Glory Main

by Henry V. O'Neil

  Two long, almost parallel ridges formed the boundaries of a long stretch of flat ground, a kind of a lane over which the assault had charged after it had separated from the cofferdams. Although no lights were in evidence at the end of that lane, not even a glow, the Sim settlement was presumably just beyond the open ground. Over a hundred tanks, scout cars, personnel carriers, and support vehicles were ranged over the expanse for a great distance, most of them half submerged.

  “Look at that.” Gorman pointed toward the center of the lane. “The ones in the middle are almost buried. Whatever caused this, it was more potent in the center.”

  “It’s got to be something completely new. I’ve never heard of anything like this.” Trent mused.

  Mortas didn’t reply. “How should we do this, Corporal?”

  “Pairs. Gorman with me, the captain with you. Only one goes inside a vehicle, and the other keeps watch. Two hard raps on the hull means come out fast, one means stay put. You’re looking for bags of any kind, first to see if there’s any food in it and second for carrying it away. Rucksacks are best; you want to be able to carry whatever you’ve found on your back. And don’t stop to eat anything until you’re back here. After the bags, you look for lockers; inside a tank they’re in the rear and inside a personnel carrier they’re toward the front.”

  “Done this before, Corporal?” Gorman sounded downright giddy, but Mortas understood. The prospect of real food was positively thrilling and he couldn’t wait to get moving.

  “I’ve stolen food from just about everything at one time or another. And the troops who get to ride everywhere usually stock up on the good stuff.” He licked his lips. “See that tank there, the one with the gun pointed straight up? That’s your bearing to get back here. Remember a walking Sim looks like a walking human, so don’t say hello to just anybody you meet out there.”

  He stopped talking, and after a moment or two Mortas knew he was finished. It was dark enough now, and he honestly didn’t think he could wait any longer. “Let’s go.”

  The Mauler bumped against his back as he shuffled across the uneven terrain, and Mortas wondered if he should have left it behind. The stars weren’t out yet, but his eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he was able to avoid most of the rocks sticking out of the wave-­like earth. The dirt didn’t feel like anything he’d stepped on during their sojourn on the planet, and its solidity reminded him of concrete. Crouched over as he was, he was able to reach a hand down without breaking stride and wasn’t surprised that the surface felt like roughened stone.

  Cranther and Gorman had veered to the left of the tank that was their reference point, and so he followed Trent to the right. For her part she moved as if it were broad daylight, almost jogging along toward a half-­exposed troop carrier that Mortas had pointed out. She’d never ridden inside an assault vehicle, and he had, so they’d quickly decided that Mortas would be doing the searching. But that worked; he remembered the lockers Cranther had mentioned and also that the troops who’d given him the training ride in their carrier kept some wonderful treats in them.

  He glanced at the shadowy mass of the tank as they passed and was reminded of an old, cracked tree on the grounds of one of his earliest prep schools. Wide at its base but topped well short of its normal height, at night it had looked like a blood-­crazed ghoul waving its arms. The tank’s gun tube resembled a large splinter that had jutted out of that tree, and he remembered being told frightening stories by the older students about what happened to newbies who left the dormitories at night and ventured too close to it.

  And now I’ve found a place where those stories are true.

  They scampered past the tank and headed for the carrier. Its nose was stuck in the solidified earth so that its open rear ramp didn’t touch the ground, and the childhood spook stories made him think of it as the open mouth of a sleeping giant. He didn’t get much time to develop that image, as Trent abruptly came to a silent halt and he almost skidded into her. His free hand landed on her shoulder, and she took that as some kind of interrogatory gesture. Raising a hand, she pointed at something right at her feet.

  Mortas stepped around her, unslinging the Mauler just in case. He knew its bark would alert anyone within a mile, but it was a weapon and he’d be damned if he’d carry the thing this far and not have it ready. He needn’t have bothered.

  At first he thought the rectangular block in front of them was just another rock, but then he made out the arms and the combat armor that covered the dead man’s shoulders. Only the very top of his chest was visible, and his head was missing. Mortas tried to think of the numerous ways in which this could have happened, but he kept coming back to a conclusion that was as likely as it was hideous. The soldier had become trapped in the same way as the vehicles, and the odds were good that the enemy had decapitated him in his helpless state.

  The horrifying chain of events appeared in his mind and there was no stopping it. The machines roaring like beasts, slewing and sinking and spewing mud or whatever the ground had become. The dead man leaping from the top, feeling his body jamming straight down into the goo. Too far, too deep. Trapped. Struggling, hollering for help, drowned out by the sound of the gunfire, the explosions, the straining engines, and the cries of the others.

  The others. Had his buddies left him? Or just not seen him? Had he watched them flee, knowing he was being left behind? How long had he been there, alone? And when the Sims found him, had he been frightened or relieved?

  Mortas could have gone on with that for much longer, but he sensed eyes on his face and looked up to see Trent studying him, gauging his reaction.

  Fuckin’ headshrinker. Still doesn’t understand this isn’t some sterile shipboard sick bay.

  He pointed a knife-­edged hand at the tilted carrier just ahead, angrily directing her to get moving.

