by Alex Bobl
He scratched at the tattoo on his shoulder. "Dunno. Could be a couple more places where we might find them."
"You think you can bypass them?"
"We'll have to."
There was no fear in his eyes. Wladas, on the contrary, kept casting scared glances in our direction as he helped Jim.
"So let's do it this way," I said to Grunt. "When we sail off, I'll sit in front with you. Georgie in the back with Jim, Wong and Wladas in the middle."
"Deal," Grunt nodded.
Chapter Two
God Loves the Infantry
We traveled to the night camp without further incident. This time we decided to moor the boat on the right bank: the rainforest to our left had given way to an expanse of brown and yellow. The desert. The river washed its southern edge: sand dunes lay to our portside while to our right rose a hill range covered by wilted grass, brushwood and occasional tufts of low gnarly trees.
Grunt steered on, the motor almost idling as he looked for a place to tie up. Under the high crumbling bank, lumps of eroded soil showed above the water line. The captain explained that the riggers' water-jet barge created a strong wake that undercut the bank.
The warm setting sun caressed the skin. The heat subsided; the water started giving off a light chill. I looked up at the cloudless sky hoping for a calm night.
I turned to Grunt. "You think it's gonna rain?"
He didn't answer. Georgie spoke instead, "Don't think so. Not after yesterday's downpour. The thing to worry about here is sandstorms. Not "worry" worry, you know. Not yet. Another ten miles to the east, that's where the desert really starts and that's where you should keep your eyes peeled."
"There we are," Grunt stretched out his arm. "We'll land over there."
He pointed at a large mound of soil by the water's edge, an uprooted shrub still clinging to it. The place was good. Here, a hollow ran down the slope, once grown over but now bare and muddy, easy to climb up the foothill for a bit of recce and to post a lookout for the night. Alternatively, you could walk further away from the river - a good preventive measure considering that the other hills were higher than this one.
A truck appeared on a distant incline. We froze. We couldn't hear the engine: from where we were, it seemed as if the truck rolled out onto the hilltop by itself and then headed down, soundless.
"Wong, the glasses!" I reached out for them without taking my eyes from the hills.
Finally I heard the sound of an engine. The wretched hills worked like highway noise barriers. Now we'd missed the truck!
It was quite a long way away still so nothing said they'd seen us. Before I could raise the field glasses to my eyes, the truck had rolled down the slope and disappeared behind the range. We stared at where a cloud of dust was now settling. The truck didn't reappear.
"It's weird," I lowered the glasses and looked over the bank and the river below. "It looks as if it's been following us."
"Coincidence," Georgie half-asked.
"Grunt," I raised the glasses again, "What was it you spoke to Lars about just before we left?"
The captain mumbled something. He didn't sound happy.
"Spit it out," I grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face me. "Well?" I looked into his eyes.
He glanced away. Wong stood up on his bench. Georgie followed suit. Wladas and Jim didn't move and just stared at us from above, uncomprehending.
"What was this warning Lars was going to send? Who to? And how?"
Grunt looked back at me and opened his mouth to speak. Wong cried out, pointing at a harsh hissing sound approaching from the desert. As we heard a delayed sonic boom, a line of white smoke rose from behind a dune heading for the sky.
A missile!
"Step on it!" I pushed Grunt into the driver's seat.
The line kept rising, about to change its path. They must have fired it from a covered position. The missile technician had sent the rocket higher in order to get a better look at us through his camera.
The missile lingered in the air, then headed straight for us. The boat's prow jerked up as we sped away leaving a powerful wake. I tumbled into my seat. Reaching for the open bag underneath, I pulled out the harpoon and the welded-on container with the harnesses and the flare. I unscrewed the flare's top and tugged on the lanyard.
A bright flame erupted and headed toward the missile. My purpose was to temporarily blind the technician. He reacted just as I expected by exploding the missile.
I struck Grunt's hand on the steering wheel. The sky seemed to roar. The boat veered toward the bank and hit the lump of dirt that was our planned landing. I was thrown high into the air. Trying to tuck myself up, I covered my face with my elbows as I fell into the water and buried my hands in the deep silt clinging to it as hard as I could.
