By force of arms lotd-4

by William C. Dietz

  About four feet away, thumbs hooked into his battle harness. First Sergeant Antonio Top” Santana eyed his commanding officer through half-closed lids. What was the hatchet head thinking anyway? Jeez, the sonovabitch was ugly. He seemed to know his shit, though, which was good, because Santana was ready if he didn’t. Two slugs in the back of the head, and the matter would be settled. Not a pleasant thought but better than letting a geek waste his team. The noncom smiled.

  A little further down the aisle, over on the starboard side, Quickfoot Hillrun started to snore. Oneshot Surekili took exception and kicked the other scout’s foot. The sound stopped for a moment but quickly resumed.

  Lower in the hull, below Surekill’s feet, cyborgs hung within cylindrical drop tubes. The team consisted of four humans and two Hudathans. The tech types had gone to considerable lengths to ensure their corn equipment was compatible. That being the case, and borgs being borgs, the “machine augmented”

  troopers chatted on a low power utility band. Corporal Lars Lastow, one of the 1,021 cyborgs that then Colonel Bill Booly had rescued from Fort Portal back during the mutiny, was interrogating one of his Hudathan colleagues. “So, Sergeant HorlaKa, how’s your sex life?”

  ‘The same as yours,” the noncom answered stolidly.

  “Nonexistent.”

  ‘That’s not what I hear,” the human continued. “I hear they wired you guys to come every time you kill someone.”

  “Come?” HorlaKa responded, “I don’t understand.”

  “You know,” Lastow went on, “shoot your load, blow your rocks, have an orgasm.”

  “Oh that,” HorlaKa answered evenly. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Damn,” the human responded. “You are one lucky bastard.”

  The Hudathan eyed his readouts, saw the seconds ticking away, and knew the enemy was waiting. And not just waiting, but locked, loaded, and ready to fire. “Yes,” he replied dryly. “I am one lucky bastard.”

  One level up, and all the way forward. Navy Lieutenant Mog Howsky “thought” the nose up, wished she had something to do with her hands, and kept her eyes on the HUD. The “backdoor” as she and her copilot called it consisted of a broad U-shaped valley that lay behind the Thraki stronghold and ran parallel to it.

  The plan was to approach from the south and then, when the enemy base was due west, make a hard turn to port. Conditions permitting, Howsky would make two separate passes. The cyborgs would drop during the first, engage the weapons emplacements, and secure the LZ. With that accomplished, the assault boat would return, offload the soft bodies, and haul ass. Assuming I have one to haul, Howsky thought to herself.

  Mountains rose on both sides, sparks floated up to greet them, and the hard pan began. “All right,”

  HorlaKa growled, using his external speakers in spite of the fact that there was no need to, “we are two from dirt. Remove safeties—prepare to drop.”

  Conscious of what awaited them and the importance of their role, the cyborgs were silent. They could

  “feel” the side-to-side motion as the ship jinked back and forth. Thanks to the fact that they could “see”

  via the landing craft’s external sensors, the team knew what to expect. A missile raced over her head and a green tracer whipped past the cockpit as Howsky completed the run. Commands that originated in her brain burped through the computer-assisted interface to make things happen. Flaps fell, jets fired, and the ship started to stall. Repellors stabbed the darkness, the belly gun fired, and slugs hosed the ridgeline. There it was, just as the simulators said it would be, a flat area, a series of duracrete weapons emplacements, and the stacks beyond.

  There was a cracking sound as a high velocity slug punched a hole in the canopy and took Second Lieutenant

  Gorky’s head off. Howsky felt her friend drop out of the control matrix, swore as blood splattered the side of her helmet, and forced herself to concentrate. The tubes opened on command, the borgs dropped free, and she turned to port. If anything happened, if the boat took a hit, the hard bodies would be safe. Well, not safe, but safer. She lined up the targeting reticule on the pillbox and thumbed the pickle. Slugs marched their way up to a pillbox and forced their way inside. Something exploded, and flames belched out through the side-mounted cooling vents.

