Rebels in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  “Oh, that makes me feel all warm and tingly,” sang Halitov. “Tomorrow I wake up, and my bones are cracking and my hair’s falling out and I can’t even remember that I had a sex drive, which, by that time, won’t be driving me anywhere, anymore.”

  “Shut up,” I told him, then gestured that Breckinridge go on.

  “We have learned that as the aging progresses, there’s a long-term memory imbalance that interferes with the short-term. You can’t remember if you shut off the vid, and you can’t stop reciting some obscure data cerebroed into the deepest parts of your mind.”

  “I’ve seen that effect,” I said, recalling an old woman from the Minsalo Caves, a recently young old woman who had become a misfiring human computer, confused and ultimately suicidal.

  “Finally, I do have some good news,” Breckinridge said, brightening slightly.

  Halitov rolled his eyes. “This I have to hear.”

  “I know where you’re headed.”

  I raised my brows. “Really?”

  Within an hour of our conversation with Breckinridge we were tawting out seventy-five light-years from Earth to the moon Exeter. Halitov and I had met there at South Point Academy, but our training to become officers had been interrupted by the war. I never thought I’d return to the place where my career had begun, but I later learned that Halitov and I were shipped there because our friend Mary Brooks, chief of the Colonial Security Council, had orchestrated our transfer to the Exeter Campaign: #345EX7-B. We would, she hoped, take back control of the academy and the damaged conditioning facility from Alliance occupation troops. She also knew we would satisfy our curiosity regarding our friends Paul Beauregard and Dina Anne Forrest. During a black Op, Dina had been killed, and in love with her, Paul had gone AWOL to take her to the Minsalo Caves on Exeter, where he thought she might be revived because a strange healing process occurred there, one I had experienced firsthand. The idea that a cave could raise the dead seemed ludicrous, but there were alien artifacts within those caverns, and history is woven with stories of places that heal the body and the soul.

  Thus, Paul Beauregard, son of the famous Colonel Beauregard, head of the Colonial Wardens, thought he could save the woman he loved, and the last we had heard, Alliance Marines had found his ship but not him or Dina. More than ever, I hoped that he had succeeded, and I already burned to abandon my mission and head out to the caves to find out for myself. My own heart ached for Dina, though somewhere deep inside I had already begun to accept her death.

  We reached the Jovian-like gas giant of 70 Virginis b, and Halitov and I took in the view through a narrow porthole.

  “Weird coming back, huh?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You think Beauregard really got her into the caves?”

  “Who knows.”

  He nudged my shoulder. “Hey, that was some smooth negotiating with Breckinridge. I really liked the part where you brought up her disabled brother. Real smooth.”

  I gave him a dirty look. “She’s scum.”

  “No, she’s hot.”

  “If you had a disabled brother, wouldn’t you want to be there for him, care for him? Would you leave him to rot away with strangers?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Well, I do.”

  We stayed there for a few minutes, neither saying a word until the order to drop came in.

  The insertion went off well, with the loss of only one troop ship. Within an hour we stood outside my command tent, watching artillery fire stitch across the night sky above the academy. Relentless enemy gunners played connect the dots with the constellations, or so it appeared.

  In the valley below, our three platoons stealthily advanced toward the admin building, that great assemblage of isosceles triangles glowing in the tracer light and framed by the distant mesas.

  “I don’t get it. We blanketed this place with EMP bombs,” said Halitov.

  “Which knocked out all localized weaponry and electronics,” I said. “They’ve obviously resupplied. Pulse wave’s a singular event. Doesn’t affect new weapons brought into the area.”

  “Then I want to know how they rearmed themselves so quickly…”

  “They must be making drops on the other side of the moon, maybe out where Beauregard took us when we stole that shuttle the last time we were here.”

  “Then how come our eyes in the sky haven’t picked up those crab carriers making drops?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I say they got a cache already here, maybe underground. Maybe out in the Minsalo Caves.”

