Live Echoes

by Henry V. O'Neil

  The sounds of Dell’s Fasces rose above the cacophony of Sim weapons, and then a patch of the woods twenty yards to her front erupted in flame as the veteran launched a grenade. Ayliss considered doing the same thing, but then heard more Fasces gunfire not far away and decided against it, fearful of hitting other members of the squad.

  “This is Tin! We have engaged some kind of reaction force near the summit! Estimate one hundred of them!”

  “We’ve got the same thing over here!” Ayliss recognized Sergeant Pelletier’s voice, with a completely different squad a mile down the ridge. “Watch out for shoulder-fired rockets!”

  “This is Breverton. Wade into ’em, Banshees!”

  The exhortation send an electric pulse through Ayliss, and she charged into the Sims. Most were on their stomachs, firing madly, but one was standing behind a broad tree and shooting at something farther up the ridge. Skidding up next to him, she crushed his helmet with the butt of the Fasces. Now among the prone enemy, she lengthened her strides and kicked the one closest to her. His arms were raised in futile defense, and her armored leg threw him five yards away.

  A multicolored sleeve passed in front of her face shield cameras, and a dirty hand was clawing for a hold. A furious chirping was in her ears, as if a canary had somehow gotten inside her helmet, and then she was jabbing up and back with the rifle barrel, trying to dislodge her passenger. He must have been calling to the others, because several figures pushed themselves up from the soil and rushed toward her. Ayliss was swinging the Fasces around to shoot at them when a muddy boot kicked it downward, the Sim around her neck trying to help his buddies.

  Something heavy bumped into her left side, and Ayliss thought she’d been boarded a second time when the body on her shoulders abruptly flew through the air. It smashed against one of the trunks, and dropped in a way that said he wouldn’t be getting up again. Turning, Ayliss saw that Dellmore had joined her. The veteran’s weapon was clipped to her back, and she stomped straight into the fray.

  “This is Tin! Converge on my marker on the summit! I’m bringing in gunships!”

  Somehow the command sent a stab of disappointment through her, and Ayliss stepped up next to Dellmore just as the mass of Sims ran into them. Swinging her arms side to side, she scythed them down with the enormous rifle without firing a shot. Each time she connected with a helmet or Sim flesh, the suit’s power magnified the blow and sent the target instantly to the ground. Only yards away, Dellmore was grabbing individual soldiers, raising them bodily into the air, and heaving them at the rest.

  “This is incredible, Dell!” Ayliss shouted, every ounce of her being singing with adrenaline and destruction. The Sims were now running off through the trees, and she raised the rifle over her head in exultation just before Dellmore dived in her direction and knocked her flat.

  Machine-gun rounds tore bark and shards from the tree directly behind them, and then they were both crawling across the forest floor to escape its wrath. Ordinary Sim rifles could do little harm to a suited Banshee, but concentrated bursts were another matter. Getting another tree between her and the automatic weapon, Ayliss raised the Fasces and tongued the selector for a grenade.

  Her cameras showed a shimmering cloud of heat at the base of three trees close together, and the grenade reticle appeared in her face shield display. Shifting the weapon until the reticle was on target, knowing the Fasces had already calculated the arc, she squeezed the trigger. The boxy rifle kicked upward just a hair, and then the machine gun found her again. Slugs tore splinters just above her head and then chewed the dirt to her front, but the grenade was already in flight and so she rolled to the other side.

  The explosive went off in the middle of the emplacement, killing the machine gun’s crew, and then Dellmore was calling, “Come on! Let’s get to Tin and the others!”

  They rushed toward the crest through lingering smoke, sputtering fires, broken trunks, and smashed bodies, but Ayliss saw none of it. A boom sounded from down the ridgeline, a noise she recognized from the simulators as one of the man-packed Sim rockets that Pelletier had warned them about. Dellmore heard it too, and picked up speed as they raced through steadily opening ground marked with the shattered bases of what had once been tall trees.

