A Fighting Chance

by William C. Dietz

  “I was told to expect two people,” Santana said tactfully.

  “Here I am,” a sandy-haired man in civilian clothes said, as he emerged from the bushes. “I was taking a leak. The name is Smith. Harry Smith.”

  Something about the hard planes of Smith’s face, his well-worn body armor, and the businesslike submachine gun that he held across his chest screamed special ops. The kind of man who had worn a uniform at some point in the past and was way too savvy to reveal himself until he got a good look at whatever appeared out of the jungle. Santana nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith. You’ll be riding Private McKay over there.”

  Smith turned toward the T-2. “Thanks for coming out to fetch us, McKay. You volunteered for this mission if I remember correctly. What’s wrong? Are you crazy?”

  The last was said with a grin, and Tena McKay laughed. It had a strangely feminine sound given the size and shape of her electromechanical body. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Santana was impressed. It seemed that Smith had done his homework and then some. That meant the civilian was familiar with his background as well. Something to keep in mind during the days ahead.

  “What about the pod?” Dietrich inquired as he gathered the parachute into an untidy bundle. “Should we leave it as is?”

  The question was directed to Santana, but Farber chose to answer for him. “There’s no way to destroy the pod, so shove the chute inside and let’s go.”

  Dietrich didn’t even glance at Farber. “Sir?”

  Santana could see the writing on the wall. Farber had been sent to take command of the battalion in the wake of Antov’s death. But even though Santana knew that was to be expected, he felt a sense of loss because he’d come to see the O-Chi Raiders as belonging to him. Plus, there had been the secret hope that a replacement wouldn’t be available. He was careful to keep his voice professionally neutral. “You heard the colonel, Sergeant Major. Hide the chute and mount up.”

  Dietrich did as he was told, and Santana saw what might have been a look of satisfaction flicker across Farber’s face. His authority had been questioned and affirmed. Everything was as it should be.

  Once Farber and Smith were aboard their respective T-2s and properly strapped in, Ponco led the party back along the path taken before. They arrived at the encampment thirty minutes later. Farber jumped to the ground and turned away from the cyborg without so much as a thank-you. “So,” Farber said, as he looked around, “I know we’re in the jungle, but that’s no reason to tolerate laxness. Surely we can tidy up a bit, eh what? Maintaining a military appearance is critical to morale.”

  Santana, who was standing a few feet away, felt a rising sense of anger. He thought the camp was very well organized thanks to Rona-Sa’s ceaseless efforts. But he knew that to say so would sound defensive. “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll tackle that later,” Farber said breezily. “Please pull your officers together. I have some announcements to make.”

  By that time, Santana was positive that Farber had been sent to take command. A development that would make him Farber’s XO. But rather than share his orders with Santana first, as most commanding officers would, it appeared that Farber was going to tell everyone all at once. Was that an intentional slight? Or a matter of personal style? There was no way to know. “Yes, sir,” Santana replied. “I’ll have Corporal Colby track them down.”

  “Ten minutes,” Farber said sternly, as he produced his pipe. “Time is critical.”

  Santana already knew that. Or thought he did. And wondered what sort of news Farber was about to deliver. Twelve minutes later, all the officers were gathered in the muddy headquarters area. Some stood and some sat on gear boxes as Farber eyed their faces. “Good afternoon. My name is Colonel Max Farber. I was sent to O-Chi 4 to take command of this battalion in the wake of Colonel Antov’s unfortunate death. As a result, Major Santana will assume the role of Executive Officer—and Captain Rona-Sa will take on the responsibilities of the S-3 or operations officer. Both appointments are effective immediately.”

  “Now,” Farber said, “let’s talk about the task before us. It’s my duty to inform you that the time frame for this mission has changed. I believe the orders issued to Colonel Antov called for him to capture or destroy the Ramanthian STS cannon ‘as soon as practically feasible.’ Or some mumbo jumbo to that effect. Now, based on strategic necessity, a hard deadline has been imposed. Mr. Smith . . . Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain.”

