by K S Augustin
Lith. Cheloi knew that she and Rumis had been on a tour of the hospitals earlier that morning. She turned and waited as her aide approached.
“Colonel.” Lith saluted and snapped her feet together, sending small clouds of dust into the late morning air.
“Lieutenant.”
“We’ve just come back from delivering the minor citations, as ordered.”
Cheloi turned and continued walking. Lith stepped into rhythm beside her.
“And what did you think?”
“Colonel?”
“About the facilities. About the wounded.”
She imagined that she felt, rather than heard, Lith swallow.
“It was, not pleasant,” she said, her voice husky.
“Did you notice the smell?” Cheloi asked.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lith shoot her a shocked glance, before subsiding.
“Y-yes. Almost immediately.”
“I think that’s what surprises everyone the most. That smell of infection and decay.”
She, who had been on countless planetside missions, could still be startled by it. She could only wonder about the Perlim reactions.
“Our battles have usually been space-based,” she explained, the dry ground crunching under her feet. “Vacuum, temperatures near absolute zero, massive explosions. Fatalities are high and most survivors end up with auto-cauterised wounds. The corpses, what’s left of them, are conveniently frozen by the absolute coldness of space.
“Menon IV, on the other hand,” she said, looking around, “is a hot planet, ripe for the incubation of millions of microbes. Soldiers dodge death when they’re injured, then have to dodge it again while being treated. Fatalities are lower, but we end up sending back thousands of permanently scarred soldiers to their families. In the meantime, they wait here, festering and sweating in primitive facilities, wondering if they managed to survive an artillery barrage only to die from an unchecked infection. The smell of contagion and desperation,” she said, “is…soul sapping. ”
She didn’t need to add that the more expensive options of advanced treatments and integrated AI-prosthetics were only available to senior ranked personnel. Certainly not to the average soldier or junior officer caught by the jagged skewers of combat. Those unfortunates had to make do with whatever meagre help was offered to them.
“You feel sorry for them!”
Cheloi looked at Lith, startled by the surprise in her voice. “Of course I feel sorry for them. I regret the loss of potential of every Perlim soldier.”
But that didn’t seem to be enough. Her aide searched her eyes with an intensity that was disturbing. Cheloi felt as though Lith was trying to peer into her soul.
“Lieutenant,” she frowned, trying to discourage the examination. It didn’t seem to be working. Questing eyes looked deep and Cheloi felt herself being stripped bare. A stroke of pain pierced her chest. “Lith,” she entreated softly.
That did the trick. Lith stepped back, embarrassment on her face.
“I’m sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s quite all right,” Cheloi interrupted. “Touring the facilities can leave anybody a bit, disconcerted.”
The silence lengthened between them before Lith cleared her throat. “I, er, originally approached you to let you know I was back from the hospital tour. And to ask if there are any duties you have for me this afternoon.”
Duties. Of course.
“You’ll find a series of instructions on my desk that need to be sent to the sector commanders. And, ah, a bottle of something to be taken to Senior Colonel Chinwoh of Territory Seventeen. I’m aware I could send it via the normal service, but I’d appreciate a more personal touch.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“I think that should keep you occupied for the rest of the day.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Lith turned to leave but an impulse had Cheloi calling to her. “Lieutenant?”
She ran her gaze down Lith’s face as she turned, noting how the sun lightened her hair and turned the colour of her eyes to liquid gold. Talk of the medical facilities made Cheloi’s mind run riot. She imagined Lith lying mangled and bleeding somewhere. Vivid images from Sab-Iqur superimposed themselves over the lithe figure of her driver.
“Territory Seventeen contains some rough terrain. Please make sure you come back in one piece.”
She tried to make her voice sound flippant. She even smiled, but feared the gravity in her eyes overrode attempts at levity. Lith, too, seemed to pick up on the unspoken plea below the joke.
“Of course,” she replied. After a small hesitation, she turned and strode to the nearest aboveground exit.
Cheloi watched her as she walked away, noting the gentle sway of her hips and the suppressed energy of her gait. Why had she inured herself to the pull of desire for years only to have it tug hard at her groin now? Now, when she was immersed within the most inconvenient intersection of space and time in the known galaxy? Cheloi continued her constitutional but her serene contemplative mood was gone. Shot to pieces by a pair of probing eyes and a light soothing voice.
She looked down at the tremors that suddenly began shaking her fingers and clenched her hand into a fist. The sun was bright and hot and she welcomed its warmth. That was a good start. She was on Menon IV to do a job. Once she did her job, she could go home, although that too was a puzzle. Stay on Tatrex or….
She pulled her focus back to the here and now. She promised Rumis she would petition Central Control for more updated medical facilities and, if she was quick, she could get her suggestion included with the afternoon despatches.
Happy that she had kept her demons once more at bay, Cheloi disappeared into the cool of the command complex.
Chapter Five
Day 1,504 of the War:
They had been separated into random groups for the semi-annual training exercise.
Cheloi checked the charge on her stun-rifle and took a careful look around. Most of her senior officers were on active duty throughout the Nineteen and would have to sign up for a later simulation, but that still left a group of six to slog through the current one.