  Lastow “heard” the buzzer, “felt” the clamps release, and nothing happened. He should have been falling, should have cleared the ship, but hadn’t dropped more than an inch or two. Okay, okay, the cyborg said to himself, it’s a jam. How many simulated jams have you cleared? A hundred? Yeah, easily. Test the circuits, look for shorts, reroute the signal. Electricity did as it was told, a relay closed, and the clamps opened.

  It was only then, as the Trooper IF body dropped clear of the ship, that the legionnaire remembered to check the target, discovered that the boat had cleared the ridge, and realized he was still in the process of falling. Not ten feet as he had planned, but a hundred feet, onto the rocks below. Those who monitored his scream, and that included HorlaKa, would never forget the sound. But there was no time for sympathy, for grief, or any of the other emotions that tried to push their way in. Thraki shells exploded all around. The Hudathan gave his orders. “Form a line abreast! Missiles first!

  Engage the weapons emplacements!”

  Dor Dupio, with Lastow’s scream still echoing through his mind, launched two missiles at once. They sensed heat, accelerated away, and hit the closest pillbox. Light flashed, thunder cracked, and the bunker came apart.

  “Passable,” HorlaKa commented calmly as the cyborgs advanced along the ridge, “though wasteful. One missile would have been sufficient.”

  Dupio started to object, started to tell the hatchet head he was crazy, and realized it was a waste of time. All of them were crazy.

  Someone, HorlaKa thought it was Himley, yelled “Hit the deck!”

  The noncom obliged, “felt” something warm pass over his head, and “heard” the assault boat crash. Metal screeched, a turbine roared, and something exploded. Santana staggered, tried to pull the shard of hull metal out of his chest, and collapsed. HorlaKa got to his feet. “The airshafts! Follow me!”

  Bak BorloKa, the second Hudathan on the team questioned the order, but followed it. What of those on the landing craft? Some were clansmen.

  But there was no time to think, only to act. Thraki troops boiled up out of the ground and opened fire. That was a mistake. With no cyborgs of their own, the defenders were outgunned. Arm-mounted Catling guns roared, energy cannons burped, and the soft bodies ceased to exist. HorlaKa felt orgasm after orgasm ripple through a body he no longer possessed—and found the split-second necessary to hate the scientists for what they had done to him. To take the pleasure associated with the creation of life and use it as a reward for destroying it... What could be more twisted?

  But there was no time to think, to do more than run, as the airshafts rose, and the resistance started to fade. The first objective had been secured—but what of the second? The borgs were too big to fit inside the airshafts and too clumsy to lower themselves to the bottom. The mission was at risk. Lieutenant SeebaKa felt the SLM hit the ship, heard the explosion, and knew they were in trouble. He yelled, “Hang on!” took his own advice, and saw the deck tilt.

  The pilot was fighting for control, the infantry officer could tell that, and struggled to suppress his fear. Fear he wasn’t supposed to feel, fear that signaled his weakness, fear that... The ship side-slipped into the ground. Howsky died instantly as did a third of the troops seated with their backs to the port bulkhead. Toba, Ibens, Ngugen, Al Saifd, IstaSa, PorloBa, BoroDa, and NomoKa—all dead.

  SeebaKa, who was seated just aft of the impact zone, released his harness and lurched to his feet. Though conceived in Hudathan the words were not all that different from what a human might have said.

  “What the hell are you waiting for? A full-blown holo presentation? Hit the dirt!”

  Hudathan, human, and Naa alike released their harnesses, struggled t
o make their way the length of the steeply slanted deck, and headed towards the bright green lights. Due to the fact that the ship had fallen onto the port side that door was blocked. Thanks to the manner in which the hull had rotated, the opposite hatch was high, and very difficult to reach. A legionnaire boosted another legionnaire up, but he lost his balance. Both tumbled to the deck.

  Private Lars Lasker solved the problem by triggering the belly mounted escape hatch and jumping up and down on the door. It gave, and he fell through the hole. Sergeant Quickfoot Hillrun pointed and yelled. “Move! Move! Move!”