  “Maybe—”

  A tremendous boom just meters away cut off my thought. From the corner of my eye, I saw that my command tent had exploded in an upheaval of sparks and sharp-edged debris.

  “Son of a bitch!” cried Halitov.

  Even as the shrapnel rained down, he and I dropped to our bellies, reached for our wrists, and tapped buttons on our tacs, activating our combat skins. The phosphorescent membranes of energy enveloped us, and the Heads Up Viewers rippled to life, superimposing themselves at an arm’s length from our faces and giving us reports of our own vital signs and skin status, as well as troop movements and a half dozen other options visible only to us. Once skinned, you could always tell when someone else’s life force was drained just by examining how brightly they glowed in the standard green night-vision setting.

  As usual Halitov wasn’t glowing very brightly, not because his life force was drained but because the mere act of skinning always triggered his claustrophobia, and that fear, born of a childhood trauma in which he had been locked in a box for days by neighborhood bullies, took a heavy toll.

  “Rooslin! You’re okay, man! You’re okay!” I shouted over our command frequency.

  His reply resonated in the combat skin shimmering over my ears. “Yeah, yeah, but look at Javelin’s platoon. He’s only got one squad holding back. Javelin? Report!”

  Before the second lieutenant could reply, I ordered my skin’s computer to bring up a digitized image of Mr. James Javelin and his people as they advanced toward the administration building. But the three squads in his platoon weren’t supposed to be advancing; they were supposed to remain on the perimeter and sweep for snipers or take out any bunkers containing artillery troops who might aim their big guns at mobile command bases—like my own—set up in the foothills. All right, Javelin had left one squad back, but those raw recruits were pinned down by fire from not only the administration building, but also from a rear attack by Alliance Marines positioned on the barracks’ rooftops. I watched one recruit get his head blown off, followed by a second, who aimed his QQ90 particle rifle at some distant muzzle flash that became all too bright as he took a scintillating, accelerated round to the right eye. His head whipped back, and down he went—a man whose life I was responsible for, a man who had died because I had failed to recognize that one of my platoon leaders was not obeying orders, dammit.

  The second lieutenant’s tinny voice finally broke over the channel. “The Fourteenth and the Fifteenth have breached the admin building, Captain.”

  “All three of your squads were supposed to fall back,” screamed Halitov.

  “In theory, yeah, Captain. But you ain’t down here looking at this defensive fire. The Fifty-first Platoon needed our help making the breach. And I didn’t have no time to call back and wait for your okay. I gave it to them. If you got a problem with that, you come down and have a look for yourself—sir.”

  Halitov’s reply came heated and fast over my private channel. “I’m payin’ that motherfucker a visit.”

  “Wait—”

  He charged off, his combat skin swarming with dark blotches as he switched the setting to camouflage. I watched him wind a tortuous path down the foothills for a few seconds, then vanish.

  I lay there on my gut, monitoring the blips in my HUV, each representing one of my combatants. I zoomed in our now-popular second lieutenant, saw an image of him piped down from one of our satellites. H
e crouched behind a stone knee wall abutting one of the walkways. “Javelin? Copy?” I called.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The XO’s on his way. Before he gets there, I want you to pull your people out of admin and resume your supporting positions.”

  “I do that, sir, and we’ll lose the Fifty-first.”

  “You don’t know that. Pull your people out. That’s a direct order.”

  “Communication terminated,” said my onboard computer.

  The bastard had cut the link.

  My job as company commander, though sometimes complex, was pretty damned simple at the moment: monitor the actions of my three platoons to ensure that our objective of seizing the administration building was achieved. I was supposed to direct troops as needed and react accordingly to the defenses we encountered. I was not supposed to go down there and fight myself—

  Which is exactly what I did.

  As I charged down the hill, switching my skin to camouflage and feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline, one memory flashed repeatedly, as though locked inside a shard of tumbling glass. I saw my old instructor, Major Yokito Yakata, standing in our classroom and telling us about our newly conditioned bodies: “Other forces of nature—the strong and weak nuclear forces, gravity, electromagnetism—we’re all of these, and we’re only beginning to discover the potential power here. One day, we’ll abandon our TAWT drives and will ourselves across the galaxy.”