  Smith had been seated on a box of ammo. As he stood, his blue eyes swept the group. “I assume most of you are aware that the bugs are in the midst of a population explosion so significant that they were forced to acquire more real estate. In the simplest terms possible, that’s why we’re fighting the bastards.”

  Santana was watching from the back row. What was Smith’s role anyway? Subject-matter expert? Or a minder sent to keep an eye on Farber? Time would tell.

  “And making the situation even more difficult for them,” Smith continued, “is the fact that newly hatched Ramanthians can be very destructive. So much so that the bugs don’t want them on Hive and plan to raise them on nursery planets. Jericho is a good example of that. Having gained control of the world, the chits planted hundreds of thousands of eggs there. And when the nymphs hatched, they ran wild. You can ask Major Santana about that. He led a successful mission to rescue President Nankool from a POW camp there.”

  All eyes swiveled to Santana. Including those that belonged to Colonel Farber. Some of the officers were aware of the mission, and some weren’t. But judging from Farber’s frown, he was cognizant of Santana’s combat record and how it compared to his own.

  Santana felt a sense of relief as Smith continued, and all of the heads turned back. “So one way to cause the enemy grief, and force them to divert critical resources away from our core worlds, is to launch attacks against Ramanthian nursery planets. And that’s what we’re going to do.

  “In twelve days, a group of Confederacy vessels will assemble at the O-Chi jump point and depart for bug-controlled space. That means that if the STS cannon on Headstone is still operational, the ships will be sitting ducks. But that won’t happen because this battalion is going to destroy it.”

  Farber nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I’d say that sums things up rather nicely. The ‘so what,’ as they say, is that you and your troops will no longer be able to dillydally. From this point forward, we will march day and night toward our objective, taking only those breaks that are absolutely necessary. So it will no longer be possible to establish elaborate camps like this one. But do not fear . . . The battalion will still be able to defend itself.”

  Farber waved his pipe like a wand. “Company commanders and staff will remain. Platoon leaders will rejoin their troops and prepare to depart at 1800 hours local.”

  Once the platoon leaders had departed, Farber took up the next item on his agenda. His eyes sought Santana and found him. “The plans submitted by Colonel Antov called for a direct assault on Headstone. That, in spite of the disastrous attempt to dislodge the Ramanthians shortly after they put down. Is that correct?”

  Santana nodded. “Yes, sir. Although we . . .”

  Farber dismissed what Santana was about to say with a wave of his pipe. “Save that thought, Major. We’ll come back to it. First, I want to share the new plan. Rather than attack Headstone, we’re going to destroy the geothermal tap that provides the facility with power. That will be faster and prevent unnecessary casualties.”

  Santana raised a hand and spoke without being called on. “Excuse me, sir . . . We considered that approach and ultimately decided against it.”

  Farber sighed. His expression was that of a parent coping with a recalcitrant child. “You are no longer in command, Major Santana. I really must remind you of that.”

  “Yes, sir. I know sir,” Santana replied doggedly. “But our reasoning still holds. Even if we cut power to the cannon by destroying the tap, the bugs might be able to get off a
couple of shots using an alternative power source. A fusion generator, for example. And even one energy bolt could play hell with the ships gathered around the jump point. Should we take that chance?”

  “He has a point,” Smith put in mildly.

  But Farber was far from convinced. “That’s true,” he said contemptuously. “And the Ramanthians may have a plan to crash an asteroid into one of our ships. Or place a curse on us. But neither possibility is very likely. So I suggest that we apply some common sense.” The meeting came to an end ten minutes later.

  Dietrich spoke to Santana as the company commanders departed. “I told Colby to record the meeting, sir.”

  Santana knew what the noncom was thinking. Later, if Farber’s plan blew up, a record of what had been said could be valuable. Especially if Farber attempted to shift the blame. Though uncommon, such things weren’t unheard of. Santana nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant Major. Let’s hope everything goes as planned.”

