Starfist: Kingdom's Fury

by David Sherman

  Damn! Claypoole had hoped nobody would mention that. “That’s true,” he agreed. “They did it because the 82nd Division was relying too much on surveillance devices the Skinks were able to get around, and the Skinks used all those buzz saws to cover their attack. They aren’t going to do that to us. Now, let’s find us some Skinks and kill them.”

  “Acting Second Acolyte?” A soldier looked at Claypoole, the first sign of attention he’d seen from the platoon. “Do you think it’s possible the Lord will allow us victory?”

  Claypoole looked at the soldier for a moment before replying. “I can’t speak for the Lord,” he finally said, “but a few good Marines insist on it.” He looked about for other questions. A couple of soldiers seemed to be considering what he’d said and looked less dull, more ready. It wasn’t much, but it was an improvement.

  “On your feet, soldiers. We’ve got Skinks to find and kill.”

  When the Kingdomites reformed into their patrol formation, they were a bit less listless than before.

  Claypoole wasn’t the only Marine convinced he was on his terminal patrol that day. Corporal Doyle knew profoundly that he and everyone else was going to get killed on his patrol. He shook so badly he had trouble holding onto his blaster. He remembered vividly the heavy casualties 34th FIST had suffered in the Swamp of Perdition and was fully cognizant of the fact that only the strike by the FIST’s Raptors had saved the infantry. He hadn’t gone into any of the bunkers on Hymnal Hill, but he had on Heaven’s Heights, and saw the Kingdomite soldiers the Skinks had killed there. And he knew the marsh was perfect Skink country. He was convinced that he and Corporal Kerr and Lance Corporal Schultz were going to die that day. The pending deaths of the soldiers from the Lancelot Guardians of the Faith whom the three Marines were leading didn’t cross his mind; their fate was a foregone conclusion. Why had he let Gunny Bass talk him into becoming a blasterman instead of letting First Sergeant Myer court-martial him and send him to a nice, safe brig somewhere far, far away from the Skinks?

  Doyle’s conviction of impending death was so strong that, surprisingly, it saved his life.

  Schultz, on the point in front of first squad as usual, even though he was nominally the platoon sergeant, froze and lowered himself to a knee in the muck. Behind him the platoon accordioned to a stop and the soldiers also lowered themselves, though they were reluctant to kneel in the water and muck. Schultz raised his shields and scanned the swamp with his naked eyes; he held down a shiver that wasn’t caused by a chill. He sniffed the air and listened carefully, seeking whatever it was that made him stop. He stuck out his tongue and nervously tasted the air.

  “What’cha got, Hammer?” Kerr asked over the Marine circuit from his position with second squad in the middle of the platoon column.

  Schultz didn’t notice the tremor in Kerr’s voice. He sucked on his teeth to work up enough saliva to say one word: “Dunno.” He kept searching with all his senses.

  Closer to the rear of the column with third squad, Corporal Doyle, who was too distracted by thoughts of how he was going to die to pay attention to where he was going, tripped over a crouched soldier. He landed with a loud splash in a pool of standing water.

  The sudden noise startled everyone, and they threw themselves down, ignoring the water and muck they landed in. Several of the startled soldiers, thinking they were under attack, fired their rifles. Those few shots set off the rest of them, and the entire platoon started firing randomly into the surrounding reed- and grasslike foliage.

  Before Kerr could order the Kingdomites to cease fire, a streamer of greenish fluid shot over first squad. He gasped, momentarily stunned by their good fortune, then found his voice and shrilled out, “LEFT FRONT! FIRE! Second and third squads, hold your fire.”

  He fumbled for his UPUD, found it, gave the command for a real-time infra overlay of the close-up view of his position. During the seconds it took the string-of-pearls to process his request, locate the current data, and download it, he scanned what he could see of the action in front of him. The fire from first squad was wild, fléchette rounds chaotically ripping through the foliage, most of the shots too high—and the volume of outgoing fire was decreasing as screaming men were hit by the acid streams. Only the plasma bolts from Schultz’s blaster were skimming the surface of the ground and water. Kerr saw a flash of light as a bolt hit a Skink. The UPUD shook in his hand. It took another second or so for him to realize the shaking in his hand was from the instrument, not his nerves. He looked at the display. The only red it showed in the platoon’s vicinity was the red of the soldiers; either the UPUD was malfunctioning or the Skinks were disguising their already faint infra signals even more.

