A Fighting Chance

by William C. Dietz

  Once she was dressed, a ladder slid down into the pit and came to rest about a foot away. “Commander Dammo will see you now,” the noncom announced. “Climb the ladder.”

  The Ramanthian-style ladder consisted of a long pole to which crosspieces had been fastened. V-shaped supports provided stability at both ends. Temo climbed up, stepped out onto a concrete floor, and saw that two escorts were waiting for her. They stood on their hind legs and clutched Negar III assault rifles with their pincers. Their uniforms consisted of armor plates held together by sections of metal mesh and harness-style ammo bibs. “Go with them,” the noncom ordered. “And do as you are told.”

  Having been born into a wealthy family and educated on Earth, Temo wasn’t used to being addressed in that fashion. So she felt a flash of anger but managed to conceal it as the troopers took charge. One led the way, which meant Temo could see the long, seldom-used wings that were folded along his back and smell the wax that had been applied to them.

  Temo had participated in the disastrous attack on Headstone during which more than a thousand of her fellow citizens were killed. But she had never been inside the complex. So it was natural to pay close attention to everything around her, and she was impressed. The corridor was clean. Racks of weapons were located at regular intervals. First-aid stations stood ready in alcoves. Side passageways led to what might have been gun emplacements and missile launchers. And the troops who passed her in the hall appeared to be well fed. All of which was consistent with what Rhaki had been telling her for months: The Ramanthians were going to win the war. And that, according to Rhaki, was why companies like Temo Pharmaceuticals should establish meaningful relationships with the Ramanthians while such a thing was still possible.

  Those were Temo’s thoughts as she followed the first soldier into a side corridor. A ramp led up to a door, where two sentries stood at the Ramanthian equivalent of port arms. They remained motionless as Temo passed between them and entered a spacious office. The walls were hewn from solid rock and had been left rough, a look that Temo knew to be consistent with the underground dwellings the bugs preferred.

  Two beings were waiting to receive Temo, one of whom was Rhaki. He was seated on a Ramanthian-style saddle chair and stood as she entered. The Thraki’s brown fur was shot with gray. He had pointy ears, a short muzzle, and was dressed in a white business suit. A jacket with a high collar hung down over a pair of neatly bloused pants. The pull-on boots he wore were well polished and way too nice for the bush. “Donna!” he said warmly. “Commander Dammo and I were just talking about you.”

  Having known the Thraki for years and having learned to read his nonverbal expressions, Temo recognized what she thought of as his sales mode. Without being told, she knew it was her job to play along. Not ideal, perhaps, since it put her under Rhaki’s control, but what choice did she have? Temo forced a smile but knew it wouldn’t mean anything to the other person in the room, a stern-looking Ramanthian with a bulging prosthesis in place of his right eye. “I don’t know what you were saying—but I hope it was nice.”

  “Of course it was,” Rhaki said jovially. “Commander Dammo, please allow me to introduce Major Donna Temo.”

  Temo looked at the Ramanthian. Here was the officer responsible for taking part of what she considered to be her planet—and killing more than a thousand of its citizens. She should tell him to screw himself. But not if she wanted to survive and see Temo Pharmaceuticals prosper. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Dammo was silent for a moment. He was seated on a saddle chair. The officer’s scarlet uniform fit just so, his leather cross belts were polished, and everything about him conveyed a sense of controlled power. And when he spoke, his standard was so good that Temo suspected that he had spent time on one of the Confederacy’s planets prior to the war. A military attaché perhaps—or something similar. “I suspect those words cost you dearly,” he said. “But you were able to utter them nevertheless. Many of my peers would judge you harshly for that. Especially those who are members of the Nira cult.

  “But I have no time for such nonsense. I, like citizen Rhaki here, am a pragmatist—a person more interested in results than process. And based on what I’ve heard about you, as well as what I’ve seen so far, it appears that you and I may be similar in that regard.”

  Temo was impressed with what the Ramanthian had to say and the way in which it was said. “Yes, sir.”