  The canted hulk loomed up in front of them as they covered the final distance, and they took cover next to its mud-­clotted treads. The front of the vehicle was buried, and so Mortas peered across under its armored belly and into the gloom on the other side. There was no wind and no sound, and he waited for a long while in order to make sure they hadn’t been spotted. Trent turned to face in the other direction and crouched down, placing her buttocks against his own.

  At least she understands three-­sixty security.

  When he saw no reason to wait further, he reached back and tapped her thigh. She looked at him, mouth closed, and he pointed at his chest and then at the back ramp to indicate he was going in. She nodded and turned so that her back was against the heavy wheels that had so recently moved the treads that should have propelled the behemoth. He slung the Mauler behind him before reaching up for the carrier’s thick back wall, the ramp that had swung down to allow the troops to exit during the disaster. Pulling himself up over hardened clumps of dirt, he wondered how many of them had escaped.

  Hatches in the roof of the carrier were also open, so a modest amount of light shone in as he slid down the plates of the sloping floor. A mounting post for a heavy weapon arrested his movement halfway, and folding troop seats on either side of him provided handholds as he moved toward the lockers at the front of the carrier. His boots made contact with something soft and for a moment he feared it was another body, but when it gave beneath his weight he recognized it as some kind of bag. When he moved his foot it landed on a discarded helmet, and he realized that the flotsam and jetsam left in the vehicle had slid to the front when it finally came to rest.

  Bending his knees, he found the snaps holding the bag closed and gently began unfastening just enough of them to reach inside. As he’d expected, it was a tool kit of a kind that he’d seen on his training ride months before. He hefted a large hammer and then lost control of it when he went to move the bag off to the side. The mallet twisted in his hands and fell to the deck with a dull metallic thud that nonetheless seemed to ring for hours.

  He fro
ze for several moments, wondering if Trent had heard the noise. When her face didn’t appear in the much-­lighter maw of the rear opening, he decided the hammer hadn’t made that big a sound after all. Right after that he began to ridicule Cranther’s system of warning slaps on the outer hull—­if Trent hadn’t heard the hammer dropping on metal, how was he supposed to hear her bare palm pounding on armor?

  Not for the first time, he pondered the notion that Cranther’s knowledge of small unit tactics might be a bit deficient because the Spartacan almost always worked alone. He had no established procedure for warning fellow soldiers because he so seldom had any of them around him. Despite his extensive combat experience and survival skills, in the end he was hardly the voice that a brand-­new lieutenant would seek for guidance on managing a platoon, a squad, or even three strangers.

  But I bet he scrounges like nobody’s business.

  The thought spurred him back into action, and he shifted a large water container out of the way as quietly as possible. He was reaching for the recessed handle of the first locker when a question crossed his mind.

  Where are the weapons? Why haven’t I found any of those?

  Mortas pressed a palm against the metal door before releasing the catch, and was rewarded with only a tiny ping when it opened. The interior of the locker was invisible in the darkness, but he recognized the feel of a ration box when he touched it and almost cried out in joy. There were twelve condensed meals in that box, and he had only to—­

  Where are the weapons?

  It wasn’t possible that every soldier riding in that carrier had carried his rifle or machine gun out with him. Mortas had already found discarded pieces of field gear, and when he reached around near his feet again he found a complete combat harness loaded with canteens and ammunition pouches.

  Empty ammunition pouches.

  He looked around him, his eyes now fully accustomed to the gloom, and noted that the onboard rifle racks were empty. The crewmember they’d found dead in the ravines had been unarmed, and if they’d bailed out as fast as he expected, it was reasonable to assume that at least some of their weapons would have been left behind.

  They took them. The Sims took them. And the ammunition.

  What if they left booby traps in their place?

  He reached back for the ration box, but this time in fear. He slowly worked his fingers around the carton’s outline, expecting at any moment to come across the wire or the spring or whatever other device would indicate the food was a trap. He was only partially relieved when he finished the blind inspection, too aware of the enemy’s fondness for rigging human equipment, and even human corpses, so that they would detonate if moved. A pressure switch either behind or below the box would be beyond his reach, and the only way to find out if it was there was to actually lift the carton from the shadows.

  He might have stayed there in that position for a very long time had he not heard an insistent hiss behind him. Looking up and back, he saw Trent’s head just visible over the rear ramp. Her arms came up in a gesture that was part concern and part exasperation, but it was enough. Without pausing to think, he seized the carton on both sides and pulled it out of the locker. He was still holding his breath when he slid it up the incline to Trent’s waiting hands.

  Mortas dropped to the ground several minutes later, holding a rucksack that he’d emptied. A more thorough search of the carrier had revealed no weapons of any kind and no food other than the rations he’d already found. Trent stepped out from the hulk’s shadow, and Mortas traded her a human combat harness for the ration box. At least they wouldn’t have to haul the makeshift tube-­canteens anymore, now that they had real ones. He went to stuff the carton into the ruck’s open top, and was mildly impressed to note that its tension bands were still intact. Trent hadn’t helped herself to any of the food while she’d been waiting outside, which surprised him. It wasn’t a criticism; while still inside he’d secretly hoped to come across something small that he could eat quickly and had to believe Trent was just as hungry.

