it liberally with anesthetic. With a bit of luck, the spray would cut in before too long easing any pain.
I looked about us. Not for the first time, it struck me what a bloody mess a battle made. 200 meters away, across a litter of dying men and horses, dropped weapons and scattered kit, another dozen or so horsemen were moving fast, heading for the gully. I couldn’t see what they were aiming for—once they reached the gully, they’d be amongst the rocks. What good would cavalry do over there?
Oh shit! Low down on the flank of the hill, overlooking the drenched and muddy ground, Mahmoud, Barclay, and King were kneeling in firing positions, taking what cover they could around a broken aircraft fuselage and its shattered wings. Where the hell was Irwin? Time to get on the net.
“Mahmoud. Arden. Contact report. We’re back on line. Six enemy down. Kirov’s battered, but he’s alive. What’s going on?”
“Arden, good. We’ve got a downed pilot, badly injured, other side of the re-entrant, and the missile guys are between us. Irwin’s with the pilot, but he’s alone. King’s with me, broken leg, saber wounds. If the cavalry makes it past the gully, they’ll ride Irwin down.”
"KIROV. ARE YOU GOOD to move?” I screamed at him all the while keeping an eye on the fast-moving cavalry.
Kirov went to rotate his injured shoulder, only managing to raise it a few inches before an excruciating pain shot through his shoulder. He turned his head toward me and gave me a weak grin. “Yeah, anesthetic is kicking in just don’t ask me to dance anytime soon.”
The cavalry were nearly at the gully. I gauged the distance to the overlooking high ground. 358 meters. A few seconds of Overdrive and we could be there. “Irwin and the downed pilot are about to be in a world of hurt if we don’t get in a position to support them.”
Kirov hoisted his rifle in his still working arm. “Let’s go then.”
I shifted into Overdrive and sped for the high ground moving to cut off the cavalry. Kirov sore and slow, wouldn’t be able to fire from his right shoulder, but we made it. Taking the pressure off Mahmoud and Barclay, so they got into a more commanding fire position, leaving King where he was for the time being.
Irwin wasn’t on his own anymore, and the horse guys got the message as the ground was torn up in front of them by our fire: we weren’t letting them anywhere near the missileers or the pilot. Under fire from four separate points the cavalry thought about it and pulled out, cracking off bursts from those big smoky pistols as they went. The pistols made a spectacular din but hit squat. Of the dozen, I’d seen going toward the gully, only five made it clean away. They headed back to where I guess they’d come from, down the moor and on to the pass through the hills back to Frontera. We scattered the rest across the moor, dead or dying.
Time to deal with the missileers which turned out to be a far easier task. Once they saw how we’d dealt with the cavalry they’d been waiting for they made their
minds up quickly, surrendering when Mahmoud gave them the option.
With Yu Ling and Kirov providing cover Keegan and I went forward as a search pair, close to where the missileers had holed up among the rocks. They came out to us one at a time, arms wide, hands empty, moving slowly.
We might not have spoken the same language, but using hand signals and threatening gestures with a rifle got my instructions across. Weapons and packs were removed and left in the rocks for now. The missile team were dejected and didn’t look like much of a threat, I was riled up just the same. We’d all heard of moments like this which finished with a dead search team, after some brainwashed plank decided his god needed him to take the unbelievers straight on to the afterlife with him. So, the whole process went slow and steady, with only Keegan or I exposed to danger at any one time.
Their leader, a pale-skinned guy, wearing neat belt order covered with black pouches; he’d been packing another of the huge pistols and a short sword. A second guy was the missile firer; his kit had lots of tiny tools on it. His pile of tools gave me the impression that, for all the deadly efficiency of the missiles, he hadn’t really expected them to work so well. The tools suggested he was ready for a thorough field-strip of his kit. No sign of any spare missiles. I made my mind up to look over the launcher at the first opportunity.
Once they were disarmed, searched, cuffed, and hooded, I tethered each of them to a handy rock with spot-glue, keeping them well separated. Kirov came across to keep an eye on them while I took the opportunity to see what the rest of our guys up to. Irwin was finishing cleaning up Billy King’s leg and was putting lockfoam around the wound; Mahmoud and Keegan had their heads together and seemed to be on a private net; Yu Ling and Keegan were each down behind their weapons, giving us a bit of over watch. Satisfied I was excess to requirement for the moment I started to look at the weapons we’d recovered.
