Glory Main

by Henry V. O'Neil

  Mortas turned and craned his neck to see the reaction of the Sim troops riding the next vehicle, and was only mildly surprised to see little approval for the mistreatment of the human dead. Once again he saw the shaking of a head or two, and decided that these soldiers had been locked in combat with the survivors of the assault force long enough to have gained some kind of respect for them. Either that, or they’d seen so much killing that they found excesses like these repulsive.

  The settlement itself rose into life shortly after that, but the devastation simply got worse. Sim work crews were everywhere, moving piles of broken rock and smashed equipment. The domes Mortas had seen from afar had been hit by a special kind of ordnance, something that penetrated the curved roof and then detonated deep inside. All that damage would have occurred in the initial bombardment, but apparently the besieged defenders had been too busy surviving to deal with it at the time. They’d hastily pushed the wreckage off to the sides of the main thoroughfares, and now they were sifting through the detritus looking for long-­dead casualties. The smell of the decaying flesh rose up over the chemical scent of the mover’s engine, and as Mortas watched, a dead Sim was pulled from the rubble in two pieces.

  They reached what appeared to be the town square, and Sim military police stopped the column without appearing to have much interest in it. Mortas looked around, trying to determine the reason for the holdup. A haggard file of civilians was shuffling through a chow line across the square, and yet another column of vehicles was parked next to one of the few undamaged structures. Sim casualties were being carried from the building on stretchers and loaded on the movers, and he decided it must have been some kind of hospital during the siege. The medical vehicles rolled off in short order, and he was thrilled to see the military police directing them to follow.

  “They’re being evacuated, I bet they’re going to the drome.” He hugged Trent and Gorman tightly, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the engine. “We just might get lucky enough to ride the whole way there.”

  They were passing the enemy rocket batteries when the question about staying with the column became moot. The delivery tubes that had changed the hard dirt into mud under the human assault force and then, later, rained death on the scavengers on that same ground were in the very center of the settlement. Unlike the enemy bunkers, they were huge half-­spheres of concrete with sliding double-­door openings on four sides. They’d been hit by something heavy, probably in the first day’s bombardment, as most of them displayed wide cracks and black smudges, but their engineering had obviously been sufficient protection. Mortas was studying them when he saw the doors on one side begin to open, and a moment later he realized what it was. The open mouths of a multi-­launch rocket system emerged from behind the doors, dark and hungry.

  Someone had called for fire support, and the rocket turrets were about to go into action.

  “Get ready! They’re about to fire a mission, and I bet these things are loud!”

  Trent leaned across him urgently, speaking to both of them. “Cover your ears and open your mouths! Concussion’s the real killer!”

  They didn’t get the chance to do either of those things, as the drivers in the column had noticed the gun activity as well. Instead of stopping and dismounting the exposed troops riding with them, they simply took off at top speed. The three humans barely had enough time to grab handholds on the scout car’s carapace before they were barreling along, bouncing in the air with each rut and rise. They weren’t past the gun emplacements when the firing started, and it was all Mortas could do to force himself to keep his hands gripping the vehicle. The rockets belched forth with an explosion so loud that he could have sworn someone had just ice-­picked him in the eardrums, and the rush of air was a full-­body slap that threatened to tear him loose from the car.

  The three of them flattened as best they could, trying to bury their ears in one another’s torso, and the nightmare ride continued with a bone-­rattling succession of jolts from above and below as the firing continued and the vehicles jumped in flight. Mortas managed to press one of his boots against the recon vehicle’s headlight grill, finally keeping himself from flying up in the air with each bounce, but the others had no such luck and so they landed on him more often than not. He heard a low, mewling cry very close to his damaged ears and was looking to see who was making that sound when he realized it was coming from his own mouth. The terrifying succession of explosions, wind slaps, and buffets from the armor was reaching a climax that he feared he would not survive when the racing vehicle came to a screeching halt.