It was mid-morning and the Nineteen was two territories away to her north. She had been quiet on the way down, mulling over Copan’s words from their last session, and trying to appear aloof rather than ill at ease. She was only a little surprised to see that Yinalña was as competent as Koul had intimated, guiding them smoothly by articulated-wheeler, then medium-speed skimmer, to the designated rendezvous point. Thankfully, with other people in the vehicle, it narrowed the options of her making a total fool of herself, but she couldn’t help the glances she sent to the front.
They disembarked in one of the safest spots on the planet, almost in the centre of Territory Five. The training centre was on the eastern outskirts of the small Menon city of Bul-Guymem. The city had been captured at the very beginning of the planetary campaign and the Empire had subsequently turned it into a continental relaxation hub and exercise range.
Once they disembarked at the entry point, the group was efficiently shepherded to their destination. The administrative lieutenant at the training site referred to his flimsy, reading out the group breakdowns. This time, Koul was going to be partnered with Yinalña, Rumis with Wakor and she with Colonel Prola from Red sector.
The last time they’d run the Bul-Guymem course, Koul had “killed” her and Cheloi was aching for revenge. She watched him now, his head bent as he inspected his own equipment. The sun burnished his hair to a sharp ivory. She was not above taking him out of the equation before the exercise began. Was there some way she could sabotage his rifle before they even got started? Or his sensor harness? Could she persuade Yinalña to do something? She flicked her eyes to her driver and was startled to find herself the recipient of a sharp-eyed gaze.
The younger woman looked away but it wasn’t quick enough. There was more there than the usual anxiety, Cheloi was sure of it. Nervousness y
es but also a flash of steely determination, as if she had come to some kind of hard decision. What could have put such an alien expression on her aide’s face?
“We’ve changed the layout since the last time you were here,” the junior officer told them, cutting in on her thoughts, “but the goal remains the same. A minimum of two kills and capture of the white pennant means you win. All pressor fields will be dropped and harnesses initialised one second before the signal to begin. Good luck.”
Cheloi didn’t even try to look through the heavy waver of the forcefield that kept the group from the rest of the simulation exercise. Because most of the Perlim campaign had now devolved to fighting in built-up areas, she knew the exercise would mirror this. Besides, it was impossible to squint through the violent shimmer of the pressors and make out anything useful.
Prola inched closer to her as she approached the massive simulation dome and its sole entrance. She acknowledged him with a curt nod of her head. He was tall, with a square dour face and a slight hunch to his posture. He had been one of Samnett’s promotions, which made his abilities a little suspect but, so far, he had performed his duties adequately. Usefully, he also had some field experience and got on well with Vanqill. All three meant that Cheloi kept him in his position and he was transparently grateful for her largesse. Perlim commanders were notorious for playing favourites and throwing their weaker rivals and potentially disloyal subordinates to the wolves. Historically, that used to literally happen in the empire’s military-run game pits. As centuries passed, the custom became more refined, but no less deadly.
Cheloi gave him a small tight smile of impatience. All they could do now was wait for the lieutenant’s signal. Her weapon was still inactive. She tried to trigger the rifle surreptitiously, hoping someone had overlooked all the safety lockdowns, but it remained stubbornly dead. She would have to defeat Koul during the exercise rather than before.
Pity.
Only a small beep signalled that her harness was activated. The group of six surged forward through the dome’s portal, the pressor slamming back into place the moment the last of them entered. And night fell. A total night, not even relieved by the storm flashes that usually lit up the dark Menon sky. The Empire was obviously ramping up its training scenarios.
Cheloi got one truncated glimpse of a shattered town, upturned wheelers and broken multi-storied buildings before everything went pitch black. She activated her ‘scope, grabbed Prola by the arm and pointed.
“Go right,” she whispered. They scurried to a vehicle wreck on the side of a cratered road, pressing themselves against the twisted metal plates to avoid detection. Behind them, someone had already started firing.
The next time she spoke to Senior Colonel Fein Chinwoh of Territory Seventeen, she’d be giving him an earful. He had gone through his scheduled exercise two weeks before and had not mentioned the night-time scenario to her. The bastard probably had some money riding on the outcome.
As she crouched, breathing as silently as she could, Cheloi realised that her surroundings were not as pitch-black as she had first assumed. She could make out Prola’s outline. Around her, small sources of light weakly illuminated the occasional ruin dotting their course. This was good news because her ‘scope was playing up.
Prola shook his head, then tapped his own ‘scope’s small lens. He pointed his finger upwards under his chin, indicating problems. So, two ‘scopes were out of action. What were the chances?
She deactivated the night-vision and signalled Prola to do the same.
“We depend on the ‘scopes and we’re dead,” she whispered.
He nodded agreement.
“Let’s separate and head to that tall building.” She pointed to a broken tower a hundred metres away to their north, its frame silhouetted by the faint light. “I’ll meet you on the third level.”
Prola headed left, away from her, and she heard him trip over something.
