Books One to Three Omnibus (Armada Wars)

by R. Curtis Venture

  “Fuck’s sake,” Harth said. He dropped to a walk as the others did, then stopped altogether.

  Sergeant Feior clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry about it, they’re both fine right where they are. I want three fire teams, delta-formation. Kodiak can roll in with them. Two MAGA teams up high, any sharp-shooters should be looking down into the canyon.”

  “You’re commanding my platoon now?” Volkas had appeared from nowhere.

  The towering Feior looked down at Volkas. “You want them to do something else? Maybe wait for my guys to do all the work?”

  Volkas said nothing, at least not with words. Caden had a reasonably good handle on his facial expressions and half expected him to burst into flames. Oh, for a lieutenant — nay, acting captain — to be bossed around by a sergeant.

  “So as I said, we should have your sharp-shooters up high.”

  “I guess that includes me,” said Eilentes.

  “Don’t see why not,” Feior said. “You proved your metal on Mibes.”

  “You remembered,” said Eilentes. She flashed him a brief, almost formal smile.

  Caden last saw that smile when Throam had been on the receiving end of it. It meant that the attention was recognised, but not particularly welcome right now.

  Feior reflected Eilentes’ smile a thousandfold, assured her that nobody could have forgotten that ma’am, magnificent bit of shooting, hope to be gratified with the opportunity to witness it again real soon. He spoke with a polite civility which his mass alone — never mind the skull tattooed on his throat, the missing index finger, and the brown Viskr bones glued to his armour’s gauntlets — suggested was not particularly usual for him.

  Eilentes looked as though she did not know what to say.

  “You’ll mainly be covering me though, right?” Caden said.

  Eilentes turned her attention back to him, shrugged blithely, then ran to catch up with one of the fire teams headed for higher ground.

  “You’re a priority asset,” Feior told Caden. “You should be in that Kodiak.”

  “Yes and no. We’re not at the primary objective yet, sure, but I need to witness first hand everything that’s happening on this planet.”

  “Your choice,” said Feior. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Caden was appalled and impressed simultaneously. Most other commanding officers would have argued at length about how the mission was pointless if Caden got himself killed, before threatening to throw him in the back of the Kodiak themselves.

  Guess Tankers really don’t give a shit, he thought.

  “I won’t.”

  Feior flashed him a smirk which looked as though it meant he had heard that one before, and walked away. He thumped twice on the Kodiak’s armour, and the vehicle grunted into motion.

  “So here’s your chance.”

  “What?” Caden saw it was Dyne, and wondered for how long the counterpart had been standing so close to him. “Chance for what?”

  “To grade me. Evaluate me. See if I’m ‘negligent’. If I’m even worthy of watching your back.”

  Caden forced himself to wait for a moment before replying.

  “If you want to put on a show for me, you go right ahead. But maybe let’s just put the angst to one side for now, yeah? Better things to be worrying about.”

  He set off after the Kodiak, hurrying to catch up, and heard Dyne’s footfalls crunching on the ground behind him.

  The gloom of the canyon beckoned him ever closer.

  The rock formation itself was not terribly high, and the walls were some distance apart, but the channel carved this way and that. The entrance was awash with sunlight, the interior not so much. It was not entirely dark in the shadows, but a half-light which put Caden in mind of that point in the Damastion evening when the availability of lamps would usually be remembered.

  The central fire team in the vanguard entered the canyon, rifles ready, and stepped forward cautiously but swiftly. Their flanking teams followed, hugging the walls as closely as they could. The Kodiak edged into position, raring to go.

  “Drone now has eyes back on Bear and Overkill.”

  Caden listened to Harth passing the update to Feior over the group channel, and waited for the response.

  “Situation?”

  “They’re not far in, between us and the opposition. Seems like they’re doing okay.”

  “Alright,” said Harth. “Let’s move it up.”