  Now what should he do? He had no idea whether all of the Skinks were involved in the firefight or if there were more of them waiting patiently for other squads to move into their killing zone. He looked at the display again. It showed what might be a waterway that meandered toward the platoon, closing to about forty meters from first squad, within the fifty-meter range of the Skink acid guns. If the Skinks were in the waterway, it would explain why the string-of-pearls hadn’t picked up any infra signals.

  I’m a Marine, Kerr reminded himself. When in doubt, act decisively. He took a deep, shuddering breath and spoke into his helmet radio.

  “Doyle, take second squad and move up to support first squad. Now.” He heard a faint noise, but not an acknowledgment. “Doyle, do you hear me?”

  “Second squad, move up and support first. Aye aye.” Doyle’s voice was high-pitched and squeaky.

  “Do it. Third squad, stay in position until I reach you.” He slithered backward, in the direction of third squad. He slid his infra shield into place and looked to the side. He picked up the movement of man-size bodies—second squad moving forward to support first squad. He rose to his feet, turned about, and double-timed to third squad. “Come with me,” he ordered, and led the way into the marsh to the side of the platoon’s route.

  The soldiers followed. None could have said whether they were more nervous because they were heading into battle or because they were following the disembodied arm Kerr exposed and held behind his back for them to see.

  Corporal Doyle could easily tell where first squad was from the firing of their rifles. Fearfully, convinced that the Skinks were aiming at him and waiting their chance to shoot at any exposed skin, he slid his left sleeve up and used his bare arm to direct second squad into position.

  “Fire as soon as you’re in position,” he said. He had to say it a second time because his voice caught in his throat the first time. In position himself, while he gratefully rolled his sleeve back down and sealed its join with his glove, he checked to see where the Kingdomite soldiers were firing. Most of them were shooting high. Even he, who until this deployment had spent his entire Marine career as a clerk, knew their fire was thoroughly ineffective. Doyle worked his mouth to make saliva, cleared his throat, and tried to breathe slowly instead of hyperventilating.

  “Low . . .” he squeaked. He cleared his throat again. “Lower your aim!” he shouted, little louder than a croak. He cleared his throat once more. “Lower your fire,” he shouted more clearly. “Aim low! You’re shooting over them.”

  The fléchette rounds began shredding foliage closer to ground and water level; the stalky plants that resembled reeds and grasses suffered more of the shredding. Satisfied that most of the Kingdomites had adjusted their fire, he took a surface-skimming shot himself. His jaw dropped when he saw an answering flash.

  “Great Buddha’s balls,” he whispered. If one random shot flared a Skink, they were probably densely massed. He started hyperventilating again.

  Kerr stopped forty meters from the platoon’s route and faced toward the waterway the UPUD had shown, where he suspected the Skinks were. He used his bare arm to signal the squad to line up on either side of him. As pale as their faces were, he was glad he had his chameleon shield down so they couldn’t see the fear he was sure was on his face. He knew
his soldiers were terrified, convinced they were going to be killed by the Skinks. He wondered what kept them from running.

  He pitched his voice so every man in the squad could hear him and said, “We’re going to hit them from the flank. Move fast. Walk, don’t run, but move fast. Let’s go.” He stepped off and was relieved to see the Kingdomites move with him.

  They didn’t run, but walked briskly, passing to the left of second squad’s flank in little more than a minute. Kerr shifted third squad farther to the left and resumed the advance. Twenty meters beyond, he saw a stream of greenish fluid arc toward first squad.

  “FIRE!” he shouted, and sent three rapid plasma bolts where he thought the acid came from. Foliage shredded from the Kingdomite fléchettes, most of it low enough to be effective against a foe laying low. A bright flash answered one of Kerr’s bolts.