  Legionnaires poured out onto the ground, took defensive positions around the wreckage, and waited for orders. Wounded were dragged outside, carried beyond the reach of the potential blast zone, and given first aid. SeebaKa called for an air evac and was assured that it was en route. Once that was accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to check with HorlaKa, confirm that the air shafts were secure, and send the report. Like so many of its kind the communication said nothing of the sacrifice required to make it possible. “Red Team is on the ground . .. The first objective is ours.”

  The cabin had been designed for use by admirals and more than met Booly’s needs. He sat in an easy chair guarded by two stacks of printouts. One that he had read and one that he hadn’t. In spite of 18’s importance, the Confederacy covered a lot of space, and Booly, as Military Chief of Staff, had responsibility for the whole thing. That’s why he was busy scanning an intelligence summary on Zynig47

  when the message came in. Tyspin chose to bring it herself. She entered without knocking, dropped into a chair, and offered the slip of paper. “Here, add this to your reading.”

  Booty read the words, nodded, and handed the slip back.

  “Casualties?”

  Tyspin shook her head. “No data as yet... but Red One requested a medevac.”

  “And Objective Two?”

  “They’re tackling it now.”

  Booly paused, imagined what it would be like to rappel down one of those airshafts, and grimaced.

  “And Blue One? How’s she doing?”

  Tyspin grinned. He noticed her eyes were rimmed with red. She hadn’t slept in days. “McGowan? Are you kidding? She was born ready.”

  Booly nodded. ‘Turn her loose.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Angie?”

  “Sir?”

  ‘Take a nap.”

  The assault team was located on a plain just beyond the canyon’s mouth. A thin layer of snow covered the rocks, low lying vegetation, and the ground itself.

  Four widely spaced piles of burned wreckage marked sorties by low flying Thraki aircraft. The balance of Blue Team was hunkered down, weapons scanning the sky, waiting for the next assault. The fur balls knew where they were, and, if it hadn’t been for the swabbies patrolling the airspace above, would have greased the entire force by then.

  Captain Bethany “Butch” McGowan had been dirtside for more than eight hours by then. She cursed the cold, blew on her hands, and prayed for a green light. Every hour that passed meant that her troops were a little more tired. .. and a little more likely to make mistakes. Her force consisted of six quads, sixteen Trooper IF’s, twelve Hudathan “heavies,” and a mixed force of infantry under the questionable command of Lieutenant Jonathan Allan Seebo872. The groundpounders included more Jonathan Alan Seebos plus a platoon of legionnaires under Gunnery Sergeant Roily True Bear.

  Blue Team was supposed to negotiate a minefield, find its way through the tank traps, and, should Red Team fail, make their way up the length of the valley through a withering crossfire. Not a stroll in the park.

  McGowan’s corn tech, a woman named Bagano, stuck her head up through a hatch. She wore a corn helmet, a nonreg nosering, and a shiteating grin. ‘The big dog is on line one ... We’re good to go.”

  McGowan sighed. Bagano had a problem where military courtesy was concerned, had been disciplined any number of times, and didn’t seem to give a shit. The officer could have brought the soldier up on charges, and probably would have, except for one little problem: Bagano, or “Bags” as her buddies referred to her, was the best damned corn tech on that side of galaxy. McGowan had seen the woman take three mangled PR3s, fieldstrip them, and build a new unit in less than three minutes. When it came to a tradeoff between formality and competency, McGowan would take competency every single time. Her voice was intentionally loud. “All right! That’s the kind of news we’ve been waiting for! How’s Red?”

  “Red is down,” the corn tech confirmed “Objective One is secure—and they’re working on Two.”

  McGowan considered what that meant. The cyborgs would hold the stacks while the balance of the team dropped through the shafts, located the enemy command and control center, and blew the computer. That should silence the remotely operated weapons emplacements that lined the canyon walls. Weapons emplacements that the jet jockeys had been unable to overcome. Not that the swabbies hadn’t tried. The remains of one dagger was scattered about halfway up—pointing at the ultimate goal—while a second was smeared across the face of a cliff.

  Then, assuming that some of the Red Team managed to make it through—the poor bastards were supposed to throw themselves at the heavily shielded energy cannons mounted to either side of the main entrance—and attempt to shut them down.

