by B. V. Larson
“And the other reason?”
“I thought you deserved it. The rest of the troops will be getting the boiled-down version. This new intel—the star charts and the exact position of the squid worlds—that won’t be common knowledge. Some of these details are technically illegal, in fact. Any Nairb would designate maps of stars beyond our provincial borders as classified, need-to-know data. But I knew you would be interested, and hell, you and your friends helped give us much of it.”
I perked up at that. “The data-globe. The one Carlos and Kivi discovered in the squid tunnels back on Machine World. You got this intel from that find, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Another secret for you to keep locked inside that thick skull of yours.”
“It’s in the vault, sir.”
“Good. Dismissed, Veteran.”
I left Graves’ office with a lot to think about. I didn’t exactly feel better—but I didn’t feel worse, either. I figured I had to accept that my parents were permed. They’d never had themselves copied onto a data disk. That was only for military and government people.
Like most of humanity, my folks were privileged in that they would only have to die once for their species.
-5-
Over the next week, our first destination star grew bigger and brighter by the hour. Our course didn’t intersect it precisely—we had to deviate a few billion kilometers to reach the system itself. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a hit. The raiders could have made a course adjustment. They could’ve been careless, in a hurry, or purposefully deceptive. Whatever the case, the brass figured they couldn’t afford to skip this possible destination. If we slid on by, staying in our warp bubble, while they were hiding in this lonely system, we’d never find them again.
As far as I knew, following a ship that’s traveling in an Alcubierre drive warp-bubble had never been done before by Earthlings.
We were very new to space combat. Among the Core Systems where a civil war still raged to this day, I could only surmise that alien captains were old hands at techniques like this. But humans were comparative rubes out on the frontier. For us it was all new.
Knowing it was my commanders’ first time out didn’t make matters any easier for me. Second-guessing their decisions was driving me crazy. I wished I could hound them up on Gold Deck. I wanted to be there, watching every instrument, privy to every briefing. I burned to find these raiders. They had to die.
We came out of warp near the target star, already on high alert. For all we knew, the enemy had the capacity to trace us as we chased after them. There was some evidence to support this; they’d caught our freighter handily enough.
Fully armed and standing ready in the lifters for a hot-drop, my people were tense but professional. The troops in my squad watched me closely and followed my lead. None of them were smiling or carrying on like Harris’ people were. Instead, they were grim-faced just like I was.
The star was an M-class red dwarf. In our stellar neighborhood, about three quarters of the stars were red dwarves. It was the dimmest kind of star known that still burned.
There were planets around the target star, but they were cold rocks. Nothing to write home about. Still, if I were trying to set up a secret base, why not here? No one would care to do more than survey the place once and move on. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but it would be safe.
We scanned and cruised around like a prowling shark for just over thirty hours. The wait was intolerable for me. I didn’t sleep until the all-clear was sounded by the brass.
My squad mates smiled—until I hammered my fist in frustration on a bulkhead. They stopped smiling after that, and I left the module to take a walk. For them, the all-clear meant no fighting, no dying. For me, it meant no closure. No chance for revenge on Earth’s attackers.
I felt the ship lurch back into warp again. We’d wasted our precious time, and now there were only two stars left on our projected course. In my mind, our odds of catching the raiders—or even properly identifying them—had just dropped by one third.
My troops sensed a darkness in me, and most of them kept their distance over the following days. Even Della didn’t seem to know what to say to me. She wasn’t in my squad, but she was in the same platoon. She gave me sympathetic nods but no comforting touches. I could have used a few touches, but she’d never been the nurturing type.
Natasha was different. She seemed more concerned than ever about my well-being. Of the entire squad—whom I drilled for twelve hours out of every ship-board cycle of twenty-four—she alone kept trying to reach me on an emotional level. Unfortunately, she did this by scolding as often as not.
“James,” she said after we’d finished yet another obstacle run on Green Deck. “Don’t you think you’re working them too hard?”
“No.”
“But everyone in the squad is—”
“Listen,” I said, “I’m done with half-assing around during my training sessions. This squad has grown soft since we left Machine World. In my opinion, it started even before that—back when we began riding dragons instead of walking. Did you see how Centurion Belter’s crew could run up a mountain all day? In their full kit? That’s how we should look. We’re heavy infantry now, not saddled-up aristocrats with our butts high and dry inside a dragon.”
She nodded, pursing her lips. “You have a good point. We’re out of practice playing the part of infantry. But do you think Harris is a sloppy veteran?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“He’s not drilling his people to death, James. He’s doing no more than five hours of the physical stuff, and marksmanship for three more. That’s the norm, right?”
Despite my good feelings toward her, Natasha was now beginning to piss me off. After all, I outranked her—but this conflict ran deeper than rank. She’d always been something of a mother hen to me, and sometimes I think she still believed it was her job to play the part of my conscience.
“You’ve given me an idea,” I said. “Thanks, Specialist.”
“Um...my pleasure, Vet,” she said, her voice surprised and confused. I could tell she had no idea what I was planning.
I strode purposefully off Green Deck. I could feel her eyes on my back.
