One Good Soldier s-3

by Travis S. Taylor

  Alan did what she told him, but he had lost so much blood that he was almost too weak to apply any pressure. He was bleeding out pretty fast, and if he didn't get the right attention in a matter of seconds he wasn't going to make it. Nancy pulled at the jagged tear in the man's skin and then placed the makeshift bandage over his entrails. She tied it as tightly as she could and then pressed down with the palms of her hands. Blood oozed out through the bandage and between her already blood-red fingers.

  "Where's that goddamned medic? Medic!"

  "Here." Nancy felt a tap on her shoulder as a Seppy soldier with a red armband knelt beside her. He instantly slid an injection into the side of the man's neck and then popped open a large pack of organogel. "Good job, soldier. Now, don't move your hands until I tell you to."

  "Roger that." Nancy held fast to Alan's abdomen as the medic squirted the organogel over her fingers and the large jagged gash. Then he applied more of the gel to the metal shard protruding through Alan's side. The injection must have been immunoboost and stims, because Nancy could tell that the coloring in Alan's face was already better. The medic pulled another small pouch from his bag and tore a seal-tab on it. The clear pouch expanded and turned a deep blood red.

  "Sir, I'm giving you some instaplasma that should help alleviate the stress of so much blood loss. You're gonna make it, so just hang in there." The medic taped the pouch down to the wounded man's arm and jabbed the sharp tube into a vein at the wrist. The tube hissed and made a completely hermetically sealed connection between the plasma container and Alan's circulatory system.

  "He needs a gurney," the medic stated. He whispered quietly to Nancy, "He's not out of the woods yet." He reached in his bag again and this time pulled out a roll of dull green material about three quarters of a meter wide and then rolled it out beside Alan. The material was a good two meters long once it was rolled out. The medic then pressed a membrane button on the top of it, and the material hardened and formed handles on each end. "We're gonna move him right up on the gurney. On three!"

  "Got it." Nancy nodded that she understood him and adjusted her position in order to help move the injured man onto the gurney.

  "One, two, three!" They both carefully dragged Alan onto the gurney. Nancy couldn't really do a lot as her hands were solidifying to Alan's midsection. The clear organogel was turning an opalescent pale pink, almost skin color.

  "Okay, slowly, very slowly, pull your hands out. Don't worry about the bandage. The immunoboost and organogel will eventually eat it."

  "Right." Nancy slowly retracted her hands with a sickening squish and pop as they escaped the viscous bloody goo. Her hands looked and felt as if she had been soaking them in a vat of petroleum jelly, and she was covered in blood up to her elbows. Her face was still swollen and battered, and several times during her first aid on the wounded man blood had squirted her in the face and on her clothes. She was a mess.

  "Grab that end." The medic pointed and got a grip on the other end. Nancy did as she was told, but began thinking about an exit strategy.

  Any suggestions? Nancy thought to her AIC.

  Go about your business, Nancy, Allison warned her. As far as they know, the CIA agent died with the Phlegra.

  Got it.

  Nancy heaved her end of the gurney and continued on with it for several meters, letting the medic lead. They were several very long meters, to a passageway on the edge of the teleport pad. The pad was in a cavernous room the size of a professional basketball coliseum. It had clearly been designed to transport many troops and a lot of heavy equipment in a single teleport. Nancy also knew that the facility could teleport ships hovering over it as well. The Seppies had a serious technological advantage with this facility, and somehow the U.S. needed to be prepared for the types of attacks it would enable. But Nancy didn't have time to really focus on strategy at the moment. Survival tactics were about all she could manage. She had to get away from here to the planet below, where she could disappear into the population.

  "Thank you, Nancy." Alan looked up at her and managed as much of a smile as he could. He was looking a lot better than he had just seconds before, but he still looked like leftover Hell twice warmed over.

  "Just hang in there," she replied.

  How did they develop all this? Allison thought to her, referring to the teleport facility.