  Willing myself to another location was something I had tried successfully already, but only for short distances, and the feat had left me weak and dazed. I had no desire to appear instantly at Javelin’s side but be so spent by the journey that I could not effectively reprimand him.

  Consequently, I was a ripe target as I raced across the open field between the foothills and the admin building, reaching out into the quantum bond, believing I could accelerate my pace. But, as had frequently happened in the past, I didn’t feel a damned thing.

  A large formation of boulders adorned with plaques commemorating some of South Point’s most prestigious graduates stood about twenty meters ahead—my only cover.

  With particle fire digging ragged trenches within a meter or two of my path, I made the “difficult” decision to get the hell out of there. Even as I hauled ass, my computer issued the warning: “Particle fire locked on.” In my HUV, a representation of my body appeared in a data bar, my skin glowing red in a region near my shoulder. I cocked my head, and yes, a stream of fire split the air, coming right at me. If that Marine held his bead for a little longer, it would eventually wear down and penetrate my skin.

  “Come on, you son of a bitch,” I muttered to myself, then leapt forward, reached out, found the bond between me, the air, the ground, and the boulders ahead.

  Gozt is the bullet thrust, one of the quitunutul fighting arts that, in low G, turns you into a deadly projectile. At that moment, though, I was more interested in presenting the smallest possible target to the Marine behind me, and with me in the gozt, all he looked at was a pair of boots dematerializing into the night.

  I reached the boulders, then broke forward out of the move, letting myself tumble once before landing hard, way too hard, on my feet. I staggered as the impact reverberated up my legs. Sensing the bond as a viscous gel I could mold, I prepared to dart from my cover, toward a pair of rear doors set within an alcove where I knew Javelin had positioned himself. More particle fire began chewing into the boulders, blasting away slabs of stone that sent me scurrying sideways, toward a deeper crevice near my knees.

  The Marine who had first targeted me was now closing the gap. Knowing he had me pinned down, he would leap over the boulder and rack up his point-blank kill at any second.

  I had to move. Looked to the rear doors. Saw a gauntlet of fire crisscrossing the way. Then, behind me, the firing suddenly stopped. I edged around the boulder, stole a look across the field. Nothing.

  A pebble struck my shoulder. I looked up.

  The Marine issued a hysterical cry as he dropped down from the rock, his skin fluctuating between green, black, and ocher.

  My own particle rifle had been disintegrated in my tent, but I still had my blades, a pair of old-fashioned Ka-Bars kept in sheaths stitched onto my boots. I reached for them—

  But he was on me, knocking me back with his boot and jabbing the muzzle of his particle rifle into my neck. Our skins crackled with reflected energy, though he had his setting low enough so that he wouldn’t rebound violently.

  Particle fire belched from his weapon, and a harsh, white light suddenly grew from the skin protecting my neck.

  I caught a glimpse of the Marine’s face. He was a kid like me, maybe eighteen, nineteen, so scared that he had whipped himself into a frenzy to get the job done. He wanted no guilt, no fear; he was merely neutralizing an enemy troop. Nothing personal.

  His boot pressed harder. I reached up, tried to grab his leg, but all that reflected fire kicked my hands back. I probed for the bond. Gone again.

  And that’s when the fear, the real, unadulterated fear that wrenches you from a nightmare and keeps you up into the wee hours staring at the shadows, pinned me more effectively than the Marine ever could. I just lay there, watching the Reaper wave.

  2

  Over twenty years have passed since the night I was lying behind that boulder. I remember that moment as though it had happened only seconds ago. In fact, I can remember each and every soldier who has tried to take my life and every one whose life I have taken. This is the curse of having a memory so keen, so enhanced by alien technology that it is impossible to forget. And I wish I could forget how someone, I’m not sure who, perhaps myself, shouted in my ear, “Get up!” Those words, that feeling of urgency, penetrated the fear. I rolled out of that Marine’s bead. He continued tracking me with his fire.