  Dammo nodded. A nonverbal gesture that the two races had in common. “Good. You humans have a saying. One I learned while stationed on Earth. ‘Talk is cheap.’ So I’m going to give you an opportunity to prove yourself.”

  Temo looked at Rhaki and saw the concern in his eyes. The Thraki was worried. Everything was on the line. Her eyes swung back. “Thank you, sir. What do you have in mind?”

  Dammo’s artificial eye whirred softly. “We’re going to attack the town you call Baynor’s Bay. And you will lead the way.”

  THE TOWN OF BAYNOR’S BAY, PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  It was a beautiful day, which made it perfect for flying. But as the transport skimmed the leafy treetops and the noise of its engines sent flocks of blue flits into the air, Temo barely noticed them. Her thoughts were elsewhere as she stood in the open hatch and allowed the slipstream to tear at her clothes. If she was willing to sacrifice herself, she could turn and open fire on the Ramanthian soldiers seated in the cargo bay. Then it would be a simple matter to go forward and shoot the pilots.

  But it wouldn’t make any difference. Not according to Rhaki. Because the chits would still win the war. So focus, she told herself. Make the best of a bad situation. Members of the Temo family have been killed, she reminded herself. And now it’s payback time.

  That thought generated a fierce sense of anticipation as the transports flashed past Signal Hill, flew out over the bay, and circled back. The TACBASE that sat atop the ruins of her grandmother’s house had opened fire by then. But it, along with all of the legionnaires within, were about to die.

  Corporal Durkee was off duty, watching one of the vids stored in his onboard computer, when the shit hit the fan. Because most of the battalion was in the jungle, playing war games, only six people had been left behind to defend the TACBASE. That number was deceptive, however. Especially since the computer-controlled fortress could fend off minor attacks on its own. But it couldn’t cope with three loads of Ramanthian troops plus two Ramanthian aerospace fighters without support.

  Still, the TACBASE had already begun to fire surface-to-air missiles (SAMs) at the enemy ships by the time Staff Sergeant Nello’s voice came over the intercom. “Look alive, people—the bugs want to play. Let’s blow their pointy asses out of the sky.”

  Durkee could fire while parked in the bay—but only at a limited array of targets. Ideally, had the other quads been present, all four quadrants would have been covered. But his peers were out in the jungle somewhere, which left Durkee to do the job alone. He opened a com link. “Roger that, Sarge . . . How’bout I go out and teach ’em a lesson?”

  “I dunno,” Nello replied doubtfully, as a missile hit the TACBASE and exploded. “We call you ‘gimpy’ for a reason.”

  “All I have to do is get clear of the base, divide their fire, and let ’em have it,” Durkee countered. “Besides, I promised the major I would take care of things.”

  The TACBASE shuddered as more missiles hit, 25 percent of the computer-controlled AA batteries went off-line, and Nello’s voice grew tighter. “Okay, Corporal . . . Feed the bastards a SAM for me.”

  Having ordered his onboard computer to disengage from the TACBASE, Durkee crab-walked out into the roiling smoke. The enemy transports were busy landing troops, but the top of Signal Hill was taking a pounding from the Ramanthian fighters.

  Durkee put an electronic tag on one of them, sent two fire-and-forget SAMs after it. He was about to fire on the second aircraft when a remotely piloted bunker-buster missile arrived from a base located more than three
hundred miles away and scored a direct hit. The TACBASE and everyone inside of it ceased to exist. The resulting shock wave picked Durkee up and threw him off the hill. His fifty-ton body cartwheeled down the slope, skidded to a stop, and blew up.

  But even as the legionnaire was dying, his missiles hit a Ramanthian fighter and exploded. The fighter vanished in a flash and puff of smoke. Had he known, the ex-murderer, legionnaire, and cyborg would have been pleased.

  After landing, the Ramanthian soldiers split into smaller teams and shuffled their way through the streets, intent on razing the community of south bay so that the humans couldn’t use it as a staging area. And, based on the deal struck with Commander Dammo, Temo was in charge of a squad-sized group of them.