My first move was to okay the idea with Adjunct Leeson. He gave me a dirty chuckle when I described my proposal.
“That’s great, McGill!” he said. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Approved! Give ‘em hell!”
My plan was thus set into motion. I didn’t warn anyone about what was coming. Instead, just after lunch, I jogged my team up to Green Deck again. They groaned, but followed me gamely enough. They’d toughened up over the last few weeks.
Harris was there, as I knew he would be. He was using low-powered laser target rifles, having his troops nail moving targets. I marched up and stood behind him until he finished coaching a trooper on adjusting her sights.
“McGill?” he asked in surprise. “What do you want? We have this turf until 1400 hours. Get lost.”
“Can’t do that, Vet,” I said. “I’m here to issue a challenge.”
Frowning fiercely, Harris watched me remove a gauntlet and throw it on the ground at his feet. He put his hands on his hips instead of picking it up, however.
“What the hell…? Have you lost your mind, boy?”
“It’s approved, Vet,” I said. “Adjunct Leeson thinks it’s a great idea.”
“He would…” Harris broke off, and he couldn’t help but glance around himself. My squad, panting from their run, had come up behind me and stood with grim looks on their faces.
Harris’ own people had stopped shooting and were walking up to see what was going on. Everyone soon caught sight of the gauntlet on the ground, and they knew what that meant. Since ancient times, a challenge was a challenge. Harris couldn’t refuse to pick up the gauntlet unless he wanted to look like a coward.
He scooped up my gauntlet with an angry flourish and threw it into my chest. I caught it and slipped it
back on again.
“All right,” he said. “Have it your way, kid. As the challenged, I choose the ground and the rules. I choose the mud-pit—with knives, nothing else.”
I blinked. That hadn’t been part of my plan. I’d envisioned a straight-up shooting contest. Most Varus full-contact exercises went that way. We were accustomed to stalking one another in the rugged greenery, playing capture the flag or last-man-standing. Usually, scores were kept with automated equipment that incapacitated “dead” soldiers. But this time, it was going to be for real.
“Knives?” I asked. Part of me began to question the wisdom of my challenge—but it was too late for regrets now.
“You chicken?” Harris demanded angrily.
“Nope. We accept. When do we go?”
“How about right fucking now, farm-boy?”
That was it. Negotiations had been concluded. Both squads began to hoot and rip off their clothes. We walked in two loose knots toward the mud-pit, which was located in the swampiest corner of Green Deck.
The mud-pit was about forty meters across and one meter deep at the center. In the deep section in the middle of the pit, every step a man took threatened to suck off his shoes. The effort was quickly exhausting.
“Strip down to your shorts,” I ordered my squaddies. “No tops. Don’t give them anything to hold onto. And try to stay out of the center of the pit.”
My team shed their clothes and soon stood in camo shorts. They looked nervous, but game. I felt a surge of pride at that and also a pang of remorse. Not all of them would make it out of this alive. Their willingness to die at my orders gave me pause. Was my personal anger at the universe worthy of the pain and sacrifice they were about to experience?
As soon as these debilitating thoughts entered my head, I did my best to push them away. They wouldn’t help me now. We were committed. Honor had to be served, and the best thing I could do for my squad was lead them to victory.
Lining up on the shore, both squads stood with knives drawn. Some were snarling, some were staring with determined expressions.
Experienced Varus legionnaires aren’t like normal folk. We’re killers. Everyone present had died at least a dozen times, and we’d killed many times our weight in enemies.
There’s something different about a soldier who’s seen so much death, but you can’t understand the difference until you’ve see an experienced legionnaire face combat. Sure, we knew we’d catch a revive when this was over. But that didn’t mean shit to our bodies or our minds. A revive was a copy, nothing more. This flesh we stood in right now—that was going to be torn up and spit out. That’s what mattered to us, and we knew it was all too real. Our guts and our minds were churning.
Before we started, I noticed there were drones floating overhead. A few knots of officers and troops from other units had come out to watch in person as well. Word had traveled fast. We were about to put on a show, and I had the feeling the entire complement of Minotaur would be watching tonight.
Harris lifted his blade. It glittered, catching the gleam of a passing star that shone through the dome above. The heavens were displayed on that dome along with an added artificial sun that matched the one nearest to us in actual space. It was like standing in pale daylight—even though it was an illusion.
Harris held his blade higher, urging me to get started.
I looked over my troops. They were breathing hard and wearing grim expressions. Most of them were splashing mud over their bodies to provide less grip for our opponents. The women were bare-breasted, but nobody gave a damn about that now—we were about to fight to the death.
None of them needed encouragement or correction from me, so I turned back to face my enemy. That’s what Harris and his crew were now—the enemy.
My knife rose into the air, matching Harris’ blade and signaling we were ready. A roar left my throat, and I sprang into the mud, leading the charge. The opposing squad rushed to meet us, legs pumping up and down, brown muck flying high.
It was on.
-6-
Despite my orders to the rest of my squad, I moved to the middle of the mud. You see, I’m an extremely tall man. That meant that while the mud came to a short person’s waist, it only went to just above my knees, giving me a distinct advantage in mobility.