  “Keep moving,” Kerr shouted. “Fire as you move. Fire low!” He spoke on his helmet radio’s command circuit: “Doyle, get second squad up here with us. We’re going through them.” There was another flash as another of his bolts hit home. Deeper into the foliage he saw another flash, a Skink hit by Schultz.

  Third squad reached the streamlet. It was just wide enough to have a space in its middle that was clear of reeds. Kerr saw a few Skinks in that space, just enough of them showing above the surface of the slowly moving water for them to point and fire their acid guns.

  “Halt and fire!” he ordered, then raised his blaster and flared the nearest Skink. He shifted aim and another flashed into vapor. Third squad fired wildly. Most of their shots missed visible Skinks, but few of their shots were too high. The surface of the water looked like it was being pelted by rain. The rain-battering increased to a storm as second squad moved up. Two more Skinks flared.

  Suddenly aware of the attack from their flank, the surviving Skinks ducked under the surface.

  “Keep shooting!” Kerr roared. Schultz led first squad up at a run and they added their fire into the streamlet. The water surface roiled with the fléchettes hitting it. Red stained the boiling water and steam rose where plasma bolts struck it.

  After a moment Kerr ordered the platoon to cease fire and the shooting trailed off. No streamers of acid broke the sudden stillness.

  “Casualty report,” Kerr said when he was sure the Skinks weren’t going to counterattack immediately.

  Second and third squads reported no injuries. First squad had three dead. The Kingdomite medic with them was struggling to save the lives of two others who’d been wounded by the acid.

  Kerr raised his shields to make his face visible and turned from side to side, looking at the Kingdomites. It took a strong effort, but he got his breathing under control and swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat.

  “You see that?” he said loudly. “You beat them. The Skinks set an ambush to kill you. They set it on their ground, and you beat them. You beat them once, you can do it again.”

  Several of the Kingdomites smiled weakly; they wanted to believe him. A few cheered weakly.

  Their morale was rising, they weren’t as frightened. Maybe, if the Kingdomites could regain confidence, Kerr thought, he could defeat his fear as well.

  He got on his comm and called company headquarters with a report. Acting Lesser Imam Sergeant Linsman ordered him to bring the casualties in.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Despite what Corporal Claypoole thought, the Marines given leadership positions in the Army of the Lord and sent out on patrol that day weren’t simply to take the Kingdomite soldiers out and get them killed; they were to search for isolated groups of Skinks and kill them. They were also to locate entrances to caves used by the alien, and plant sensors around them. Corporal Dean’s platoon of the Lancelot Guardians of the Faith had the good fortune to traverse farmland lined with woody windbreaks, the kind of terrain in which the Kingdomites, not the Skinks, had the advantage. So, though terribly frightened, Dean’s soldiers weren’t absolutely convinced they were going to lose an encounter with the Skinks. As it happened, they made their way to their destination—across fifteen kilometers of farmland, mostly patrolling along treelines—without seeing any sign of the strange invaders.

  Their destination was a rift, an area of risen ground with a fast-running, boulder-strewn creek bed at the bottom. At that season, the creek filled only half of its bed.

  Lance Corporal Godenov, with the lead squad, said into his helmet comm, “Let me check it out.”

  “You got it, Izzy,” Dean replied. He turned his attention to deploying the rest of the platoon into a defensive perimeter. It only took a few seconds before he noticed he had the entire platoon, not just two squads. He flipped his infra screen into place and saw one red splotch nearing the creek bed in the bottom of the rift—Godenov hadn’t taken first squad the way Dean thought; he’d gone alone.

  “Dammit, Izzy,” Dean said into his helmet comm, “you already proved the answer is yes. Take your squad.”

  All his life Isadore Godenov—now Lance Corporal Izzy Godenov—had been plagued by the question, “Is he good enough?” The question followed him when he joined third platoon, where he finally answered it with an emphatic “Yes!” on several deployments.

  “No can do,” Godenov answered. “Too many bodies. One man can do this recon better.” He moved upstream, stepping from rock to rock along the side of the creek bed.