A wave of fire rolled over the surface spitting and spreading shrapnel all around. Followed by trails of bubbles, the boat's fragmented hull sunk next to me. My shoulder smarted. I pushed hard with both legs and resurfaced.
The remains of the boat lay on the bank, overturned and smoking. A large hole gaped in its hull. The missing motor had been torn from its mountings with part of the backboard. Jim, covered with mud, was struggling up the slippery slope trying to drag Wong into the hollow.
"Wong!" I turned round, up to my waist in the water. "Wladas? Grunt?"
The captain's body bobbed up next to me, a bloodied mess in place of his face. I recognized him by the tattoo on his shoulder.
"We're here!" Wladas shouted to my right. The neurotech, complete with the first-aid kit over his shoulder, waded along the water's edge toward the hollow. There, Georgie had finally scrambled to his feet and limped up the slope leaning on Jim. Behind them, Wong walked while tying a tourniquet around his arm. Blood was seeping from his slashed elbow down to his wrist and was dripping onto both the ground and the butt of his carbine.
The guns! We had no guns, no gear! So much for all our equipment! I got out of the water, glanced over the scratch on my shoulder, then checked the knife on my belt and the field glasses still dangling around my neck. Kneeling next to the smoking boat, I covered my eyes from the fumes and reached down the hole hoping to salvage a bag or a carbine. Almost immediately, toxic flames struck out snake-like from the hole. My eyes stung as the hull caught fire threatening to reach the tank. I caught a whiff of the gas leaking from under the boat.
Fuck it! I started climbing the hill. By the time I finally caught up with the rest, the boat exploded. We hit the ground, waited for a bit, then rose and continued our climb. Georgie and Jim lagged behind, so I stopped and helped them along.
"Where's Grunt?" Georgie croaked.
"Dead."
A high-pitched sound came from across the river: the electric motor of a sand buggy - a multipurpose combat vehicle controlled by a cyber trooper.
Which didn't necessarily mean he was alone in it.
"We've got to get the body out," Georgie shrugged Jim's hand off his shoulder.
"Up!" I pulled him along. "We've got to hide. You can't help Grunt now. Come on, Jim!"
Georgie nearly fell over as he tried to follow me with his eyes still on the river.
On the opposite bank, the squat combat vehicle appeared amid the dunes. Its long flattened body resembled tortoise shell with the underframe painted yellow. The buggy was shod with light-colored tires - not an easy thing to see on the sand. Armored cowls covered the front wheels. No windshield: instead, the cab was equipped with a monitor that collected information from cameras and combat modules. But it was little less than a backup system. Most likely, the buggy was controlled by a cyber trooper whose neural chains were hotwired to microprocessors and whose brain contained all the necessary software channeling every snippet of information from radars and sensors directly into his brain. A cyber trooper: half-man, half-robot, chock full of performance-enhancing implants.
"Who... who are they?" Georgie gasped. His filthy hair was clinging to his scalp, his face turning pale with pain and anger
.
"Later," I looked up. Wong and Wladas had already disappeared over the hilltop. "I'll tell you later. They won't leave us alone. Now move it!"
The combat sand buggy rolled into the water and moved across the river purposefully, like a predator catching up with its prey. A narrow hatch slid aside on the roof. A twin pulse machine gun on a swivel mounting zoomed out and turned in our direction.
We went over the crest of the hill and froze a few paces below. Georgie gasped and fell on one knee holding his hip that had been gashed by a piece of shrapnel. Jim jerked his hands up as I reached for the knife handle on my waist. Then I let it go.
"Freeze! Put your guns down!" ordered a tall African at the base of the hill.
Famba and three more of his raiders - Kathy included - lined up in front of their truck pointing their guns at us. The grim broad-faced driver sat in his cab, hands on the steering wheel, nervously chewing on an extinguished roll-up. The red-haired raider sat in the truck next to his tripod staring at us over the sights of the gun pointed at the hilltop.
