by Scott Moon
A moment passed.
“Probably a Cyclops,” Davis said, staring at the cloaked and veiled secret weapon. “They deploy just like Armor units, four to a platoon.”
Kevin and the others watched the spectacle repeat three more times as the Cyclops Armor Units were loaded into an Excalibur.
“I guess they aren’t rumor after all,” Davis said, turning back to his own equipment check. “This is your last chance to grab what you need from quarters. Check everything twice. Pack light, but leave nothing you will need.”
He inspected everyone in the squad to be sure they had the SMC required items.
Kevin breezed through the inspection. Staying organized was simple. He was as ready for his first mission as he ever would be.
Other units formed near the drop-ships. Platoon commanders and their squad leaders kept busy with details large and small. A familiar face smiled back from 3rd Platoon, the heavy weapons team. There was no mistaking the red hair, short stature, and bad attitude of Ruby McGuire.
“You know her?” Foster asked as he stepped to Kevin’s side. “I heard she is a wild cat in the sack.”
“She’s my brother’s girlfriend.”
“Oops. Sorry,” Foster said, not sounding sorry.
Ruby jutted her chin at him, like a nod but in the other direction.
“Damn, Kev. I think she’s going to kick your ass,” Foster said.
Kevin shook his head. “That’s how she is. Kind of a bitch.”
“You’re in love with her,” Foster said.
“Fuck off. Asshole.”
Foster shrugged.
Chaf, finally done with his pre-combat inspection, joined them. “I was kind of thinking the same thing, Kev. No offense.”
He faced his friends. “You guys are experts? How could you reach this brilliant conclusion? Oh, that’s right; you don’t need facts when everything you say is bullshit.”
“I knew he could swear like a sailor,” Chaf said.
“That’s nothing,” Foster said, then told a long improbable story of his last liberty. Chaf listened, not believing a word. Kevin watched them wander closer to the drop-ship in compliance with Davis’s hand gesture.
Kevin followed. He looked one last time at Gwyneth “Ruby” McGuire and gave her a chin nod like they were a couple of guys on the streets around Building 595.
24
Eigon
EIGON strutted through the night like an Earth cat or a Brookhaven dance hawk. She ruled the darkness. Lesser creatures watched from shadows and respected the glory and violence she could bring forth. Only one creature possessed greater skill in single combat than a Siren, and that was the Siren-nix, the warrior embodiment of the race. In the confusing lexicon of Earth human language, the Siren-nix were male — the subservient caste fit only for a small contribution to procreation and making war on lesser races. The human doctor, Robedeaux, was the first to separate the name — Siren or Nix.
Robedeaux was more troublesome than a masterless Siren-nix gone wandering.
She hated her time in the Siren-nix cycle but retained the skill long after the powerful frame and hormonal deluge diminished.
The Dream-rider spoke in her head. Find the twin dreamers or return to Siris for Chrysalis.
“I will not,” Eigon said.
You will.
“I refuse to become Siren-nix. The caste is below what I have given to Siris,” Eigon said.
Your skill is not so great.
Eigon found a glade bathed in the moonlight of Brookhaven and meditated over the drawn blade of her best sword. Kneeling, she could feel the cool stream thirty paces to her right reflecting the night and separating her from a pack of lupine creatures. They were hunters similar to Earth wolves or Kaden dogs — cautious, preferring to chase fleeing prey.
Night owls common to many worlds looked at Eigon from trees at the edge of the clearing. Smaller creatures, prey of the lupine hunters and night birds, crept between hiding places. None came close.
A cloud of insects drifted toward the water, crossing the glade and singing to Eigon’s meditative state. Her hands twitched on her knees. She forced the muscles of her legs, back, and shoulders to relax one by one. Her battle process was instantaneous. She honed it now, ready to strike the quickest of the insects to pass into range.
The hum of life forms so low they didn’t respect the Siren race came closer and closer, drifting on the breeze and nearly escaping. Then it was time. Many targets moved within range of her blade.