  Worry about it later. Let's get the fuck out of here and get lost somewhere a long damned way from Elle Ahmi. Nancy's first thoughts were survival. She couldn't believe she'd let herself get wrapped up helping the wounded. But it might work out for the best.

  Agreed.

  "Ma'am, are you all right?" the medic asked her.

  "Sure. I'm fine. Superficial stuff—nothing to worry about." Nancy had already taken mental steps to put out of her mind the torture that she had endured just minutes before. While she realized that it must be still apparent on her face and body that she had recently been through physical torture, the simple fact of the multiple wounded around her was cover enough for it. She could feel the immunoboost working, the one she had been given by the man—Scotty, she recalled—who had helped her escape. It had removed some of the swelling and had started to close the various abrasions. She was wearing what was left of the commandeered clothing, which was way too big for her, and she had no shoes. Her battered look fit in with the surviving battered Seppy troops, but her clothes, well, didn't. She stood out. But hopefully, the other sixty soldiers scurrying about with their own frantic agendas wouldn't notice. Her bloody nose and mouth and Alan's blood covering most of her upper torso and arms actually worked to her advantage as a disguise. The first chance she got, she planned on commandeering herself a better one.

  I'm picking up a hangar bay around the corner. I'm trying to handshake with some of the transport-manifest AICs. Maybe we can stow away to Ares, Allison said.

  Right. Good plan.

  Chapter 1

  July 1, 2394 AD

  Earthspace, Sea of Waves, the Moon

  Friday, 7:40 AM, Earth Eastern Standard Time

  "Watch the Gomer on your three-nine line, Dee! He's gonna lock you up!" Deanna Moore heard blasting in her ears on the tac-net. Her wingman, Jay Stavros, held as close on her ass as he could and continued to nag her about the crossfire, but it didn't faze her. She had to be cool in order to close the energy gap on the enemy mecha Stinger in front of her.

  "You just cover my ass, Jay! I'm staying with this Gomer in front of us." Deanna stomped on her left pedal and pulled back on the stick with her right hand, all the while trimming the throttle with her left hand to maintain a steady energy relationship between herself and the enemy fighter. "Come on, goddamnit, make a mistake!"

  She pulled into as tight a turn as the Marine mecha could withstand, and when she did the g-suit constricted on her legs and abdomen like a giant anaconda squishing its prey. Deanna grunted and cursed against the extreme gravity loading but held her course on the tail of the enemy Stinger.

  Bree, give me some alternatives here! she screamed in her mind at her AIC.

  Roger that, Dee, the AIC responded and placed several red lines and blue lines in her DTM mindview. The lines were alternative aircraft trajectories of her and the enemy's fighters spiraling around each other in a corkscrewing sinewy ballet of angular momentum and propellantless propulsion energy application. Too close for missiles—gotta go to guns!

  The yellow targeting X blinked and jumped around in Deanna's mindview but couldn't quite lock on to the Stinger. The X blinked red then yellow and then hopped off the enemy fighter again. No matter what type of juke or jink she tried, the damned enemy mecha managed to squirm, bob, or roll its way out of her targeting solution.

  "Shit! Come on you bastard. Hold . . . fucking . . . still." She grunted against the overwhelming and crushing load on her chest. The g-suit squished her breasts flat as pancakes and her abdominal muscles were squeezed so tight that she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to unsqueeze them.

  Then the enemy mecha di
d something. Dee wasn't sure if it was brilliant or stupid. The mecha, in fighter mode, flipped over forward and began to transfigure to bot mode. The transfiguration took only a fraction of a second and left the mecha standing upside down on its head and facing Dee and her wingman with both arms pointing forty-millimeter cannons in their general direction.

  "Warning—enemy targeting lock established. Warning—enemy targeting lock established," the Bitchin' Betty of Dee's mecha chimed. Times like this the mecha's automatic warning system was more distracting than helpful.