I honestly expected to see Harris rush into the center and meet me, but he didn’t. Instead, he sprinted around the rim where it was just deep enough to get his ankles sloppy. He went for my weakest fighters, the ones that were hanging back uncertainly.
Harris wanted to teach me a lesson—I realized that about ten seconds into the fight. He was a masterful warrior, but that didn’t mean he liked to die. He’d deliberately chosen a grim scenario, one sure to result in horrible moments. He’d also chosen a setup that would play to his own personal strengths. He liked knives and hand-to-hand combat because he was deadly in close.
Harris met Gorman near the edge of the circular pool of mud, and Gorman went down after three cuts. Harris moved away with a bloody line across his chest but nothing more. Gorman was flopping and shivering in mud at his feet, trying to make it to the edge of the pit. If he could climb out under his own power—well, he might live. Harris danced past him and moved on to the next closest opponent, Kivi. She gave him a harder time, but he put her down pretty fast too. Crippled and making a lot of noise, she crawled for the edge holding in her guts with one hand.
In the middle of the pit, I had my own problems. Seeing me isolated, three of Harris’ fighters rushed as a team to meet me. I stood my ground, ready.
Fighting with knives is different than fighting with swords or clubs, especially when you’re stuck in mud. Reach is a critical factor. Although the three men who came at me tried to time it so they hit me at the same moment, one of them slipped and fell behind his two charging comrades. The other two—well, they didn’t have the reach I did, and they couldn’t move their mired feet as fast, either.
With my arm outstretched to its maximum length, I planted my knife in the neck of the leader. His eyes bulged, and he tried to get to me, even though he was dead on his feet. I applauded the effort, but retreated and let him die face down with bubbles farting up around his grimy head.
The second man came in before I could retreat and managed to score. He got a shot into my ribs—but there’s a reason why we have ribs, they’re built to deflect weapons and teeth from our inner organs. I was hurt, but the thrust hadn’t punched deep.
He had his arms wrapped around me, and we did the bear hug thing, struggling to keep on our feet and roaring.
In return for the blade in my side, I brought mine down two-handed, driving it into the shorter man’s skull. His eyes rolled up, and he slipped away bonelessly into the muck.
The third man, the one who’d slipped while charging with his two fellows, couldn’t help but notice I’d nailed both his wingmen and was still standing tall. He turned and slogged away as quickly as he could. I didn’t blame him.
Instead of following the runner, I moved to meet Harris at the edge of the pit, where he was now sparring with Carlos. Whatever else Carlos might be, he’s not a slouch when it comes to a hard fight. The two of them were in a clinch, each holding onto the other’s knife hand and straining.
Carlos couldn’t hope to win the struggle. Harris was bound to overpower him in the end, despite the fact he was bleeding now from a few wounds of his own.
What Carlos needed was a quick rescue, and I came up on the two of them from behind, planning on an easy kill.
Harris didn’t give it to me. He got his foot hooked behind Carlos’ ankle and sent him down on his back. A quick stoop, thrust, and Carlos was out.
I tried to slosh my way up to Harris before he could turn back around, but he must have heard me coming. He spun around and grinned with blood in his mouth.
“Why are we always meeting up like this, McGill?”
“At least this time it was my idea,” I replied.
“See you in Hell, boy!” he sh
outed, and threw his knife at me.
It was a surprise move and expertly executed. The blade flipped once and drove right toward my chest. Our knives are sharper than simple steel, and I knew that if that point hit dead-on with that much force, I was going to be taken down.
Twisting with all the speed I had left in me, I took it in the shoulder. My right arm was numb after that, but I managed to grip my knife in my left.
Advancing, it was my turn to grin. Harris had disarmed himself.
But Harris didn’t miss a beat. He stooped and grabbed Carlos’ knife out of his dead hand. How had he managed to find it in an instant under a foot of mud? I don’t know, but I’d always thought Harris was a man who could fight like the devil himself.
Around us, the wild roars and screams of battle had died down. Many of the combatants on both sides were dead or too injured to continue. Most of the survivors were busy dragging themselves out of the mud-pit. Only a few were still in the game.
Harris and I slashed and circled, shuffling awkwardly in the mud. I kept backing up, drawing him toward the deep section, which had been my original plan. To some degree, it worked. He snarled and fought to take me down quickly with lunges and thrusts, but I stayed in the fight.
My right arm hung, almost useless. My left was bleeding too, having picked up a slash somewhere along the line.
“You’re the one who will bleed out this time,” Harris said, grinning at me.
He was right, but I didn’t bother to reply. The last time we’d fought with knives, he’d had the upper hand, but he’d lost too much blood and passed out. This time, it looked like I would suffer the same fate.
But I had a plan, of sorts. I kept retreating, drawing him into the deepest mud. He followed with a greedy light in his eye. He wanted to see me fall.
When I figured it couldn’t get any deeper, I made my play. I reversed myself and came on hard, making wide, sweeping slashes. My arms are longer than an ape’s, according to every schoolmate I’d ever scuffled with, and those slashes were hard to avoid.