  Corner by corner they made their way farther in, winding left and right as the canyon wandered through the rock. At one point Caden was sure the Kodiak would jam itself trying to turn the corner, but the driver managed to clear the narrow gap by forcing the wheels along one side to ride up and over the rocky base of the canyon wall.

  The path was already beginning to widen when the sounds of gunfire were at their loudest. The walls of the cavern fell outwards, sweeping down, opening out to form a dusty basin dotted with patches of sun-bleached grass. Despite the carnage ahead of him, Caden found himself wondering how long ago it was that water once flowed through here.

  Focus.

  Bear Mtenga snapped a limb just as Caden’s eyes settled on him. The owner of the limb did not seem to notice, but lunged up at Bear’s face with the other hand, fingers curled like claws, trying to hook an eye. Bear swung hard on the broken arm, hurled the much smaller man away from him, and fired a tight burst of rounds into his chest. Without stopping, he whirled to his right and fired again.

  Caden swept his eyes across the basin, and took in the full scene.

  Overkill and Bear were in amongst a throng of other bodies, bodies which were constantly in motion. The two Tankers were separated by some distance, with hostiles between them, but neither gave any sign that it bothered them. Standing at least a head above the very tallest of their opponents, they looked naturally at ease with the situation. They did exactly what Tankers were said to do best: they smashed through everything coming their way.

  A woman carrying a wrench high above her head ran screaming at Overkill, and he put a calm bullet between her eyes. He swung his rifle back and up, smashing the butt under the jaw of a man in overalls who had leapt futilely at his wide back, then turned and stamped down on the attacker’s neck, hard and noisily. Another two ran at him; five shots was all it took him to bring them to a dead stop.

  Rasas, thought Caden. Or Thralls… That’s what Eyes and Ears would have me call these ones.

  Bear ran through the Thralls, shouldering them aside brutally as if he were training with contemporaries for a maulball tournament. Some reached out to claw at him with their bare hands, or slashed at him with edged weapons, and he responded in kind. A combat knife flashed in the sun, and by the time Caden realised that bright blood was jetting sideways across the ground, Bear had already moved on. A neck was snapped, a chest shot at point blank range, a pipe ripped from someone’s grasp and inserted into them in grotesque reciprocation.

  A single shot split the air, the familiar crack of a long range rifle, and a body landed face-down on the rock to Caden’s left. He looked up to the rear and saw a sharp-shooter repositioning at the edge of the higher ground. He could not tell from here if it was Eilentes.

  Guess they’ve noticed we’ve arrived, he thought.

  He raised his rifle and fired a few bursts at the Thralls, dropping several without any real problems. It almost seemed unfair.

  Dyne appeared next to him, each hand gripping a pistol. He fired off shots in a controlled, leisurely manner, taking down Thrall after Thrall, each of them earning a head-shot.

  Not bad, Caden thought. A bit slow, but conserving rifle ammo if nothing else.

  He caught movement in his peripheral vision, brought his rifle to bear, and checked himself at the last possible millisecond.

  Bro.

  “Who asked for fruitcakes?”

  “Just get on with it,” Caden shouted.

  Others were taking up positions now, spreading out across the mouth of the canyon and t
aking cover where they could find it. Bruiser, hardly missable at the best of times, lunged from the canyon directly into the basin interior. Thralls saw him, wheeled around to attack, and were ripped apart by his machine gun fire.

  Caden knew the fight was won when the noise fell away to nothing. By the time the last pop of a pistol had fired the only sounds were Bear’s panting, and the scuffling of a fallen Thrall which Overkill had not quite bludgeoned enough.

  “Yah!” Overkill yelled, smashing his boot into the Thrall’s throat.

  The scuffling stopped.

  Caden watched Overkill pull his foot back from the limp body. The Tanker stepped back, turned to face him, and grinned.

  With his chest heaving to pull in oxygen as quickly as possible, blood spattered across his armour, hands, and face, and his wide, electric blue eyes, the grin made him look like a maniac. But then… he was a Tanker.