  I shivered with relief as the bond returned, shy though it had been, and the Marine’s water-slow movements confirmed that. As I came out of the roll, I reached up, seized the barrel of his rifle, and hauled myself up with it, despite his firing.

  Shards of rock torn free by his rounds tumbled around us. Artillery continued booming overhead, along with the smaller arms fire slicing up the field around us, and it was difficult to hear him scream as I ripped the rifle out of his grip, then reached for his wrist, locking my grip around his tac. With fingers strengthened by the bond, I tore off the tac, taking his hand with it. His combat skin trickled away, dissolving down to his ankles as he clutched his ragged stump, his mouth working to form something that wouldn’t come out. He spotted his severed appendage lying on the ground. “My hand,” he finally cried. “My hand.”

  I had about three or four breaths to make a decision. I could kill him or just let him go. He seemed too shocked to pose a threat. I thought back to the last time I had been to Exeter and been faced with an identical situation. My decision then? The wrong one.

  “It’s okay,” I told the Marine. “Just be quiet. It’s okay.” I shifted up to him, slid my arm around his back as I lifted my leg, fishing out my Ka-Bar. “It won’t hurt anymore.”

  For a second, he looked down, saw my Ka-Bar coming toward his gray-and-azure utilities, and said, “Tell my mom I’m sorry…”

  Before he finished, I buried the knife in his heart. He looked at me, eyes going vague as he slumped in my arms. I let him fall, shuddered, withdrew my knife. Stood there. Swallowed.

  I had just robbed a mother of her son. I hated myself as the tug and pull of war made me shudder once more. I hated myself, but I refused to become a victim of my own guilt. Sergeant Judiah Pope, my old squad leader, had been killed by a Marine whom I had shown mercy. So I killed that Marine behind the boulder with extreme prejudice, and there are those who still hate me for this, call my actions brutal and unnecessary. They were brutal. Unnecessary? It was war.

  I took off and found Javelin, a husky kid with dark, curly hair and the face of an angry St. Bernard, along with his platoon sergeant, a lanky blond woman named Fanjeaux. They huddled in
the alcove, their gazes far away as they monitored images in their HUVs.

  “Lieutenant Javelin,” I barked as I scrambled into the alcove. Then it dawned on me. Only two of them were there. “Where’s Captain Halitov?”

  It took a moment for Javelin to pry himself from his screens. “Sir?”

  “Where’s Captain Halitov?”

  “Sir, I don’t know, sir. And with all due respect, I’m busy right now.” His gaze went distant. “Tao, Rumi, Jackson? Fall back to that second corridor. Now!”

  “Hey, Mandella, Rickover? What’re you doing?” asked Fanjeaux incredulously. “Move out!”

  I activated my HUV, ordered the computer to show me Halitov’s location.

  “Unable to locate Captain Halitov.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The computer repeated stoically, “Unable to locate Captain Halitov.”

  “Has his tac been removed?”

  “Unknown.”

  I opened the command channel. “Rooslin? Copy?”

  Particle fire drummed along the wall behind us.

  “Captain? We have to move,” cried Javelin.

  “Rooslin? Do you copy?”

  If he did, I couldn’t tell.

  A standard artillery shell whirred in, dropping no more than ten meters beside us, then exploded in a blue lightning storm whose bolts reached out, tore a gaping hole in the alloy wall, and sent shock waves rumbling through the ground as we dropped for cover.

  “Rooslin? Copy?” I repeated. “Rooslin?”

  Javelin clambered in front of me. “Sir! We’re locked. We have to move!”

  I swore, hustled my way to the wall, with Javelin and Fanjeaux falling in behind, particle rifles at the ready. We reached the southeast corner of the building, and I hazarded a glance around that corner. Clear.

  “I wouldn’t be here if you had followed orders,” I told Javelin, my voice low and steely. “I’d be up at my tent, which wouldn’t have been blown up. And now I can’t reach the XO.”