  Night-vision technology enabled the battalion to travel during the hours of darkness although doing so entailed more risk. Especially where the possibility of accidents was concerned. Farber had reduced the amount of rest the troops got, so they began to tire. That had a negative impact on situational awareness. And without any defenses to protect the battalion while it was at rest, Santana feared what would happen if they were attacked.

  Yet as the hours passed, and the battalion continued to make steady progress toward its goal, none of Santana’s fears was realized. The troops performed well in spite of a lack of sleep, there weren’t any serious accidents, and nobody attacked them. So that by early morning of the third day, Santana was beginning to think that he’d been too cautious. The battalion had covered thirty-six miles since Farber had taken command, which was no small accomplishment given the difficult terrain.

  In the meantime, as the potential pathways to Headstone and the geothermal tap began to diverge, Lieutenant Ponco reported that the bugs were searching along the first route. And had Santana been in command, that was where the battalion would have been. All of which took a toll on his self-confidence and raised the same question. He could lead a platoon, and he could lead a company, but what about a battalion? The jury was out.

  Temo was tired and had every right to be. For the past five days, she and a tribe of O-Chi natives had been following a straight line from the Ramanthian geo tap back to Baynor’s Bay. And that was a complete waste of time because Antov had been planning to attack Headstone and there was no reason why his off-world successor would do otherwise. But Commander Dammo wanted to make sure. Especially after falling for an electronic decoy and toasting fifty square miles of forest. So while the bugs searched the line of march that led from their base to Baynor’s Bay, she had been sent out to beat the bushes south of that route.

  Still, Temo thought to herself, it felt good to sit between the roots of a towering Ba-Na tree and relax for a moment. Birds sang their songs, shafts of sunlight splashed the forest floor, and insects hummed as they darted from place to place. All of which was better than hanging around Headstone waiting for the Ramanthians to win the war.

  The daydream was shattered as foliage rustled overhead and an O-Chi named Fither dropped out of the tree to land on the ground in front of her. The warrior’s face was decorated with diagonal slashes of white bird dung, an antiquated Negar I assault rifle was slung across his back, and a knife was strapped to his right thigh. Fither was a member of the Otha tribe. And the Temo clan had been doing business with them for more than twenty years. “I see you,” Temo said respectfully.

  “And I see you,” Fither responded. “The forest knows.”

  “Yes,” Temo said gravely. “The forest knows.”

  That was nonsense, of course, because if the forest knew, it would have destroyed all of the sentient creatures on O-Chi before they could cut down trees or sink geothermal taps down through the planet’s crust. But that was the sort of crap one had to tolerate in order to interact with the sticks.

  “So, Fither,” she said patiently. “What have you got for me?”

  “There are walking machines,” Fither answered. And then he pointed. “That way.”

  “Walking machines, huh?” Temo inquired skeptically. “A few days ago you told me that an army of ghost warriors was about to attack.”

  Fither shrugged. “Dream. So sorry. Have picture this time.”

  “Excellent,” Temo said approvingly. “Let’s see it.”

  Fither removed the small device from a belt pouch and gave it over. By providing each of her scouts with Ramanthian-manufactured cameras, Temo had been able to increase the accuracy of the information they provided to her. Temo pressed the bug-style dimple switch, and video blossomed. The image was fractal, in keeping with the way that the chits normally saw things, but came together when a second button was pushed.

  The viewpoint was from up in a tree looking straight down. Temo felt her heart start to beat faster as she saw a column of soldiers pass beneath the lens, followed by a T-2, and a hulking quad. Had the cyborgs “seen” the blob of heat high above? Probably. But the assholes couldn’t shoot everything in the forest. Temo remembered the attacks on Signal Hill and the family’s hunting lodge. She smiled grimly. “Thank you, Fither. Good job.”

  It had been a long, hard day, and Farber was riding near the head of the column. The troops were tired. He knew that. But if he could wring one more mile out of them before the evening rest break, then so much the better. Farber was used to riding a T-2 by that time. The main problem was low-hanging branches and the need to duck frequently. So it was a relief when the column entered a long corridor in which there was no undergrowth to speak of, and Ba-Na trees grew on both sides of the path. Farber noticed that the forest giants were spaced too evenly to have occurred naturally and turned toward the man on the T-2 next to him. “Look at those trees, Mr. Smith. I think they were planted.”