  “Like a good brawl,” said Overkill.

  “Private Otkellsson,” said Feior. “Report.”

  “Drone lead us right to them, Sarge. They were up to something when we got here.”

  “Up to what?”

  “No idea Sarge. Scrabbling about over there, weird little cunts.”

  Overkill gestured vaguely over his shoulder, indicating a point on the far side of the basin where it began to reform into a continuation of the canyon. His arm flopped back heavily, as if the cost of the fight was catching up with him. He wiped his brow with his other hand.

  Caden was not ready to bet that the giant was worn out just yet.

  “Sarge, I recognise this one.”

  Feior stomped over to another of his soldiers, and Caden followed.

  “Who is it?”

  “This is Acrius Keng, Sarge.”

  “The maulball player?”

  “Yeah. He shouldn’t be here.”

  “What’s that?” Caden asked.

  “He was rostered for the Sagittarian quarter-finals,” said the Tanker. “He’s meant to be training with the pro-league team on Lophrit.”

  “Sarge, this one too.”

  Caden went over to the second corpse with Feior.

  “This woman’s Bel-something or other. Some socialite from Lophrit’s capital.”

  Caden and Feior looked at each other.

  “Guess Lophrit’s not there any more,” said Caden.

  “Shit,” Feior said. “I thought all those rumours about the colonies were just civvie bullshit.”

  “Apparently not. These people were conscripted.”

  Despite everything he had witnessed — from Herros to Woe Tantalum, from Aldava to Meccrace Prime — Caden felt all the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rise in unison.

  “I’m picking something up,” Daxon said. “Repeating signal, broad band, no data.”

  “I’m getting it too.”

  Caden assumed the other soldier was Daxon’s equivalent amongst the Tanker ranks; the corporal entrusted to monitor realtime comms during battle.

  “It’s weak, but it’s local,” said Daxon.

  “Triangulating.”

  They both turned to face the mouth of the second canyon, the same direction Overkill had pointed.

  “Right over there.”

  • • •

  Gunfire.

  It was definitely gunfire.

  He had not imagined it.

  He had not imagined it, it was gunfire.

  Hold on. They’re coming.

  Shit the bed! That’s not a headache, it’s a brain-quake.

  He had not imagined it.

  They’re coming.

  Junn Delanka lay sprawled on cold rock, his holo nestled between his legs where it had slid after he released his grip on it. He leaned to one side, his ribs adding to the general assortment of pains, and tried to sit up against the damp wall.

  Another white hot stab of agony behind his eyes, and he was back on the ground again.

  Worlds almighty, just shoot yourself in the head already.

  He strained to concentrate, and listened again. Nothing but silence from outside now, and inside only the faintest stirring of air. That and the blood pumping through his own veins.

  He unclipped the torch from his rifle and flicked it on. Omin, Halfre, Caela: all laying on the ground, huddled together. Each of them breathing still.

  At least there was that.

  Their flight from Camillion had been disorganised to say the least, and bereft of provisions as they were he would not have brought them here had there been any other choice. But he could not have dragged Omin along forever, and the cover supplied by the canyons outside had proven to be a double-edged sword. The crazy people had been coming from both directions.

  Setting up grenade traps to kill the first groups who came after them had bought Delanka and his companions a couple of days. But rather than giving up, the ones who followed had presumably spent those days searching the canyons high and low, searching until they noticed that one small area was different to the rest of it.

  The rockfall where Delanka had collapsed the mouth of the cave must have been a dead giveaway, once someone realised that the four of them could not have simply disappeared.

  Then the sounds had started. Scraping and clunking, chunks of rock being moved by hand. How many were out there? How long would it take them? Why could he not hear any voices?

  The questions had burned in his mind, alongside the infernal shooting pains.

