by J. N. Chaney
“I’m staying here,” Rev announced.
“What? The lieutenant said—”
“With all due respect, the Fries . . . the Frisian flight, our Raider Team Four, has fought and bled with us. Five of them, for God’s sake, died with us. I don’t give a damn about what our governments are doing. We’re brothers and sisters in arms, and I’m going to see them off.”
“Me, too,” Tomiko, Hussein, and Strap said, almost in unison. Others quickly joined in.
Top looked like he was going to take issue with that, but then he said, “I guess the hot wash can wait.”
The Raiders formed a loose group in front of the Frisians. Recon Marines started to join them, and Marines from other units began to show up. No one said much as they watched the Frisians form up.
Tomiko remained almost glued to Rev’s side—or was it that he was glued to her side? It didn’t matter. They were the only two there who knew that the Centaur body was a fact.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. No one who’d fought the fight deserved to be treated like criminals. He wished he could do something, but he was just a tiny speck in the vast Union military machine.
“Fall on your duffles but stand easy until we get the word to load up,” the yellow-master with Recon shouted. Both flights moved into place.
Before he knew what he was doing, Rev left his group and walked up to Ting-a-ling, who gave him an indecipherable look.
“I know this doesn’t mean much, but I call you brother. We’re warriors.”
He reached up, took off his soft cover, and held it out to the Frisian. He didn’t know if Ting-a-ling would ignore him, knock the Marine Corps cover to the ground, or what.
There was a hushed silence as Ting-a-ling stared at the cover in Rev’s hand for a long moment, then he took off his own beret and held it out to Rev.
With a sense of relief, Rev took the beret, surrendering his cover. He put it on his head while Ting-a-ling donned the Marine cover.
“I call you brother, too,” Ting-a-ling said. “Always and forever.”
Suddenly, there were Marines around him, offering their covers. With a lot more Marines than Frisians, the math didn’t work out. But within a minute, all the Frisians were wearing soft covers, and the lucky Marines had on berets. They intermingled, talking and laughing until the yellow-master called his soldiers to attention.
The Marines stepped back, sober once more. The yellow-master gave them a left face, and then by column, and told them to file into the waiting bus, the same one that had brought the Raiders back from the range.
As the first soldier threw his bags into the bottom of the bus and climbed inside, someone started clapping. More and more joined in as the applause echoed between the barracks.
The yellow-master was the last to board, and he stopped at the steps, turned, and waved before stepping inside. A moment later, the bus rose on its skirts and made its way out of the parking lot.
Rev watched it until it disappeared from sight.
“Well, now what?” Hussein asked.
“We’ve got seven hours until we deploy. I suggest you get your ass ready,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie said.
34
TRT-36 was a terraforming reject from early in the Age of Expansion. As was sometimes the case, the very act of terraforming caused unexpected upheavals in the planet, and seismic activity became continuous. Despite a reasonable bounty of mineral wealth, extracting it became too difficult and costly, so the planet was abandoned. In the present time, the planet would never have been attempted, but humankind’s little corner of the galaxy is littered with the rejects of the Expansion.
Humans learned early on that no world comes without a cost.
Eight years ago, TRT-36 had been taken over by the Centaurs, and the cost to eject them had been steep. But during the fight, five of them had somehow been left behind as the others retreated. That wasn’t known at the time. It wasn’t until two years ago that a routine patrol picked up their signal.
The Directorate decided that instead of attacking the five, they’d keep them there in their pocket for some as of yet unknown future use. That future use was now.
The five Centaurs were continually monitored. The Navy knew where they were. And now, they were going to be Rev’s testbed—not all five. The military didn’t want to waste their semi-captive Centaurs. But the project proof of concept was for Rev to attack and defeat one of them. Which one was something as of yet unknown. The Navy would track the five until the opportunity presented itself, and then Rev and the rest of the Raiders would act.