Poor Perlim officers. They were too used to space-faring strike vehicles and voice-activated machinery, smooth floors and sterilised air. She veered right, tucking her rifle behind her back and felt her way forward with cautious hands and feet. For the moment, avoiding detection by the other teams was her first priority. She heard a shout and the sizzle of a stun-round far over to her left but stayed focused, gingerly twisting her boots to follow the ground’s uneven contours as she navigated through broken mortar and cement.
If she believed in an afterlife, Cheloi imagined the hell of sinners to look like the terrain she was creeping through. Religious people might want to scare non-believers and their own disciples with images of acid eating through muscle, extreme heat or cold burning flesh, creatures of nightmare consuming beings alive but, to her, nothing captured the futility of one’s existence, the utter hopelessness of any possible action, better than an eternal bomb-cratered landscape such as the one she was traversing.
Reaching the tower, she climbed the exposed emergency staircase of the designated rendezvous point, stepping softly so she didn’t disturb the crunchy dust beneath her feet any more than absolutely necessary.
She was the first to reach the third level and waited for Prola to join her. Away to the north, like the prize at the end of a maze, one bright light illuminated a stiff pennant, sending a beacon of white into the darkness. She crouched down against a crumbling wall and checked her stun-rifle again for charge.
When Prola arrived seven minutes later, he did so in a cacophony of slithers and crunches that made her wince. She signalled him to lie on his chest and they both peered over the bare concrete edge. They could see nothing for a few moments, then a glint caught Cheloi’s eye.
“There,” she whispered. Down at ground level, some scraps of light were reflecting off the rims of two night-scopes.
“Who are they?” Prola asked. “Koul?”
“Don’t know. Maybe Wakor.”
The two night-scopes remained frozen in position. Cheloi frowned. As if they weren’t being worn, but were only placed there as bait.
“I think we should—”
They caught the nimbus of a stun-rifle’s blast as it splintered the pillar next to them, sending shards of stone flying in every direction. Cheloi bit back an expletive as she hunched upwards and kicked with her feet, launching herself backwards. Prola ducked his head, covering it with his hands as another blast hit the floor a few centimetres away from him.
“Prola!” she called, all pretence at concealment gone. “Fall back. Now!”
To his credit he tried, but it was too late. The third shot caught him square in the chest as he started to rise, locking his harness and limbs, and sending him crashing to the floor.
Cheloi didn’t hesitate. She turned and ran, jumping down the flights of stairs as quickly as she could, and not resting until she had found a large heap of rubble on the ground floor to hide behind. Leaping over the broken pieces of masonry, she hunkered down and steadied her breathing.
Prola, of course, was still alive although, for the purposes of the exercise, he was now registered as a fatality. His harness had locked every movement of his body, a condition designed to stop him interfering any further in the simulation. Cheloi knew that a pick-up crew would be despatched to collect him but, in the meantime, she had to keep quiet and concealed lest she become the second casualty of the team.
She breathed in and out through her mouth carefully. Nothing moved for several minutes and she was just about to raise her head above the pile of rubble when she heard a single, soft crack. Her rifle was not in a good position. She was holding the barrel with one hand in anticipation of standing up and there was nothing else she could do but freeze. She locked her limbs, hoping that whichever party was scouring the building wouldn’t find her. The muscles of her legs started to burn, but she held her position.
She heard a slither, this time from contact on the concrete dust that liberally sprinkled the stairs. They must think she was still above them. What she could have done with a working night-scope right
now. Or even a tight-repeat stun-rifle. The thought of straightening and spraying the area with fire was tempting, but the weapon she held was tuned deliberately to be single-shot and slow cycling. No help there.
When Cheloi finally heard the definite tread of two sets of feet on the level above her, she scurried out of the building and melted into the shadow of a bombed-out, single-storey shed, then slowly began heading north.
It was probably Rumis and Wakor who had spotted them on their perch. Koul was the sort of man who went directly for the target. He was single-minded that way. And, as loyal as Rumis was, Cheloi knew she couldn’t count on it during their exercise. He was predictable like that too. It was a shame they were with the Perlim. Given the right circumstances, she could easily imagine herself fighting next to Koul instead of against him.
But that was fantasy. Right now, Koul was most probably heading straight for the white pennant and, if she wanted to nail his pale hide, she should too.
She continued angling north, relying on her memory of the terrain from her previously elevated position. Once she got rid of Koul, she’d lie in wait for Wakor and Rumis.
Almost half an hour later, she approached the final obstacle between her and the white pennant. A maze. It brought all the elements of urban guerilla fighting into one compact space—the lack of clean lines of fire, the sudden possibility of hand-to-hand fighting, the disorientation.
Nimbly, she climbed one of the outer walls until she was on top of it. The tower of light at the centre of the maze provided enough illumination for her to see into quite a few of the labyrinth’s pockets. She started stepping slowly and lightly along the narrow ridge, looking for Koul. Something nagged at her mind, but she put it to one side. Nothing was as important right now as finding her second-in-command.
Ah! There he was, peering cautiously around a corner, facing away from her.
Cheloi grinned as she lifted the rifle. He was going to be completely surprised by what was about to happen. Leisurely, she lined up the rifle’s scope and let out a breath, waiting for him to pull back and present a larger target area.