  Tracers tracked out of the right-arm cannon of the enemy fighter across her nose and into the empennage of her wingman's plane. Dee could see Jay jinking and juking his fighter around inside the firing solution of the enemy weapons, but there was little he could do at the time. The rounds continued to rip through his mecha, throwing bits of armor plating off into space with an orange and white spray of plasma.

  "Pull out, Jay! Pull out!" Deanna, with her hands-on-throttle-and-stick (HOTAS), slammed the throttle full forward and the stick all the way forward against the stop, rocketing her fighter-mode mecha into a horrendous dive toward the deck.

  "Shit, Dee, I'm hit! Eject, eject, eject!" Jay shouted.

  Just as her mecha nosed down, her wingman's mecha exploded behind and to the right of her, and brilliant orange tracer rounds zipped by her canopy, only centimeters away. She didn't have time to see if an ejection couch cleared the fireball or not. The Gomer off her three-nine line to the right was closing in and firing. Then several rounds from the bot-mode mecha that she had been tailing zipped through her tail section but only caused minor damage. While Jay had been with her it was two against two and she had an enemy in her sights. Things had been looking up. Suddenly, in less time than it takes to blink an eye, the situation had switched in favor of the enemy. It was now two against one, and both of them were targeting her. Dee continued down at alarmingly increasing acceleration until it was clear that the mecha behind her and to her right were going to follow.

  They're on you now, Dee! Bree warned her.

  Roger that!

  Dee toggled the transfigure button on the HOTAS and stomped the right, lower foot pedal all the way down to give her more slip as the Marine FM-12 transfigurable strike mecha rolled and flipped over and then transformed from a fighter plane into a giant armed and armored robot.

  Let's see if what is good for the goose is good for the gander! she thought.

  Dee, watch your altitude! Bree warned her. The landscape of the small moon they were fighting over filled her entire field of view and was rapidly approaching. It looked a lot like Pluto's moon, Charon.

  She gripped the throttle and pulled it full-force backward with her left hand while controlling the flight path with the stick in her right. The standard HOTAS controls mimicked most fighter-control systems that had been developed for centuries with the innovation, of course, of the DTM-control links between the plane and the pilot and the AIC. There had been experiments where mecha had been piloted by AICs alone, and those mecha could make maneuvers that human bodies couldn't withstand. But there was a certain art to combat flying that only humans in the cockpit could bring. The experiments always showed the same results. Human and AICs together in the cockpit always came out on top when flying against a plane with just one or the other in it. The DTM connections between pilot, AIC, and mecha enabled modern fighter mecha to do things that no others in history could have done, and Dee was pushing the combination to the limit.

  The bot-mode mecha now stood on its head, which was upside down in relation to the other fighters, and backward, facing the pursuing mecha. The g-loading of the full-force reversal caused Dee to vomit dryly into her helmet, and her vision began to tunnel in around her. But she fought through it and held on to the HOTAS.

  "Aaarrhhggg, woo!" She grunted and flexed her abdominal muscles again, trying to hold off blacking out long enough to lock up her pursuers. Two yellow Xs filled her mind, bouncing around the fighter-mode Stinger to her right and the bot-mode mecha on her tail. The quantum-membrane sensors locked up on the fighter-mode plane, and a lock tone sounded in her mind. "Fox three!" she shouted as she loosed a mecha-to-mecha missile. The missile spiraled out toward the enemy fighter, leaving a very faint blue ion trail through the almost nonexistent atmosphere of the small moon.

  "Warning, surface collision imminent. Warning, surface collision imminent," her mecha's Bitchin' Betty announced.

  "One more . . . second . . ." Dee grunted as the yellow targeting X turned red. "Guns, guns, guns!" she shouted as she triggered the cannons on both arms. Tracers tracked out and blew the enemy mecha into a fireball of orange and white debris.

  Pull out, Dee! Pull out!