  “This is Dell! Approaching the summit! Tin, I’m to your east! Tabes, don’t run into us!”

  Ayliss checked the squad’s positions while searching the area for more enemy, noting that Tin and Cusabrina were already on the summit and that Tabor and Plodder were coming toward her from the right. The sun shone brightly as Ayliss and Dellmore reached the top, where a field of blackened, splintered trunks pointed at the sky. They cut to the right, heading east, staying in relative cover and moving away from Tin and Cusabrina to start forming a perimeter. On the very edge of the smoldering clearing a hundred yards ahead, Ayliss saw an armored Banshee emerge from the woods.

  “This is Tabor! I see you, Dell! Plodder ’n me will take the north side until—”

  Ayliss jumped inside her suit, jolted by the nearness of the explosion and the unmistakable boom. A fiery arrow appeared in front of her for a moment, dipping toward the dirt before rising slightly and smashing into Tabor’s chest. The huge figure left the ground, Fasces spinning away, and crashed back to the surface ten yards away.

  “Rocket! Get down!” Ayliss heard Dellmore yelling, but not at her. The two of them were surging forward, called by the blast that had emerged from inside a tiny grove of trees to their front. Pushing too hard, Ayliss rose up in the air just long enough to see the entire awful panoply.

  Three camouflaged Sims knelt in the grove, one lowering the empty tube of the discharged rocket while another sighted in with a fresh missile. At the edge of the clearing, Tabor’s smoking suit was sprawled and lifeless, but another Banshee was at her side. Bending, grabbing, trying to pull her partner to safety. Plodder.

  Ayliss let loose a scream of rage and despair as the rocket launched, swinging the Fasces around to fire even though she was still in the air. Just long enough to see the missile strike Plodder in the side of her helmet, a starburst of fire and smoke and blood.

  Dellmore had also kicked off too hard, and so they both came back to the ground in the middle of the grove and the Sim rocket team. They were still stomping and tearing when Tin called in the fatalities.

  Many hours later, Ayliss sat alone in a quiet part of the ship. Large machines hummed in the space below her unshod feet, and she rested her head on the railing that kept her from falling into the abyss. The humans’ advantage in firepower had prevailed in the fight on the planet, and the Banshees had been withdrawn once the Sim assault had been broken.

  She’d lingered with the maintenance personnel once they’d removed her suit, not ready to discuss Plodder’s death with Bullhead or Lightfoot. She and Legacy had embraced for a long time, but there had been no need to explain what had happened because Legacy had been there. Bullhead and Lightfoot would want to know the details, and Ayliss wasn’t sure she could explain them. She gently swung her feet, enjoying the sensation after such a long time in the suit, and an immense weariness started setting into her muscles.

  A hand rested on her shoulder and then applied pressure as her unwanted visitor sat down. Ayliss expected to see Tin or perhaps Cusabrina, but the face next to hers belonged to Dellmore. The big veteran had washed and changed into a fresh uniform, making Ayliss aware that she’d merely pulled a set of fatigue pants over the undergarments she’d worn on the mission.

  “Spill it.” Dellmore said in a voice that was only slightly louder than the murmuring machines.

  “I’m okay,” she replied defensively, unwilling to give Dell additional leverage over her. “I’m just not ready to talk with the others about Elliott.”

  “I thought her name was Plodder.”

  “It was.” Ayliss considered the question. It reminded her of something Jan had told her, about the passing of a Spartacan Scout he’d known. “But not anymore. She’s done with all this.
She’s Elliott again.”

  “You know, of your entire batch of replacements, I had her figured as the best. Big, tough, not afraid to speak her mind.”

  “She was the best. She proved that today.”

  “She did at that. But she also screwed up. Tabes was gone, and if she’d taken a second to check her readout she would have known that.”

  “If Tabor was only wounded, she wouldn’t have had that second to lose.” Ayliss shook her head, recalling Blocker’s commentary on randomness. “Doesn’t matter now, anyway. So why are we talking about it?”