  Temo heard the boom, felt the ground shake, and smiled approvingly as she turned to watch a column of black smoke rise from the top of Signal Hill. Her grandmother’s death had been avenged. Now with a half file of troopers to do her bidding, she was about to settle another score. Resistance had been lighter than expected. That meant the legionnaires and Antov’s Rifles were elsewhere. Out on a training exercise? Or marching toward Headstone? One of the two. It didn’t matter. Antov wasn’t in the field. Not with his leg. That was all she cared about. Weapons rattled, people screamed, and the slaughter began.

  Behind Antov’s waterfront home, and on the other side of Bay Road, a steep trail switchbacked up a slope to the spot where he and his wife had enjoyed occasional picnics. He hadn’t gone up there in years. Not since her death.

  But the hill would give him the advantage of height and a place from which he could harvest as many Ramanthian lives as possible. Maybe he would stuff one of the bastards and put him next to the fireplace!

  First, however, he had to drag his ass up the hill, which was hard to do on crutches, and get into position. Santana would return, of course. And bring the newly formed battalion back with him. But it would be too late by then. The TACBASE was gone, along with all of the supplies stored inside. The three-legged quad had given a good account of himself, though—before being blown off the hilltop. All of which had been reported to CENTCOM using one of only four hypercom sets on O-Chi 4.

  Antov looked back over his shoulder as the remaining aerospace fighter circled above. Heedu was about fifty feet to the rear, carrying two heavy rifles plus a backpack filled with ammo and other supplies. “Pick up the pace,” Antov ordered. “I’m on crutches, for God’s sake. You should have passed me by now.”

  Heedu made no reply as Antov turned back and redoubled his efforts. He arrived at the picnic spot three minutes later. Someone else might have been tempted to pause and look out over the destruction, but Antov wanted to kill some bugs. Sightseeing could wait.

  So he chose his spot, flopped onto his belly, and called for the Hawking. Having just arrived, Heedu knelt, gave the long-barreled rifle over, and began to load the second weapon.

  Antov felt a grim sense of satisfaction as he put his cheek to the rifle and looked through the telescopic sight. Houses were on fire, and smoke was drifting across the scene below, but at least half a dozen targets were shuffling south.

  Rather than alert the entire file by shooting their leader, Antov guided the crosshairs onto the spot where the last bug was about to be and squeezed the trigger. The stock slammed into his shoulder, and the Ramanthian went down as if poleaxed. Antov smiled as he worked a second cartridge into the chamber. The report had been loud, but thanks to the incessant chatter of Negar assault rifles all around, it had gone unnoticed.

  So Antov killed the next trooper, and the next, until a trail of five bodies lay in the road. All head shots. Then, with a single bullet remaining, Antov prepared to take the leader down. But, as he made the necessary adjustment and the final target filled his vision, Antov saw something entirely unexpected: Major Temo’s face! The rotten bitch had not only gone over to the enemy—but was taking part in an attack on her own people.

  Well, not for long, Antov told himself, and pulled the trigger. But that was the moment when Temo turned to look back over her shoulder. The bullet missed by less than inch, she saw the bodies, and broke right. Antov swore, put the Hawking aside, and said, “Give me the Walby. Quickly now.” Nothing happened.

  Antov swore again, rolled over onto his side, and was about to rip into Heedu when he found himself staring into the Walby’s barrel. The weapon was steady, and, judging from Heedu’s stance, he’d been practicing with it. “What the hell?” Antov inquired. “Have you lost your frigging mind? Give me that weapon. We’ll discuss this later.”

  “There will be no later,” Heedu replied woodenly. “Not for you.” And with that, he pulled the trigger.

  Temo was scared. And for good reason. Every single one of her Ramanthian troopers had been killed by a sniper located on the rise behind Antov’s house. Could it be Antov himself? Quite possibly. He was arguably the best shot on O-Chi 4. So if she were stupid enough to raise her head above the concrete retaining wall at the side of the road, he would blow it off. Fortunately, there was a simple solution to her problem.