Rev leaned back in his seat as the shuttle descended to the surface, two Navy Shrikes on escort duty. This was no clandestine insertion, and that was on purpose. The powers that be didn’t want Rev to conduct an ambush. Although rarely, that had been accomplished before by Marines with Yellowjackets, Mantises, or Morays. Rev had basically done that, after all. They wanted the Centaurs to know the Marines were there and to be on alert.
Rev tried to get into the Centaur’s minds. How would being left behind affect them? Would they react differently? Would they be more desperate? Would they be disheartened? Strap was even under the opinion that they might self-destruct as soon as the platoon landed. If true, that would save Rev the problem, and he’d leave the planet upright, but that would only delay the inevitable. Pashu had to be tested in actual combat.
The problem, however, of trying to get into the Centaurs’ minds was that no one could. They were a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, as the old saying went. Thousands of self-professed xenopsychologists debated, published, and even fought to get their guesses—because that’s all they were, guesses—accepted as fact. But other than the Centaurs’ terse demands, there weren’t any communications with them. Every attempt to communicate by humankind had been rebuffed.
At least as far as Rev knew. There were Centaurs on Alafia with the Children of Angels. How closely had they been communicating? If Rev were a betting man, then he would wager that the Angel shits knew more about what motivated the Centaurs than any xenopsychologist. It was almost a certainty that right now, surviving Angel shits from Alafia and the other worlds were being grilled as to what they knew of the enemy.
As if she knew his thoughts were all over the place, Tomiko reached out and gave his social arm a squeeze. He knew she was there for him. Not everyone was. No one was overtly objecting, and most of the platoon was supportive, but a few had expressed misgivings about the mission to others. Tomiko wasn’t speaking with Gizzy Incrit-Kole from Fifth Team, and while Tomiko wouldn’t admit it, Rev was sure that Gizzy was one of the skeptics and had said something about Rev.
In a way, Rev understood. They were acting as picadors of ancient Spanish bullfighting, the ones who maneuvered and weakened the bull so the torero—in this case, Rev—could step in for the kill. And should Rev falter, they would inject themselves back into danger to rescue him.
But these weren’t bulls. These were four paladins and a riever. If Rev’s supposed super-abilities weren’t up for the task, the five Centaurs were a pretty robust enemy for a Raider platoon of thirty-six lightly armed Marines and corpsmen. Two Tarantula Hawk drones on overwatch would beef up the Raiders, but no one was going to mistake them for a tank or mech platoon.
“Thirty-five minutes to touch down,” the automated voice announced over the speakers.
Thirty-five minutes wasn’t much, but a Marine didn’t need much time to make use of it. Rev closed his eyes to catch a few Zs.
“Crap! I wish to hell this place would quit that,” Tomiko said as the ground shook beneath their feet.
She was not happy with the planet. She’d charge a Centaur with just a knife clenched between her teeth, but the shaking was getting to her. Nothing had hit in the ten hours since landing that posed a threat to the platoon, but there were obvious signs that the potential was there.
The waiting was getting to Rev as well, but not for the same reason. He just wanted to
get it over with. He had Punch play over each rehearsal, each training session, from the first, where he’d been killed, to the last . . . unfortunately, another time where he’d been killed. In between, he’d gotten pretty good at taking out fake Centaurs, but those weren’t the real deal. And while he was generally a confident person, all the waiting was giving him moments of doubt, moments where he wondered if he was up to the task.
Rev looked around the assembly area. Second Team was on security, and one of the Tarantula Hawks was hovering overhead, but it was a pretty lax group. People were in twos and threes, chatting, eating, or catching some shut-eye. All five of the Centaurs were being tracked, and none were closer than five klicks, which, in this terrain, meant they had nothing with which to hit the Raiders.
If they did start moving to the platoon, the Marines could be up and ready in seconds.
“I don’t mind it,” Yazzie said. “Kinda fun.”
“And you’re a freak, T2,” Tomiko said.