  Smith opened his mouth to reply. But that was when a blue-feathered dart penetrated his left eye, and whatever he had been about to say was transformed into a scream. Farber watched in horror as Smith plucked the dart out of his eye and a dollop of viscous goo dribbled down his cheek. Then, having examined the tip with his good eye, Smith said, “Poison.” He might have said more but was prevented from doing so as his body jerked spasmodically and the neurotoxin spread through his circulatory system.

  Farber wanted to shout a warning, but there wasn’t any point in doing so as hundreds of missiles sleeted down out of the foliage above. Bio bods screamed, some having been hit a dozen times, as they fell kicking to the ground.

  That was bad enough. But the moment the dart storm stopped, the O-Chies opened fire with their Ramanthian-supplied Negar assault rifles. Many of the natives were piss-poor shots—and some of the rifles failed to work properly. But they had the element of surprise on their side, not to mention the high ground, and the range was relatively short. Farber hit his harness release, jumped to the ground, and ran for cover as his T-2 fired at targets above. The slaughter had started.

  Santana was at the very end of the column when the ambush began. The idea was to make sure that both segments would have leadership if the battalion was cut in two. That was a good thing. But bit by bit, as the day progressed, the column had been allowed to stretch. So as the enemy fire lashed down from above, Santana was a good half mile from Farber, who, according to the information displayed on his HUD, was alive but strangely silent.

  All Santana could do was jump in and try to save the battalion. There wasn’t enough time in which to pull everyone together into a single formation. So he chinned the switch in his helmet. “This is Zulu Nine. Rally around the quads! Use them for cover. Over.”

  Then, having switched to the intercom, he spoke to Joshi. “Take me forward, Sergeant. And kill as many of those bastards as you can.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Joshi replied stoically, as he began to jog and fire both of his arm-mounted weapons at the same time. A half-slagged body fell as blip
s of blue light stabbed the foliage—and a second attacker was transformed into a bloody mist as a burst of machine-gun fire tore his body apart. Joshi’s fire combined with all the rest tore holes in the jungle’s green canopy. Bits of leaves, twigs, and chunks of wood rained down on the troops, along with O-Chi bodies and parts of bodies.

  But it wasn’t enough. Because as the O-Chies fired down on them, dozens of bio bods staggered and fell until Joshi was forced to jump over their bodies. Then what looked like black dots fell out of the trees, hit the ground, and bounced back into the air. “Grenades!” someone shouted, as a bright explosion cut a T-2’s legs out from under her. The cyborg’s rider was dead, but the T-2 continued to fire up into the foliage as a pair of bio bods towed her body toward cover.

  Santana took note. First automatic weapons, then grenades. The bugs were supplying the O-Chies with arms. Were the Ramanthians providing leadership as well? That seemed likely. The ambush had been well planned and executed.

  Then the time for analysis was over as Joshi rounded a curve and Alpha Company’s quad came into sight. Most of what remained of Zarrella’s company and the tail end of Bravo Company were gathered around the cyborg. His name was Coto, and his minigun roared defiantly as it sent a steady stream of projectiles up into the ragged canopy.

  By then it was clear that the battalion was up against hundreds of native warriors, there wasn’t anyplace to hide, and, even though they were impervious to the poison darts, the T-2s were taking damage from Ramanthian grenades. It was tempting to send the troops into the surrounding jungle, where they might be able to take shelter, but Santana knew that danger lurked there as well. The O-Chies knew the forest in a way that his troops never could—and would presumably like nothing better than to pick them off one at a time.

  So as Joshi came to an abrupt halt and Santana bailed out, the situation was bleak. Bullets pinged as they hit Coto’s armor, geysers of dirt leapt into the air as an O-Chi warrior fired blindly from above, and someone screamed over an open mike. “Medic! I need a medic!”