She snatched the weapon from the ground with her primary left hand — to make it a challenge — as she lunged to her feet. Life force pumped from her body into the simple blade of pure Siris-forged metal and glowed.
A lesser Siren — one bound for a punitive Chrysalis status — would have bisected many of the Brookhaven insects.
Eigon chose one, avoided all the others in the swarm, and split her victim neatly.
She knelt and continued to meditate.
“I will find the dreaming twins,” she said.
The Dream-rider in her brain laughed.
She meditated longer than necessary.
You are lazy.
“I improve myself,” she said. “The Marauders must see battle before I can move past this river. Otherwise, I will be detected and their mission will be confused. They must deal with the Void Trolls.”
The rock giants do not matter.
“They matter to the Marauders, especially the Recon Marauders after the worst slaughter this planet has ever known,” Eigon said.
The Dream-rider became agitated, emitting a humming sound that Eigon and the other Sirens could not decipher or understand. She abandoned her meditation, checked her swords, and moved to watch the lupine hunters retreating from her advance even though they were safe on the other side of the river.
Find the dreaming twins. Stop the Siren-nix. They move against the humans. This must not happen.
“Not yet,” Eigon murmured.
Not ever!
Eigon smiled to herself and shrugged, although there was nothing but animals to see her. Many of her people distressed themselves with concern for the Siren-nix rebellion, or more accurately, over-eagerness. Eigon was better than any of those who came from the Chrysalis as brutish males. The one time she suffered that fate, she had remained more Siren than Nix.
“I should be The One,” she said.
The Dream-rider did not respond.
The insect cloud she had attacked followed her as she moved along the water. To her keen ears, the bugs seemed almost friendly — as though they also desired the blade. That was the way of many creatures. Humans were the most beautiful of pests, but no more valuable than the small flying things that wanted to suck blood through her skin. Young sentient races often threw themselves against the gods of war and perished. Their singers made songs of surprising beauty and force.
What would happen to these mosquito-like insects if they consumed the blood of The One?
You are not yet so exalted, the Dream-rider said.
Eigon laughed, startling many warm-blooded night creatures. She fed energy into her ultrasonic aura, flaring it until the bugs retreated.
Stars and moonlight reflected off water touched by a breeze. The river was deep here and the current slow.
She sang, not to chastise any of the Siren-nix who might be near or to draw humans, but for her own pleasure. The language of Siris blessed the riverside clearing and caused her to think of the human dreamers she sought.
Amanda-Margaret and Ace, never apart, always sensitive to Siren-nix resonance.
She decided she was fond of the human younglings, even if they could not find the Siren-nix rebels. The source of her emotion disturbed the placid meditation in her most contemplative soul. What amazed her was that this did not anger her at all.
The twins were special. Perhaps, she thought, if they were valuable in the fight against the rebel Siren-nix, there would be a place for them in a Chrysalis on Siris.
A troop of rock trolls approaches, the Dream-rider said.
Eigon squatted low to the ground and placed her primary left hand on one sword hilt and used her primary right hand to shade her eyes as though the stark moonlight hurt her eyes. This caused her to think of Ace, who — despite being a prisoner doomed to die — had been concerned the first time he saw her assume this position. The young human thought she was having a headache or was being blinded by the sun.
You should not have lost the human twins, the Dream-rider commented with less emotion than before.
Eigon ignored the Dream-rider and allowed energy to collect on the skyward side of her gazing hand and transfer to her vision organs. For reasons of evolution, moon and starlight rendered an even greater transfer of energy to her far-viewing.
“I see them,” she said. “There could be a full battle troop with weapons.”
They do not need weapons.
“And yet they use them well,” Eigon said. She stood and moved deeper into the trees for concealment, listening to the lupine natives gathering their courage and following at a distance. Tight ropes of black and blond braids trembled along her naked back where her secondary gripping systems, arms Ace and Amanda had called beautiful and disturbing, lay folded — practically merged — to her back and rarely noticed by alien races. The first humans to encounter Sirens had believed they looked more humanoid than was the case. Two arms, two legs with long graceful movements and faces like their godlike but not god angels soothed most humans and made the summoning song easier. When humans saw a Siren using all of her limbs, confusion and terror often followed.