Wong lay unconscious, his face beaten to pulp. Next to him, Wladas also lay face down, hands on his head. His first-aid bag stood next to the grinning Kathy.
I remembered the other raiders' names from what McLean had told me. Muller, Kurt, Baxter and Red Johnny - apparently, the one in the truck - looked at me expectantly.
"We need to hurry," I started.
"Shut up!" Famba barked. "Get down!"
"Idiots," Georgie leaned on my arm and mentioned clones under his breath.
Jim, too, started walking down. A thorny thicket behind the truck blocked our retreat. A grassy hill slope rose to our left. A small grove to our right could hide you from the human eye but not from cyber-controlled sand buggies with their thermal detectors. On top of that, we still had six of McLean's trigger-happy assholes to take care of. It didn't look good.
We had to come up with something pretty quick.
When we reached the foothill, Wong stirred on the ground, scrambling to all fours. He coughed out a clot of blood, rubbed his chest and gave me a subtle nod, his eyes fixed on the shrubs.
"Get down!" the swarthy scar-face shoved his gun barrel into Wong's neck and kicked his shoulder. Wong hurled himself down to the ground.
What had he tried to tell me? Why had he pointed at the shrubs? Wong was more than just a combat fighter: he was a tactician trained to assess complex situations and act on cue against the deadliest odds.
What was his plan?
"Where's the captain?" Kathy demanded. She turned to the raiders. "The fat bastard, you know, with no hair. Where is he?"
"None of your fucking business," Georgie ventured. "You bitch-"
Kathy stole toward him and punched him hard in the stomach. The studs on her fingerless glove glistened as she rabbit-punched his neck.
"We have no time for this!" I turned to Famba and spouted, "We all need to go, now! If we don't-" I recoiled, barely avoiding a gun butt.
"Don't move!" the African's eyes became bloodshot. "Don't move, fuck you!"
The raider with the greasy ponytail stepped close and thrust his carbine into my cheek. I showed him my empty hands, listening for more sounds to come from behind the hill. There were none.
Now I knew why the raiders looked so calm. Even if they'd heard the faint echo of the explosions, they must have taken it for their own engine backfiring.
The raider took away my knife and the field glasses. Then he frisked me and found the fabric tube with the coins. He threw it to Famba who started toward me, clenching his strong bony fists.
"There, look!" Kathy pointed at the hilltop. She stepped over the collapsed Georgie and pushed Jim aside. The smoke from the burning boat was rising high above the hill. Suddenly, thick black clouds belched from behind it, as if a giant on the other side was blowing at the smoke trying to see what was going on in the hollow. The murky haze subsided revealing a combat sand buggy on top of the hill.
The heavy pulse gun on its roof shot up the foothill. Everyone ran for cover. Streaks of flame reached the truck piercing the hood and cutting through the cab like a white-hot wire slicing through Styrofoam. Red Johnny had just enough time to get off one shot sending a shaped charge right into the sand buggy's front end. Then both he and the swarthy scar-face were mown down by the machine gun.
An explosion flared on the hilltop. I jumped up. Now I knew why Wong had pointed at the shrubs. He was heading there now, dripping blood and dragging Wladas behind him.
I ducked and ran across the opening. Grabbing Georgie's hand, I nudged Jim and headed for the shrubs. Famba and his men ran to take cover in the trees. Big mistake.
The cab door opened and the driver fell out. His forearm torn off by the pulse charge. A large hole in his side was surrounded by a caked brown crust, both wounds scorched and almost bloodless. The driver collapsed onto his back. His glazed-over eyes stared skyward.
Something screeched and clapped inside the cab as its metal frame and engine parts disintegrated, parched by the thermite charges. The truck shuddered and sagged, falling apart. I growled struggling to keep my grip on Georgie, and crashed into the thicket just as the exploding gas tank thundered behind me.
A hot wave bounced off our spines propelling us forward. Flames licked the back of my head as I landed face down into the thorny brushwood. I scrambled onto all fours and crawled on dragging Georgie along with me; then I stopped realizing we shouldn't get too far from the burning truck so that the cyber trooper driving the buggy couldn't detect us with his thermal viewer. While the truck was still ablaze, we were better off staying put and choking on the toxic smoke, but at least we were indistinguishable from the fire spot on the buggy's monitor. Good job Wong had Wladas; now he had to get to Jim before the cyber trooper noticed the boy, in which case we were all toast.