  Halfre had said Omin was experiencing headaches, right before he went weird on them. Then both she and Caela had started to complain of violently painful searing sensations. It was not until he had stopped moving, ensconced in the dark sanctuary of their hiding place, that he started to feel them too.

  Omin had been talking gibberish before he last went to sleep.

  The lad had said he could hear Him, whoever He was. That he was being called. Omin could hear a song — the harmony, he had called it — and said that it was unbroken. That was apparently a very pleasing thing. Later, when it all got really weird, he had been rambling about eternity dancing.

  Delanka was pretty sure that he couldn’t hear any of that yet, but the past couple of days were taking their toll. He was not totally convinced that he was still sane.

  Scrabbling again. Clunking.

  Fuck, he thought.

  He dragged his rifle back towards him by the strap and clipped the torch back on the rail interface. If nothing else, he could perhaps confuse the intruders by shining a light right in their eyes when all they expected was darkness. Might buy enough time to pop some skulls.

  It was hard to tell how long he lay on the ground, pointing the rifle down between his feet. Time seemed to work strangely in the darkness of the cave, and the flashes of white pain in his head made for excellent distractions. Twice he tried to count the clunking sounds, in the vain hope that they would on average be periodical, but he lost his thread each time.

  At some point he realised there was a murmur outside, rising and falling.

  Voices?

  They are coming.

  Whoever it was who had been doing the shooting out there, they weren’t like the crazy people. They were speaking with each other. They had come at last, whoever they were; killed the crazies and now they were getting their hands dirty with the wall of rock.

  It might take them some ti—

  When he next awoke, wobbly shafts of light pierced the darkness. He squinted, saw blinding patches and blurred motion outside. A voice, a real, clear voice, asking if there was anyone alive.

  “We’re here,” he croaked.

  He could not remember the last time he drank anything, and felt around himself for a hydration pouch. All empties.

  Time skipped again and he was outside, people around him. Water on his lips, a hand steadying the back of his head. Questions from somewhere. Many questions.

  “They brought the Vehement down,” he managed. Water on his chin.

  It didn’t seem like the right answer. Maybe it was the wrong ques
tion. The pain is getting really bad.

  People conferring. Turned away from him, so he couldn’t see their mouths. Hushed voices. One getting annoyed. Sharp gestures at the other. The other much, much bigger.

  Where’s the water gone?

  The others carried out of the cave. More annoyed words. People backing off.

  Why?

  A Kodiak engine; unmistakeable sound. Not too far away.

  And someone running back, carrying something with them.

  Big fella. Makes the crate look small.

  Smashes it into the dirt, pops the top.

  Pulls out plastic.

  Oh.

  Quarantine it is then.

  Caela first, no idea why. All zipped up like a dainty little parcel. Someone checks the air regulator.

  Halfre next, neatly packaged and safe from harm. Was that the point? It’s hard to concentrate with this bastard headache.

  Then Omin. Popped in a big bag. Hope you don’t miss your dance lil’ guy.

  Someone runs at Omin, shouting. There’s distress in there somewhere. He’s pulled back by others.

  Now there’s tugging, feet being lifted off the ground, legs enclosed, body enshrouded. It’s not so bad really. Look at me, I’m a cocoon.

  The canyon fades to white, and there’s a hissing sound. Oh, it stopped. No, just quieter.

  Worlds, my brain.

  • • •

  “Look, anyone could’ve set his link to send out that signal. We might have been drawn here deliberately so that we could be exposed to whatever’s affecting them.”

  “So why would they be trying to get into that cave?”

  The argument had now got to the point at which Caden thought it had gone on for far too long. Feior had his arms folded across his chest. If Caden had cared about such things, the Tanker would have looked very intimidating.

  “I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean there’s no reason. Maybe he wasn’t as out of action as they thought, and he was in there because he got away from them. Or maybe they just wanted to put them somewhere else.”

  “Seems a bit of a leap to me.”

  “Well, maybe so. I just think we should consider it a possibility, that’s all.”