The night breeze grew intense, gusting against the fine metal fibers of her travel attire, the rich colors merging with the night as silk-like metal weaves sensed her mood and the coming danger. Ace had wanted to touch her clothing. Amanda had been moved to tears at the sight of Eigon distracting her twin brother from his pain.
Humans were more complex than the Dream-rider realized. In its arrogance, it would underestimate the race.
Is that why you fear the Earthborn? she thought to the Dream-rider.
No answer came.
Eigon would become The One, the Forever Siren beyond even the Dream-rider. She felt it.
25
Dragon Wings
KEVIN thought of the twins and his heart ached. A flash of TB 595 burned through him with surprising force. Life before the SMC seemed like something from another world, which maybe it was. The sound of the twins laughing at a joke only they thought was funny made him smile.
Davis, the twin of a DI from basic training, paced the squad bay without expression. He stopped in front of Kevin, a questioning look in his eyes.
Kevin could not push aside thoughts of Ace and Amanda, the twins he had raised with his older brother.
Foster and Chaf asked questions. Davis answered them. Kevin tried to catch up and pay attention.
“I sound like my brother, look like my brother, and probably think like him despite being smarter, funnier, and better looking. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am my brother,” Davis said. “We are going down by Thunderbolt drop-ship.”
“Permission to ask a question,” Foster said.
“Just ask it. That goes for the rest of the squad from here on out,” Davis said.
“I thought the warning order said we would deploy by Excalibur drop-ship. What caused the change?” Foster asked.
“There are not enough Excaliburs. Planners above my pay grade don’t always have up-to-date information on the readiness of equipment. The Thunderbolt is far better for this kind of thing. Faster, less visible on radar and infrared, and able to land anywhere. Nothing is worse than circling above an enemy-controlled area looking for a decent LZ. Trust me, I used to be an SMC pilot,” Davis said. “Staff officers prefer bigger ships because the logistics of troop movement are easier to plan. Nothing wrong with that. Simplicity is a good thing in war. Doesn’t make crash-landing in an Excalibur any more fun as you take enemy fire.”
“Officer on deck!”
Kevin turned to see Lieutenant Lovejoy inspecting the line of Thunderbolts.
“Lieutenant,” Davis said.
“Davis.” Lovejoy looked at each member of the squad.
Kevin wasn’t sure he liked the idea of an officer wound tighter than his men. Lovejoy’s skin flushed red and his shoulders looked high and tense, even in his armor.
“Is your squad ready?” Lovejoy asked.
“Yes, sir,” Davis said.
“Wait ten minutes and get them into Thunderbolt DV099B,” Lovejoy said.
“Captain Kingstar’s warning order says five minutes,” Davis said, glancing at the sleeve tablet of his armor.
“Ten minutes. I want my squads fresh, not hyperventilating,” Lovejoy said.
“Yes, sir.” Davis saluted and began final equipment checks.
A short time later, Kevin ducked into the Thunderbolt, wondering why veterans liked the vehicle so much. The exterior was brick-ugly. The interior was small. There wasn’t enough room to get in and stains that reminded him of old blood spattered the walls. He bumped Foster and Chaf as they turned to sit down and strap in, armored elbows banging.
“I knew there was a reason Davis told us to wear our helmets,” Foster said.
“Yeah, I didn’t hear you complaining at all,” Kevin said, then mimicked his friend’s voice. “The Lt wants us fresh, not suffocated. Why can’t we lock the helmets down when we actually launch for the surface? I’ve got to save my air in case there are WMD defenses.”
“What?” Foster said. “Are you sure that wasn’t you or Chaf?”
“Cut the crosstalk,” Davis said as he ducked toward the secure pilot area. He hammered three times on the door and received two answering knocks. “One minute.”