Rev laughed. One result of the waiting was that he was really getting to know Yazzie, and the more he got to know her, the better he liked her. In some ways a smart-ass like Hussein or Yancy, there was still that core competency that shined through. He knew the young Marine was going to make her mark in the Corps.
She stood up, one foot in front of the other, hands out to the side.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tomiko asked.
“Waiting to catch a wave.” Another tremor hit, and Yazzie acted like she was surfing, balancing on a longboard.
“Oh, my God. I told you she was a freak,” Tomiko said as she sat hunched over and with her hands braced against the ground.
“Just as you trained me, oh sergeant of mine!”
Rev just laughed. This was what that OD agent was talking about. He’d never been as close to anyone before he was conscripted. He was close to his family, of course, but he’d never had friends like these.
Lieutenant Omestori waited for the last tremor, then stood and walked over to Rev, Tomiko, and Yazzie.
“Anything?” Rev asked.
“About the tin-asses? No. Not yet. But your favorite doctor is on the net.”
“What now, sir?”
“She wanted me to remind you to cycle through your checks every twenty minutes.”
“Like she reminded me two hours ago?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Roger, dodger, three bags full, sir,” Rev said as he brought Pashu around in a left-handed salute.
Doctor Chakrabarti was a civilian, working for Sieben. But she’d wangled a slot with the Marine project team in high orbit above the planet. Rev was purposefully not in the command loop, so she kept trying to pass instructions via the lieutenant.
“She’s got a lot riding on this,” the lieutenant said.
“Not as much as we do,” Rev replied.
“Touche, mon sergent, touche.”
The lieutenant sat down with the three of them. “You up for this, Rev? I don’t mean the rah-rah, gung-ho shit. I mean, really. Are you ready? I’ve got the authority to pull the plug for any reason. That’s any reason.”
“What? And deprive Doc C of her pride and joy?” Rev asked with a laugh.
“I know you’ll do what you’re ordered to do. But if you need more time, I’d rather do that and have this test when you’re ready. And I’ll take the heat, not you. I’ll think of something to appease the project head.”
Rev grunted. He’d grown to respect the man over the last few years. The lieutenant would do whatever it took to protect his Raiders, whether from physical or bureaucratic threats. He’d even offered to go outside the chain of command when Rev’s Platinum Nova had been dropped, something that would have assured a crashing end to his career.
“Nah, sir. I’m ready as I’m ever going to be. I just want to get it over with.”
The lieutenant looked at him for a long moment before nodding. He turned to Tomiko. “What about you? You ready?”
“Shit, LT, I’m always ready. ’Sides, what’s there for us to do? Get Rev here to the right spot and let him chew up a tin-ass. Easy-peasy.”
“Yeah, easy-peasy. Until it isn’t.”
Rev realized right then that the lieutenant was nervous, too. He’d spent a lot of time with the generals and Colonel Tolouse, both at Nguyen and in transit. He’d probably been given a ton of instructions covering every potential possibility, and it was all on his shoulders.
Frankly, Rev had been surprised that the lieutenant had been given the mission. He’d been sure that some major or lieutenant colonel would have taken over. Evidently, someone had decided that a close-working, combat-tested team was a better choice than to throw in someone new as the commander just because they had a higher rank.
And Rev was glad about that. He’d much rather be doing this with the lieutenant and the top, surrounded by the teams.
“It’s going to be OK, sir. We’re going to do fine.”
“We’re gonna kick tin-ass ass, sir,” Yazzie piped up, full of certainty.
And suddenly, Rev was certain as well. He had Punch guiding him in the approach. He had Pashu to deliver the blow. And he had his fellow Raiders to protect him.
How could even five Centaurs stand up to that?
35
It took two long days, but finally, the Centaurs started moving, and that gave the Marines their chance. They advanced in a diamond formation with Rev in the middle, the sacred cow.
Or sacrificial cow.