  “Quick, take over the platoon and get them into defensive positions,” Dean ordered. “You,” he indicated half a dozen Soldiers of the Lord, “come with me.” PFC Quick aye-aye’d. Muttering to himself, Dean led the frightened soldiers down to the creek bed.

  Water had run through the rock long enough to cut a three-meter-deep channel into it. Above the rock the ground rose steeply, but not so sharply that it couldn’t be plowed and planted; grain covered the slopes. At any other season, the cut would have been a deadly place to be caught in a flash flood; just then, the creek’s shallow water burbled in the middle half of its bed, pooled here, eddied there. Fishlike creatures swam in the water. Occasionally one broke the surface to snatch an insectoid.

  Godenov paid the swimmers and their prey no attention, his constantly moving gaze fixed on the walls of the cut. Somewhere, there should be the mouth of a cave, according to the string-of-pearls. Finding it wasn’t easy. The rock walls were pitted in many places with openings that only went a meter or two into them—and every opening had to be checked.

  Godenov grunted his way over a boulder as tall as his waist and peered at yet another opening in the wall. It was partially blocked by a boulder about the size of the one he’d just climbed over, but enough still showed above for a man to easily slip through. He picked his way to the side of the opening and slid his light-gatherer shield into place before looking into it with his blaster at the ready. The hole seemed to be only a few meters deep, but an irregularity at its end caught his eye. Blaster first, he slid over the boulder into the cave. The overhead was high enough for him to stand crouched over. Pointing his blaster where he was going, he moved inward. In a few steps he saw that the irregularity was a sharp turn in the tunnel. Leading with his blaster, he eased around to where he could see where it went.

  He pressed the firing lever on his blaster and jumped back just in time to avoid three streams of acid that flew at him from the clot of Skinks he’d seen. The flash from a flaring Skink almost blinded him and he blinked frantically to clear his vision as he rapidly scooted backward. Harsh jabbering from around the bend grew rapidly louder, and he fired three more rapid shots to keep the Skinks from charging him.

  As he followed Godenov, Dean stopped here and there to plant a sensor behind a rock or under a shrub. Still, he and his half-dozen soldiers had almost caught up with Godenov when the Marine crawled over the boulder into the cave mouth.

  “Wait here,” Dean told his soldiers, and followed Godenov. He was almost at the cave’s entrance when there was a quick flash of light in the darkness and Dean heard the crack-sizzle of a bla
ster. He dove toward the opening and poked his blaster over the top of the blocking boulder. His light-gatherer shield showed Godenov backing rapidly toward him while firing.

  “Izzy!” he shouted. “What is it?”

  “Cover me,” Godenov answered, and spun about to race from the cave. As he was scrambling over the rock a Skink appeared out of the side of the cave. Dean fired, the Skink flared.

  “It turns back there,” Godenov said breathlessly. “That’s where they’re coming from.”

  “How many?”

  “Damned if I know. A bunch.” He and Dean simultaneously fired at another Skink as it turned the corner.

  Dean considered what to do. The tunnel was narrow enough that he and Godenov could hold off any number of Skinks for as long as their power packs held out. But there could be more openings nearby. They had to withdraw. But first Dean used the UPUD to register the location of the cave mouth. He thought about a way to slow the Skinks down when he and Godenov pulled back, and turned to the Kingdomites he’d left behind, seeing only four of them.

  “Come here,” he shouted. “Stay to the side.” He exposed his arm and signaled where he wanted them to go. The soldiers reluctantly stood and moved forward until Godenov fired again and a Skink flared. Two of the soldiers began to bolt, but Dean threw his blaster into his shoulder and fired a bolt at the rocks in front of them. They skittered to a stop.

  “Up here!” he shouted. They came, keeping to the side of the cave mouth.

  “Yessir,” one of them gasped when they arrived, looking fearfully at where he thought Dean’s face was.

  “Grab some boulders and shove them into this opening, I want it blocked.” Seeing how frightened they were, he added, “The Skinks are around a bend. They can only come around it one at a time, and the tunnel’s narrow enough that we can’t miss. We’ll keep them off you. Now move, like this.” He hefted a flat rock almost a half meter across and plunked it heavily on top of the boulder in front of the entrance.