  Gorman lost his hold and shot forward, skimming across the car’s hood and bouncing off the rear end of the towing mover before disappearing between the two stopped vehicles like a rag doll. Trent called out his name in horror before pushing herself off of Mortas and sliding down after him. Taking in huge, panicked breaths, Mortas forced himself to release his grip on the handholds and look around as the rockets fired one more salvo somewhere behind the convoy.

  He saw what had caused them to stop, and knew that this was their chance. One of the captured vehicles farther up the line had flipped over in the convoy’s headlong flight, yanking its mover to a stop and also crushing one of the Sim troops who’d been riding it. He craned his neck to see better, and made out several limp forms in the dirt around the stricken carrier. Sims from ahead and behind were now running to aid the injured, and he stood up to get his bearings before sliding down to help Trent.

  Gorman sported an ugly forehead gash that flowed blood into his eyes, and so Mortas slipped one of the chartist’s arms over his shoulder before whispering to Trent, “We’re gonna leave them now. Follow me, and no more talking.”

  Trent was shaking out a dressing from the medical kit, and she nodded rapidly while pressing it up against Gorman’s wound. The man’s legs gave out as soon as they started to move, so she swung under his other arm and between them she and Mortas were able to hustle him away from the column. Another bunker was nearby, some kind of storage or perhaps ammunition for the rocket turrets, and they managed to get around to its other side without being seen. They halted long enough to tie the dressing tightly around Gorman’s head before getting him up and moving on.

  He was mumbling about Sere and Cranther and coordinates as they carried him off in the direction of the enemy drome.

  CHAPTER 11

  “How is he?”

  Mortas leaned in, squinting and trying to make out Gorman’s features in the darkness. They’d half carried and half walked him to the edge of the spacedrome before discovering the ruined hulks of the Sim craft that had been destroyed in the initial assault. A huge flat area next to the landing strip was simply covered with the crushed, torn, and burnt-­out husks of spacecraft and aircraft that had been dragged or pushed out of the way. If the dimensions of the debris field were any indication, it seemed clear that every one of the enemy’s flying machines had been caught on the ground.

  That’s why we didn’t see any of their air until now.

  The drome itself was a beehive of activity, and they’d gone unnoticed as they slipped into the junkyard as the sun was setting. Mortas had felt genuine relief when the night had finally enfolded them, as if they’d been out of their element moving around in the daylight. They’d found a fuselage that was sufficiently intact to hide them, close enough to the drome to observe the spacecraft that were coming and going, and fitted out in a way that made Gorman as comfortable as possible.

  He’d been lucid for most of the journey and swore he was fine, but his stifled cries of pain had suggested internal injuries. After they laid him down he’d started babbling about the sequence for finding and locking in the coordinates for Glory Main, and no amount of arguing that he should rest could make him stop. They hadn’t feared detection at that point, because the noise from the drome was an unrelenting roar as aircraft supporting the mopping-­up operations took off and landed while ev
ery now and then a spaceship lifted off or touched down. Many of the latter were heavy freight carriers, and they hadn’t spotted a single Wren yet. Watching, both Trent and Mortas had been flabbergasted when the column of captured human vehicles rolled into the mechanical graveyard and unhitched their prizes right next to where they were hidden. The exhausted Sim infantry force was nowhere to be seen, but the vehicles they had ridden were now parked right next to them.

  The salvage efforts obviously continued, as enormous flatbed movers soon began delivering tracked vehicles resurrected from the mud field where they’d been interred. Mortas had waited until the latest movers had departed before sneaking out to inspect these newly arrived wrecks, a diversionary plan already taking shape in his mind. Although the Sims had placed no guards in the junkyard, the blinding lights from the spacedrome flickered and danced amid the wreckage and he’d had to exercise caution. Nothing separated the hulks from the airstrip, and it would have been too easy to get spotted by a Sim worker who’d wandered out there to relieve himself.