  Although several other vehicles with open hatches were nearby, he was already inclined to leave the area with what they had when the shooting started. It was far away, somewhere on the opposite side of the next ridge and close to where they believed the enemy settlement was located, but both he and Trent hit the ground in alarm. Despite the distance, it sounded like an entire shop full of unmuffled machinery had come to life with a startling roar of harsh pops and rippling snaps.

  Crawling around the wreck to get a better look, Mortas watched in amazement as flares flickered into life in the night sky at least a mile away. He’d been trained to use signals like that, but these were different in color and it took him a moment to realize they were fired by the Sims. The roaring slowed for a few seconds before resuming at a lower volume, and now he heard the deeper, sharper sounds of explosives going off.

  Grenades. Whoever was out there was in close quarters.

  A tug on the rucksack brought his attention back to Trent, who was gesturing for them to leave the area. A glance down at the bag reminded him of its precious contents and how much he desired it, and he gave a weak nod before Trent pulled the bag from his hand and worked it up onto her shoulders.

  More flares popped in the sky as the first ones fizzled out, and the firing resumed. Clearly the Sims had gained the upper hand in that contest, and were now pressing their advantage. Coming to his feet to follow the already moving Trent, Mortas experienced a thought that he would never have imagined possible even a few days earlier.

  Nothing we could do for them, even if we were there.

  Time to eat.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cranther and Gorman were already back at the rally point when they got there. The scout had scrounged a rucksack similar to the one Trent now wore, and it looked full. Without a word they formed up in a column, Cranther in the lead, and humped up the ridge while still more flares raced up into the blackness and briefly joined the stars. The far-­off shooting had died down by then, and Mortas had to assume that the enemy was now pursuing whoever was left.

  The climb away from the wreckage was steep and tiring, but they all knew they’d get to eat only after putting sufficient ground between them and the place where they’d gotten the food, and so they set to it with a will. Bringing up the rear, Mortas couldn’t help but be impressed at the way Trent handled the climb. Granted the rations weren’t all that heavy, but she carried the rucksack as if it contained nothing at all while Gorman, bearing the other one, kept overbalancing and reaching out for the ground. The flares provided intermittent illumination that improved as they neared the summit, allowing Mortas to gauge the weariness of the others. Tired and hungry as he was, he noted with secret pride that even Cranther’s steps weaved from time to time in a way that his own did not. Trent was the only one who seemed more at home, and Mortas promised to add her treadmill regimen to his workouts when they finally returned to humanity.

  If they returned to humanity.

  His mind fought against the thought of eventual salvation, not because it was unlikely but because it was so far away. His entire existence had been reduced to the solving of simple problems such as how to move about without getting spotted and how to find water without getting killed, and now it was even more focused on finding a safe place to eat. This reminded Mortas of a veteran from his training who had warned the assembled lieutenants not to get sloppy at resupply time. Units receiving their expected rations on a normal schedule sometimes let security slip in anticipation, and the veteran had said this was doubly so with units that had missed their resupply and gone hungry.

  So he knew what Cranther was looking for as they climbed: a spot near the top of the ridge from which they could observe anyone trying to sneak up on them, a hole that would hide them, and a location that would require effort for the enemy to reach them. That meant climbing high, but not so high that they’d be on a natura
l movement corridor for an enemy who was presumably as tired of walking as they were.

  The tall grass slowly gave way to the lower, sparser brush that they’d come to know, and Mortas assumed this meant they were nearing the top. A single flare popped alight just as he looked up, and a thrill went through him when he saw they were almost at the summit. The flare washed along the ridge on the opposite side but didn’t expose them, and they were so high up by then that it quickly dropped below them.

  They should have stopped moving and flattened on the ground in such close proximity to a light source, but it was a sign of their exhaustion that even Cranther stayed upright. He took the opportunity to search the immediate area with his eyes, and found what he was looking for before the flare flickered and died. They were left in darkness, but Cranther began moving again and Mortas followed the others along the knife edge of the summit until they found the depression Cranther had seen. Though near the top, the ridge here was so steep that it wouldn’t have allowed anyone to actually walk on it. Mortas nodded in agreement with the selection as he slid down the shallow hole’s crumbling sides and joined the others at its bottom.

  Both rucksacks were soon emptied, and if Mortas had ever received better gifts he certainly couldn’t remember the occasion. The ration box proved to be two-­thirds full, but that still meant two meals apiece. Back home such food would have been considered unfit for the family dog, and on training maneuvers two rations would have been one meal short of a daily allotment, but there in that forgotten hole it was quite simply a banquet.

  Cranther had found more of the energy bars, another medical kit, and three canteens filled with the flavored water-­and-­additives mix that Mortas had come to love while in the field. Most of the infantrymen he knew carried the powder in packet form and added it to the water in their canteens even though Command had warned its high levels of caffeine were addictive. He snorted at the notion of fearing such a long-­term danger as he took a long, grateful swallow.