Time counted down.
“Welcome, marines. My name is Lieutenant Oman and we are lifting off in three, two, one. Hold on, but more importantly, pray,” said the drop-ship pilot over the intercom.
Segments of the internal pressure suit flexed to fight the often described in training but never believed gravity forces. Even with the armor constricting to regulate his blood pressure, he saw spots and felt as though all the fluid in his body was draining to his feet. The Thunderbolt turned one way, all the blood in his body turned the other. His stomach flattened to the inside of his abdominal cavity.
Gravity came and went as the ship maneuvered.
“Do not vent your suits until we are outside of the drop-ship!” Davis shouted.
Someone Kevin didn’t see purged vomit through the vents and filters, coating the inside of the Thunderbolt with stomach content. A thick jet of it hit Foster’s closed face shield. A moment later, Foster jaw-keyed his helmet microphone, granting everyone in the squad an up close and personal symphony of his misery.
Kevin looked at Davis. The sergeant’s expression seemed unmoved. Kevin couldn’t be sure, but thought the man was yawning inside his helmet.
“I didn’t sign up for the puke brigade. Get it together, Fos!” Edwards said.
“It gets better, sort of,” Davis said. “Better to vent that stuff outside of the ship, but who am I to give advice?”
The drop-ship fell toward the surface of Brookhaven, removing the sensation of gravity. Kevin could imagine the planet rushing upward, sunrise or sunset somewhere in view as they burned through the atmosphere. He pictured the geography of the world, doubting he had it right. Brookhaven was a lot like Earth, but it wasn’t identical.
“I was thinking,” Kevin said.
“Oh god,” Foster said. “Not again.”
Everyone waited to determine if this was a comment or a warning. Time passed quickly.
“I never learned much about Earth geography,” Kevin said.
“Why does that matter now?” Davis asked, his voice stern, his gaze across the narrow drop-ship interior.
Kevin shru
gged in his armor. “I was just thinking if I could see our descent, I wouldn’t have anything to compare…”
Klaxons buried his words. Lieutenant’s Oman’s voice followed. “The situation on Brookhaven has changed. This will be a hot LZ.”
Davis challenged him immediately. “This LZ was supposed to be hot.”
The pilot laughed without a lot of humor. “It is going to be really hot.”
A flash of movement entered the wall above Davis’s shoulder, streaked by Kevin’s ear, and plunged through the wall of the Thunderbolt, leaving a beam of morning light to dance with debris. Several more kinetic rounds struck in rapid, almost simultaneous succession, resonating with the sound of a big metal drum.
The last thing Kevin remembered before he blacked out was someone saying, “Bullet resistant, not bullet proof…”
Impact.
Pain.
Confusion.
Screams sounded like something from a distant nightmare. Kevin’s ears rang as though he’d be deaf for the rest of his life. The heads-up display in his helmet scrolled instructions too fast for his dazed brain to handle. He left the Thunderbolt and ran onto a world that tilted to one side. The heads-up display in his visor flashed and beeped warnings not to trust his senses, which he ignored.
Five strides later, he careened sideways and furrowed the ground with his left shoulder. The horizon bumped and jumped until he gave up and rolled onto his back to look at the sky, which spun like he was ten beers drunk.
Davis knelt by him and touched his shoulder. “Relax. Go with it. There are two dots in the center of your visor screen. You won’t be able to see them unless you look. Focus, breathe, and get your shit together. You took a couple of hard hits on your helmet…” He rapped his gauntlet knuckles on the top of Kevin’s helmet several times. “… right before we touched down.”
“Crashed, you mean!” Kevin’s voice warbled.
“Relax. Breathe. We made it. Oman is a good pilot, but he opts for a hard touch down when his Thunderbolt gets shot up.”
“Is he okay?” Kevin asked.
“Yep. The drop-ship and some wounded have converted to ground travel and are moving to the secure zone with the engineers and support units. I need you to get up; you’re a fire-team leader now.”