  He’d located the only tank delivered thus far, and had been pleased to see that its main gun didn’t appear damaged. Crawling inside through a blown escape hatch, he’d found the ammunition racks still loaded with their deadly missiles as he’d expected. The memories of a few weeks’ training on these massive machines now returned and enabled him to check the power in the batteries without having to turn the engine over. He doubted it would have responded anyway, as the vehicle had probably been left running until it ran out of fuel—­and in any event he didn’t need to make the thing move.

  The batteries were low, but there was enough juice to engage the onboard targeting system and aim the gun. That was all he’d need in order to fire a high explosive round at one of the enemy hangars or, even better, one of the many stacks of barrels and crates that were even then being unloaded. Unfamiliar as he was with Sim heavy ordnance, he still suspected that something in those piles would explode if given the opportunity. Unfortunately, the tank’s field of fire on that side was obstructed by the shattered body of a space transport and one of the wheeled scout vehicles that the enemy had parked there. Moving the transport’s carcass was out of the question, but the scout car might roll if given a push.

  Trent looked up at him when he returned and asked how Gorman was doing. “Lapses in and out of consciousness, but he’s breathing well and keeps muttering about how to get to Sere.”

  Memories of first aid classes and the treatment for trauma passed through his mind, much too fast because the instruction had been so scanty. “Is that good?”

  “It’s better than no breath at all. I’m pretty sure he’s busted up inside.”

  “Yeah, I thought as much.” A huge transport slowly growled by out on the runway, blocking out what little illumination had been filtering in through the wreck’s fractured walls. “I haven’t spotted a Wren yet, but there’s something else we have to do first. They brought one of our tanks in, and I want to use its main gun for a diversion, but there’s stuff in the way.”

  “Stuff we could move?”

  “You read my mind.”

  The circumstances changed radically just as they approached the blocking vehicle. They’d waited in the shadows, letting their eyes adjust to the floodlights and making sure that no Sims had decided to go for a stroll through the graveyard. Then, just as they were reaching the scout car, a chorus of chirps warbled at them from the other side. Trent and Mortas froze instantly, the stealth and silence of the previous nights having slipped into their very psyches. The voices rose and fell but didn’t seem to get closer, so Mortas signaled Trent to stay put and slowly crept forward.

  He edged up to the car’s bow-­shaped snout and laid gentle fingertips on the cold metal before stretching up onto his toes to look over. Sound travels far at night, and he breathed out a long, relieved exhalation when he saw that the noisemakers were a good fifty yards away. They looked like some kind of work gang that had been given a chance to rest, and they’d found a patch of open ground between the runway and the junkyard. He studied them closely, and had almost forgotten Trent when she came up next to him. Without saying a word he bent down and lifted her boot up onto the car’s front tire. He then looped an arm under her buttocks to raise her up where she could see.

  “They’re going to sleep right there.” She spoke into his ear in a normal voice, masked by the diminished but still-­active engine sounds of the drome.

  “Nothing we can do about it. But they look pretty dead; half of ’em are already out.”

  “Wait. What’s that?” Her arm extended over the car’s nose.

  A wall of shadow rose up two hundred yards out, and even though lights moved in the darkness it was impossible to know what they were. Now, sliding out of the murk like some kind of plankton-­eating fish, its mouth wide and its fins extended, a Wren shuttle backed toward the open hangar and the piled supplies. Sim ground personnel walked around it, guiding with handheld lights until it stopped and finished lowering its rear ramp to the tarmac. The brightness of its interior seemed to beckon, and Mortas found himself yearning to climb aboard.

  Too soon. Not ready. Let this one go.

  His heart rate began to accelerate as a chasm of doubt opened wide before him. What if this was the only Wren they’d ever see? What if this was the only one that would come this close?

  His mind tripped over itself as he sorted through the myriad tasks they would have to accomplish in near-­perfect sequence to catch this particular ride, but a final observation dropped it all into place.

  Gorman can’t wait. We have to get him out of here.