  Temo removed the Ramanthian radio from an ammo pouch on the front of her chest protector, fumbled with the squeeze-style mike control, and identified herself. Then, speaking distinctly so as to avoid any possibility of a misunderstanding, she gave the necessary order.

  Moments later, the fighter made a lazy swing to the south, came north again, and began to lose altitude. The dart-shaped aircraft was no more than a hundred feet off the ground when its pilot released the fuel bomb. There was a flash of light as the top of the rise was consumed by a rising ball of fire. Rivers of red flowed downhill, set the brush ablaze, and stopped just short of the road.

  Confident that the sniper was dead, Temo stood and continued up the road. The plan had been to find Antov and kill him. But when she arrived at the house, she found that the front door was open, the servants had fled, and its owner was nowhere to be found. That made her feel even more confident that Antov had been killed.

  Temo left through the front door and walked away. It wasn’t until three minutes later, when she was halfway to the Ramanthian extraction point, that she gave the final order. The fighter swooped in, a bomb fell, and the Antov house ceased to exist. The mission was complete.

  From Santana’s perspective, the first two days of the field exercise had gone fairly well. By giving Alpha Company to Captain Jo Zarrella, Bravo Company to Rifles Captain Motu Kimbo, and Charlie Company to Scouts Captain Corin Ryley, he had been able to spread the leadership responsibilities around. And by assigning each company commander a quad, six T-2s, and eight legionnaires, Santana had been able to ensure rough parity among the three units. It was a strategy intended to build morale and ensure operational flexibility. Because it would be a mistake to rely too heavily on any one company.

  In an effort to make the exercise easier to control, the war game had been held on the Antov family’s coffee plantation. The trees were laid out in orderly rows, and there wasn’t any underbrush to contend with, which made it easy to move around. Weapons, food, and other gear were stored in a half-empty warehouse, where they were kept under guard.

  The rules of engagement were not only simple but very similar to a game called capture the flag that Santana had played as a boy. The main difference was that the battalion was divided into three teams rather than two.

  The first thing each team had to do was take control of the territory assigned to it and hide its flag in keeping with Lieutenant Ponco’s rules. Each company commander could divide the force into groups of attackers and defenders, using whatever criteria and percentages they considered to be appropriate.

  With that accomplished, it was time to hide the unit’s flag, position defenders around it, and send people out to capture enemy flags. Individuals who were caught and tagged were placed in prisons where they were held, traded for other POWs, and sometimes freed by opposing special-ops teams.

  The rules were intentionally simple so that the company commanders co
uld demonstrate initiative and creativity, which they immediately did by forming alliances, employing spies, and launching sneak attacks. There were verbal conflicts and some fistfights, but Ponco was able to keep things under control, which left Santana free to observe.

  Zarrella’s Alpha Company emerged as the overall winner, having captured both enemy flags. And, given all of her experience, Santana would have been surprised by any other outcome. But both Kimbo and Ryley showed considerable promise, with Kimbo being the stronger of the two. Of equal importance was what the three company commanders learned about the men, women, and cyborgs in their respective units. Strengths and weaknesses that would help them place the right people in the right positions.

  It had been Santana’s intention to use the last day as an opportunity to review what had been learned and brief the troops regarding the upcoming mission, but that plan was put aside when Sergeant Nello’s report came in. The TACBASE was under attack, Durkee was going out to fight, and three enemy transports were inbound.

  Santana had questions but never got to ask them as Nello was cut off in midsentence. So Santana put in a call for air support, dispatched Ponco to Baynor’s Bay to investigate, and ordered the battalion to rearm itself. Then, having summoned Joshi, he led the quick-reaction force west. The rest of the troops were to follow as quickly as possible. But all of his efforts were for naught. Because by the time the elderly CF-150 Daggers arrived overhead and Ponco entered the town, the bugs were gone.

  Santana winced as the damage reports came in but had no way to appreciate how bad things really were until he saw the black smoke pouring up into the sky and Joshi topped the final rise. Then, as the force of bio bods and T-2s flowed downslope, the full extent of the devastation became apparent.