Neither image made Rev comfortable, but he guessed sacred was better than sacrificial.
Centaurs weren’t noted for coordinated assaults, but every fight so far had been recorded and studied ad infinitum, and this looked like one of their classic maneuvers. Four of them—three paladins and the riever—were advancing together, the riever acting as a point or scout. Another paladin was following in trace, well behind the other four. There were cases where the trail Centaur acted as a reserve force, ready to move in where necessary, and other cases where it acted as a base of fire in support of the others. For the Marines’ purposes, it didn’t really matter. What did matter was that it was separated from the rest, and between the terrain and heavy forest, the foot Marines would be quicker and far more maneuverable.
The laggard would be Rev’s target. The plan was to get Rev to it as fast as possible before the other Centaurs could react. If things went according to plan, the mission would be over and the Marines long gone before the four could engage them.
The plan was a repetition of one of the scenarios they attempted at Nguyen—one that had resulted in a kill. Hopefully, that was a good omen.
The Marines’ assembly area had been on the defilade-side of a ridge with enough open space for good visibility. As they crossed the ridge, however, they entered the forest. Seismic fractures had knocked down sections of trees, but for the most part, the trees stood tall. Good for limiting the Centaurs’ mobility, but bad for limiting the Tarantula Hawk’s effectiveness.
The thirty-six Marines and Navy corpsmen moved silently through the trees, bypassing the faults that created mini-gorges ten to fifteen meters deep. It was as if some giant dragon had gouged the earth with its claws, and the trees had sprung up around the gashes. The formation warped and bent with each terrain feature, but it remained intact.
“Everything green, Pelletier?” the lieutenant asked over the net.
“Still green and ready to go.”
“Keep me apprised.”
“Uh, we are green, right?” he asked Punch a moment later.
“Sorry. I know you’d tell me if something had changed.”
What’s with me? Getting nervous? Come on, Reverent. This isn’t like me.
He came to another gash in the ground, the raw dirt red in the sunlight that reached through the branches. It was longer than most faults, and he didn’t want to go around, so he half slid
, half dropped down the edge, flailing his arms for balance. Pashu’s mass still threw him off balance sometimes, and he could feel his harness tighten under his skin as it kept Pashu firmly anchored. It was a weird feeling, and not one he was used to yet.
Going up the other side was easier—he just jammed his toes into the dirt as if they were pitons and scrambled up. He stood there a moment, getting his bearings, then stepped off again.
“Hey, Punch. Can you bring up the seventh training run again?”
A moment later, the recording of the similar mission back on Nguyen popped into his vision. If he wasn’t needed for security, he might as well go over the mission one more time. Walking almost on autopilot, which is not something he would ever normally do, he went over each step of the exercise and tried to relate those to what he now faced. It probably wouldn’t help much, but it was a better use of his time.
“Halt and form a hasty defense,” the lieutenant passed, breaking into Rev’s concentration.
Rev almost went down to one knee before he realized he was in the middle of the formation. He was the package, so-to-speak. He stood there until the lieutenant opened the platoon command net, into which Rev was inserted as well.
“Any ideas on why they’ve stopped?”
Rev gave a guilty start. He’d been so deep into his training mission that he hadn’t even noticed that the Centaurs weren’t moving.
“Nothing that my battle buddy can pull up,” Gunny Lupe passed. “No discernible trends, at least.”
“Nothing here, either,” Lieutenant Harisa from Second Team added.
“They know we’re here, so it looks like they want us to come to them,” Lieutenant Omestori said, mostly to himself. “I’m not sure that’s the best terrain for them to defend. Not horrible, but not the best.” He paused for a moment, then said, “And if we were assaulting the four of them, I’d be concerned. But that’s not our mission.”
“Our target is still more than two hundred meters away from the other four. That’s enough space, with First Team as a blocking force, for Pelletier to do his thing and then for us to diddi ho out of there,” the gunny said.