  “Because if I ever get nailed, I don’t want you running out to get the same medicine.” Dellmore looked into her eyes. “Believe me, if it’s you lying out there, I’m gonna make sure you’re alive before I go.”

  “I didn’t think we’d be paired off again.”

  “Well you’re wrong there. I asked Sergeant Tin to make us a team. Permanent.”

  Ayliss frowned in confusion. “Why?”

  “When you showed up here, I had you pegged as a rich kid who needed some combat time on her record before running for office. I figured you were gonna be worthless in a fight.” Dellmore grinned. “But I was wrong about that, wasn’t I?”

  She felt her face redden. “I do my part.”

  “Yeah.” Dell laughed. “I saw you. You enjoy it.”

  “I don’t dislike it.”

  “It’s nothing be ashamed of—I’m the same way. I like it. I like it a lot.” Dell gave a short nod. “Besides, Sam is trying to kill our friends. That’s always pissed me off.”

  “Pisses me off, too.”

  “Then we’ll work out fine.” Dellmore reached for the top rail and pulled herself into a standing position. “Come on. You need to get washed up, and then we’ll get some chow.”

  “That sounds good.”

  Dellmore stuck out her hand, helping her up. The big woman smiled at her warmly. “You got a good nickname there, Rigor Mortas. It fits.”

  “It’s Rig. Call me Rig.”

  Chapter 6

  When it got dark, Mortas stopped walking. He found a large irrigation pipe, sat down, and looked out over support base Mound. He’d been there for hours, and still couldn’t make any sense of it. A tall anti-personnel fence ran all the way around the installation, but instead of a defensible shape such as a circle or an oval, it more resembled a heart. One of the heart’s two bumps ran around the large hill where he was now sitting, and he suspected that this piece of high ground was why the crowded place was called the Mound. The nearby terrain stretched away for miles, flat and empty and orange.

  The perimeter’s other bump, and the pointed base of the heart, enclosed many acres of the level expanse on two sides of the hill. Unlike the ground outside the defenses, almost every inch of that territory was hidden. A hodgepodge of maintenance sheds, interconnected tents, vehicle parks, and tall stacks of supplies covered it all, making it hard to see where the roads and footpaths passed around them.

  The one open space was a small airstrip where he’d been deposited hours earlier. He’d been dismayed to learn that no one from his battalion, or even the brigade, had preceded him to the Mound. No one he’d consulted upon landing, and no one he’d buttonholed since then, had any idea where First Battalion’s supply apparatus was supposed to set up.

  His new handheld contained none of the current codes in use at this base, so he couldn’t call up a schematic of the Mound’s layout or communicate with anyone. He’d poked his head into several different headquarters-type tents, but in each case had been rudely told no one could help him. Annoyed, Mortas had decided to walk all over the site in an effort to find an unused portion where he could direct the convoy when it arrived. The troops he’d encountered in his sojourn had been generally friendly, but he’d been surprised to discover they knew little more than he did about the Mound’s most basic organization.

  He’d grown even more uncomfortable going up the hill. Jander felt naked with no weapon, body armor, or helmet, but that sensation had shifted to genuine concern when the incomprehensible layout of the perimeter became clear. Bunkered fighting positions dotted the fence line, and combat troops were manning them, but even a casual glance revealed several blind spots where infiltrators could approach unseen. A surveillance drone puttered by somewhere in the darkening sky overhead, and he tried to convince himself that the Mound was important enough for rocket or artillery assets if the rebels decided to pay a visit.

  Having learned not to trust those systems with his life, he drew some measure of comfort from the obvious fact that the Mound’s occupants weren’t in any way worried about being attacked. The entire base was lit up like a small town back on Earth, and he spotted clusters of off-duty soldiers waiting outside tents that he assumed were serving meals or providing entertainment. Their voices rose up the slope toward him, loud, carefree, and he was sure he heard music somewhere.