  Meanwhile, assuming McGowan made it past the many obstacles that lay in her path, she could expect to come into contact with some nasty-assed tanks the Thrakies had stashed at the base of the cliff. “Ah well, it was like they said: *Don’t join if you can’t take a joke.’ “

  McGowan triggered the command push. A wire thin boom mike captured her words. “Blue One here ... we are green to go. Repeat green to go. Return to your vehicles, saddle up, and strap in. The last sonofabitch to reach the wall buys the beer!”

  There were cheers, some of which were muffled, as steel clanged on steel. McGowan grinned, circled a quad named Yen, and switched to another frequency. The ramp bounced under her boots. “I’m in—seal the hatch.” Servos whined as the armor-plated ramp rose to mate with the cyborg’s durasteel hull.

  About a hundred feet away, sealed into the belly of a Hudathan heavy, Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo872 eyed his clone brothers. They sat in double rows facing each other. In spite of the fact that each one wore battle armor and carried a full complement of weapons plus ammo for the crew served machine guns and rocket launchers, they were still dwarfed by the Hudathan-sized seats. That, plus the fact that he and his brothers were actually sealed inside an alien cyborg, added to the somewhat surreal atmosphere. In spite of the fact that the Legion had used cyborgs for a considerable length of time, even going so far as to station them on Hegemony-held worlds, the Alpha Clones had never seen fit to commission intelligent constructs of their own.

  Now, trapped within the belly of such a being, 872 had reason to question their wisdom. Of even more concern, however, was the fact that his superiors had not only acquiesced to the Confederacy’s decision to place a free breeder in overall command of the allied forces, they failed to intervene when the same officer placed McGowan in charge of Blue Team. A serious error, given not only her gender but the likelihood that she would sacrifice his brothers and him rather than risk her precious legionnaires. Ail the infantry came under him, however—which would make it more difficult for McGowan to implement her plan. The officer grinned but knew it looked more like a snarl. IFhe died, ifhe wound up in hell, the legionnaires would arrive there first.

  Power went to the axles, tracks started to chum, and the cyborg moved forward. Blue Team was on the way

  The sun had broken through. Sergeant Quickfoot stood in the hard black shadow cast by a spire of rock. He along with twelve legionnaires were gathered around one of the Thraki-constructed air shafts. Each was approximately ten feet wide and lined with metal. The protective covers had been cut free and removed. The Naa peered down, but outside of the blue-green glow of the flare, there was nothing much to se
e.

  The mechanism that pushed stale air up toward the surface remained operational, however, and there were plenty of odors. The noncom’s nose, which was at least ten times more sensitive than the nearly useless protuberance humans were equipped with, sent information to his brain. There was the harsh odor of the demo charge they had lobbed in first, followed by the tang that was characteristic of Legion-issue flares, and yes, the faint odor of cooking.

  Satisfied that he knew everything about the shaft that his senses could tell him, the noncom looked up. His teammates included Sureseek Fareye, Rockclimb Warmfeel, Oneshot Surekill, and Quickhand Knifemake. The words were in Naa: “The enemy will reach the bottom of the shaft soon. I think we should be there to greet them.”

  Teeth gleamed in the half lit murk. All of the Naa were equipped with rock-climbing gear, including sit harnesses, carabiners, descenders, and other equipment required for rappelling, but carried none of the hardware associated with climbing. The reason was simple: Once down, they would fight their way out through the complex itself.

  Coils of half inch kemmantle fell into the void, unwound, and pulled themselves straight. Hillrun grabbed a rope, stuck a loop through the hole in the figure eight descender, and used a locking Decarabiner to secure it to his harness. Now, with his heels on the lip of the shaft, the noncom was ready to go. That’s when he looked up to find that Lieutenant Drik SebaKa’s eyes were fixed on his. And that’s when Hillrun saw something he’d never expected to see. Though still close to expressionless, it seemed as if there was a little bit of warmth in the Hudathan’s expression and, more remarkable yet, a measure of respect. The officer’s voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Watch your step, Sergeant... I’m short of noncoms.”