Someone gasped and tried to suppress a cough. It might have been Jim struggling for breath. I shoved a few branches aside and met with Kathy's stare. She held a gun. I pressed a finger to my lips nodding at the smoking truck by the foothill. There, the buggy's electric motor whirred as it approached.
Georgie behind me stirred as he noticed Kathy. I had to hiss at him, restraining his arm. It wasn't a good moment to settle old scores.
After a few moments, the buggy's motor stopped. The combat vehicle came to a halt in the hollow where we couldn't see it through all the smoke. Still, I could hear one hatch slide open and then another. Then voices. The motor hummed again, and the buggy rolled out into the open. A trooper in full Centurion gear jumped off the armor, pulse gun in hand.
He raised his visor and looked around checking the area. His stare lingered at the bodies by the truck. He came closer and kicked one of them, then swung round staring at the grove of trees away from the hill.
The cyber driver peered out of the front hatch. He had a wide face with a squashed nose. Cables trailed out of his neck and the back of his head disappearing into the depths of the cab. If he strayed away from the regs and disconnected himself for a little walk, we could risk a surprise assault.
"Did you see him?" the driver leaned out of the hatch. The cables behind him drew taut but he didn't disconnect them, just cocked his head studying the cowl damaged by our shaped charge.
The trooper kept looking at the trees without answering. He could be a cyber, too, judging by his clouded stare. Most likely, he was busy downloading data from the buggy's microprocessor and restoring his files damaged by the impact.
"Didn't you hear?" the driver said. "It was him!"
"How can you be so sure, flat face?" the trooper's eyes cleared as he looked at his partner. "You went blind as shit when they hit your fat mug!"
A branch crunched amid the trees. The trooper shut his visor close and swung round raising his pulse gun. The driver disappeared inside and slid the hatches shut.
Kathy raised her gun aiming at the trooper. I laid my hand on the barrel and jerked it down, unable to tell her that the cybers knew of Famba and his men
taking cover in the grove. Now the soldiers played cat and mouse with the raiders. With their armor and guns, they thought nothing of the raiders' carbines. Nothing short of a grenade launcher could harm them.
Kathy tried to pull her gun out of my grip, ready to spit abuse in my face. Georgie sniffed, exchanging glares between the cyber and the girl. Without me, these two could kill each other simply over the gun.
The hiding raiders were losing it. They opened fire. The pulse gun clattered on the buggy's roof, followed by the trooper's rifle. A raider's bullet hit him in the shoulder striking sparks off his armored vest. For a moment, the soldier stepped back but he didn't stop shooting. A scream was cut short behind the trees.
A few seconds later, it was over. The grove thinned out as trees burned. Famba walked out into the open - his clothes smoking, his hand clenching a gun, his eyes empty.
The trooper raised his rifle. The barrel spat fire. Famba jerked. Boiling blood splashed out of his chest and back. He dropped to his knees and lowered his head, staring at the wound. Then he raised a vacant face and tumbled to his side.
The trooper lowered his visor and turned to the shrubs. Kathy tensed up. I clasped the barrel of her gun. Georgie stopped breathing.
The smoke from the fires started to cover the hollow. The trooper started toward us. Then he pressed his fingers to his temple receiving a radio message. He stepped back, turned round and got back into the buggy.
The vehicle backed up. The electric gear box clicked as the driver revved up the engine and the buggy whizzed off toward the hilltop.
For about a minute we sat motionless. Then Kathy tried once again to tug her gun free but I wouldn't let her have it. I grabbed her arm, pulled the gun's stock and headbutted her in the face.
She raised her bleeding forehead. I grasped Georgie's elbow and pulled him out of the thicket toward the foothill.
"Wong! Wladas! Where are you?"
Kathy spat obscenities to my back. Georgie swore too but at least he didn't resist me but limped obediently behind.