  “Where is that convoy?” he breathed out into the blue-gray night, trying to fight off a genuine feeling of depression. The brief encounter with the familiar Sergeant Strickland and the engaging Sergeant Leoni had buoyed his spirits, but that had faded away with every strange face and sight at this new place. He was an infantry soldier, not a supply jockey, and it was hard not to resent his current surroundings. Erica’s face appeared in the shadows, and he slipped into that pleasant memory until it too became painful.

  “Okay, enough moping.” Mortas stood, brushing dust from his fatigues while looking at the small plateau at the top of the hill. He was mildly surprised to see that the red two-story building on its summit had light streaming from every window; the structure was such a tempting target that he’d assumed it would be empty.

  At that moment a quartet of soldiers, three men and one woman, came tromping down the gravel road in his direction. Their fatigues were dark green and recently pressed, their black boots shone even in the darkness, and they all wore jet-black caps with bills. He’d seen a few soldiers in that rig during the day, and had decided they were part of the same security force he’d seen guarding Asterlit’s throne room earlier. Like the other green suiters he’d already encountered, this bunch talked too loud and moved with an aggressive confidence that he recognized as pure show.

  “Whatcha waitin’ for, buddy?” one of the men practically shouted at him as they passed. “Get on up there. The Red House is open for the night.”

  They were gone a moment later, with a chorus of nasty sniggers hanging in the air like a bad smell. Mortas stared at the road where the dress soldiers had disappeared, beginning to understand their comments and hoping to be wrong. He felt his jaw thrusting forward even before he left the trail and headed off through the hill’s sparse cover.

  A new fence ran around the building, with anti-personnel wire rolled across its top on supports that formed a Y—a configuration meant to keep people from climbing the fence from either side. He’d watched the Red House’s only gate for a few minutes from the cover of the woods, and observed several different troops from various units come up the road on foot. Most of them carried the waterproof yellow bag of Force field rations, and once those had been handed to the green-clad guards they were granted admittance.

  Music thumped inside the structure, which Jander had decided was once a farmhouse. Circling around to the rear, he found a spot that was hidden in shadow and walked right up to the fence. He was studying the Red House’s stone foundations when a timid voice came from the other side.

  “Got any food?”

  Rumors of refugee abuse had circulated across the Force ever since the beginning of the Celestian slave rebellion, and he thought he’d prepared himself mentally. The words sounded like they’d come from a beaten child, but the figure that approached the barrier was a teenaged girl. Her hair had been cut short, and she was wearing a set of fatigues that were much too big for her. Fearful eyes rose up out of the gloom, and he stepped up to the obstacle.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Don’t
you know?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  She sighed just a bit, obviously thinking he was toying with her. The eyes went to the ground, and two pale hands began undoing the buttons of the uniform blouse.

  “One ration gets you a half hour. Two get you an hour.” She held the fatigue top open, exposing two small breasts and far too many ribs. For an instant he was somewhere else, looking at the taught skin of starvation on a different woman. “A whole case—”

  “Stop it!” he barked, fury rising. “I’m not here for that.”

  She’d already covered up, and cast a worried glance behind her before hissing, “Then what are you here for?”

  A harsh male voice called from the corner of the building, and she disappeared like a ghost. Mortas stood there, adrenaline humming through him while his hands clenched and unclenched. The anger was real, and it felt good.

  “Not this,” he answered the air. “Fuck no.”

  Mortas had passed a carpentry shop at the base of the hill earlier in the day, and so that was where he headed. His injured leg had been sore from all the walking, but it felt strong and ready as he strode down the incline. He’d checked his handheld on the way, hoping that the convoy had arrived but not willing to wait for them.

  Reaching the woodworkers’ area, he sorted through several barrels of cut lumber before finding a four-foot dowel that seemed sturdy enough for the job. Instead of diminishing with the passing time, his resolve had hardened into a living thing that now glowed in his core and egged him to go right back up the hill. He’d taken the first steps when his handheld activated in his pocket. The message made him smile.