  “Listen. I’m going to release the brakes, and then we’re going to push this thing that way.” He pointed toward the vehicle’s rear, away from the sleeping enemy. “Then you get Gorman—­”

  “I’m right here.” The voice was weak and dry, but the chartist was standing behind and below them. “You thought you were gonna move this all by yourselves?”

  Things happened quickly after that. Trent hopped down while Mortas crawled over the roof and slid into the driver’s seat. Whoever had parked the thing had left the brakes unlocked, so he climbed up and out again almost immediately. Hugging the car’s armor, the three of them slid along its front like a single shadow, their fearful eyes fixed on the sleeping forms yards away. There was no movement and no alarm, and so they slowly turned and began to push. The vehicle gave out a heart-­stopping groan as the pressure of their hands and legs mounted, but the ground was in their favor and it gradually shifted backward until Mortas decided that was far enough.

  Turning, he saw that the Wren was now changing pilots. Two coming on, two going off, all four holding kit bags and chatting fraternally on the ramp.

  No time.

  He grabbed Trent’s arm and handed her the Scorpion rifle. “Take Gorman and get walking. Nice and slow. Cut around these guys to the left, be ready to hit the deck when I fire the cannon.”

  Trent looked up at him, blinking hard. “You catch up with us. Got it?”

  “I will! Get going!”

  And he was running for the tank.

  He almost dropped the leg-­sized missile when he lifted it from the rack. Under full power the vehicle would have loaded the round itself, but even now Mortas feared there might not be enough juice left to operate the turret. The high explosive was encased inside a hard tube that would disintegrate as it launched, and he wrestled it up onto his shoulder with great difficulty. The open maw of the gun’s breach beckoned in the shadows, and he staggered forward.

  Shoulda loaded this before going back to the others.

  He got lucky and hit dead center, sliding the missile in until it had almost disappeared. He swung the firing mechanism closed, and then jumped into the gunner’s seat. A flip of a switch and the cushioned eyepieces in front of him lit up on infrared, a dull green field that had always reminded him of deep sea p
hotography. A targeting array swam into focus before his eyes, and he recognized the silhouette of the scout car that they’d just pushed out of the way.

  There was going to be a riotous reaction when he let loose, and Mortas took a quick look to make sure of the escape hatch’s location. Returning to the sight, he drew in a long, shaky breath and then placed his hand on the control stick. With a convulsive act of will, he squeezed down on the release and felt power surge into the turret. He twisted too hard, and the gun slewed over to the left with a loud screech that he heard even inside the armor.

  Stay calm. Hit the target.

  He goosed the gun barrel back to the right in jerky spasms, ignoring the small shapes that had already begun to move at the bottom of the sight’s image. The sleeping work crew was waking up, alarmed by the noise the tank was making. He bumped the gun just a tad further, and was rewarded with a blinding white dot. It was the floodlight over the nearest hangar’s entrance, and as soon as the infrared adjusted for the heightened illumination he was able to make out the inside of the building. There were stacks of crates there as well, but he now knew they hadn’t pushed the scout car far enough to target the other piles.

  Would they store explosives inside a hangar?

  That unmanning thought came to mind just as his vision was momentarily interrupted by a lurching cone, a dark thing moving closer, and he knew it was a Sim coming to investigate. He was out of time, he knew it, and so he made sure the glowing reticle was square on the boxes before jamming his thumb down on the trigger.

  The tank jumped, but it was the noise that surprised him. The blast shouted down the sounds of the airfield with an authoritative clap of thunder, and in the instant that he caught sight of the round streaking toward the light he also saw the standing Sim go down clutching his ears. The warhead flew beautifully, almost no arc at such short range, and he was reminded of a glorious moment on the playing fields at school when he had scored the winning goal in the lacrosse championship. The hard spheroid had flown from his racket, curved perfectly to pass over the goaltender’s shoulder, and sailed into the net.