  "Warning, surface collision imminent. Warning—"

  Dee tried to pull the mecha over into a horizontal run with the ground but didn't make it. Her mecha slammed into the surface just as she began to black out.

  "Apple didn't fall far from the tree, if you don't mind my saying so, sir," Thomas Washington commented to President Moore as they watched the president's eighteen-year-old daughter, Deanna, on the large viewscreen at the Mecha Combat Training Simulations Center located at the south end of the Sea of Waves near the limb of the Moon.

  "I was never a mecha jock, Thomas." Moore smiled back at his bodyguard, only briefly taking his eyes off the simulation displays. Three other Secret Service agents stood behind them and didn't flinch or make a sound. The president's daughter was in a large metal box suspended on repulsor fields. The box whirled and bounced and twisted madly in place, simulating a combat scenario. Inside the box was a replica of a U.S. Marine FM-12 transfigurable strike mecha fighter cockpit.

  Deanna had logged thousands of hours in the sim over the last five years and had reached a point where her proficiency was approaching that of a seasoned Marine mecha pilot. Of course she hadn't gone through all of the basic Marine training, as it was against the law to enlist before the age of twenty-one. Deanna was only eighteen, and for more than a century, as life expectancies had increased, the age to enter active duty as soldiers, firemen, policemen, and a few other dangerous professions had been set to the legal adult age. So Dee would just have to wait a few years, but Moore could tell by watching how she handled the simulations that she had the skills to be a good mecha pilot. She just needed the benefit of age and training. And train she had. Since she had been thirteen, Dee had studied and trained and competed in any and all mecha jock activities she could. She had been accepted into the most prestigious military academy in the Sol System. And while there were plenty of skeptics out there, Alexander had never once needed to use their family's political pull to help her. Moore hated that Dee had been living in a dorm at the Sea of Waves Powered Armor and Mecha Academy for the past four years instead of at the White House with him and Sehera.

  But Dee had put in the work and Alexander was proud of her. Fortunately, Air Force One often made trips to the Moon. He wished that Dee would have taken up lion wrestling, or football, or shark baiting, or chainsaw juggling, or anything less dangerous instead. But she hadn't. For the past six years, since that incident in Orlando, she had thought of nothing but being a goddamned U.S. Marine mecha pilot. When she saw those marines tromping around Disney World in bot-mode mecha, bringing all kinds of hell to the robot AIs that were trying to capture the First Family, her life changed. U.S. Marine Major Alexander Moore wanted to say "Oorah!" President of the United States of America Alexander Moore wanted to say, "Good work, and your country would be proud to have you serve!" But for just plain old Alexander Moore, hick from Mississippi, daddy to a little girl, it was his little girl, his princess. He didn't ever want to see her in harm's way.

  But Alexander knew that Dee was gonna be Dee, and the best he could do was support her and try to make her as damned good a marine as he could manage. That might just keep her alive in the future. He still had three years to talk her out of it. He wasn't giving that much of a chance—snowballs and Hell cam
e to mind.

  "Goddamned gutsy, if stupid," USMC retired Colonel Walter "Rat Bastard" Fink III stood at ease behind the president, with his hands behind his back.

  "I agree." Moore turned to the mecha pilot instructor and frowned at the former marine. Of course, Moore knew well and good himself that there was no such thing as a former marine. "She is no good to anybody dead. And she can't move on to the final rounds of the competition, either."

  "Permission to speak freely, Mr. President?" Colonel Fink asked.

  "Go ahead, Rat."

  "She isn't thinking of life and death at all, only about killing her opponent to win a competition. She still thinks of this as a game, sir. A game with a reset button. Oh, she is damned good at it, and with her and her wingman there we'll probably snag the trophy at Ross 128 next week. But I'm here to train marines, sir, not just simulation-competition winners. And like you said, she's no good to anybody dead, sir," Fink said without moving a muscle or changing the expression on his face.