by Damon Alan
The tank had holographic displays in the cupola that gave Gilbert a full three hundred sixty degree view of the terrain, as if he were out in the open. Despite appearances from inside, he was protected by forty centimeters of high density ceramic armor.
I miss my days as a ground soldier. War in space is too impersonal.
Gilbert directed his attention to the tactical situation around him. The tanks moved slowly as a pair, keeping a half kilometer between them and the forward scout. Sergeant Farrell picked terrain the tanks could easily navigate.
Gilbert watched tirelessly over the next few days as the forested terrain passed by, and assessed the mission repeatedly as they traveled.
* * *
Static. “Road, six hundred meters ahead from your position. Thinning cover. Action on the road,” the radio speaker spit out. “The trail heads to the road. Numerous local targets, they look like migrants or something. Several wagons, one with a broken wheel. It looks like they met up with some soldiers. Instead of helping, the soldiers look like they're shaking down the civilians for cash or goods. They're beating the hell out of some guy.”
“I need a visual, Farrell,” Gilbert radioed.
“Getting closer for a better angle. Stand by.”
“Farrell needs a cool name, like Lancepoint, or something,” the driver called back to Hamden.
“Shut up,” Corporal Hamden jabbed. “We're the only ones with radios, who are we going to impress? Ourselves?”
Gilbert peered closer at his display. “Quiet. I'm getting visual.”
Farrell's forward scout package sent in telemetry and visual information for the targeting computer. The holographic displays in the cupola integrated the data from the scout package, allowing Gilbert to erase the foliage in between him and the targets. A clear visual emerged on the screen, the land sloped gently downhill from the tanks to the road.
“Eleven soldiers, approximately twenty civilian contacts, Commander,” the radio cracked.
“This system is a radio nightmare,” Gilbert grumbled, then keyed his mic. “Roger, Farrell, designate soldiers red.”
Farrell directed his scout package to mark the soldiers with red shading; the computer tracked them as they moved.
Gilbert made the decision to engage. His tanks needed the road, and he didn’t know if an adept was in the soldier mix. He keyed up, “Satier, we are about to fire a fléchette burst. You are to hold fire. Acknowledge hold fire order.”
Satier's voice popped on radio. “Acknowledge hold fire, sir. We're watching it all. Knock 'em down, Commander.”
Hamden peered at Gilbert from his gunnery station. “Sir, targets one through eleven designated, eleven fléchettes loaded. Heads, sir?”
“Heads. Fire when ready.”
“Firing.”
Eleven small steel fléchettes shot from the smaller of two turret mounted railguns. The missiles extended fins that guided them around trees and other obstacles until they reached their targets. A loud BRAAAPP sounded as the missiles left the rail gun at supersonic speeds. On the road, the soldiers were still beating the man who lay on the ground. The sound of the tanks firing traveled slower than the fléchettes, the soldiers never heard the reaper strike. Eleven heads exploded like fruit thrown against a wall. Bodies dropped to the ground, lifeless.
Blood spattered civilians, shocked by the magical deaths of their oppressors, stood in unmoving silence.
“Twelfth target,” the radio said. “Marked.”
The computer displayed a single soldier running for the trees, toward Farrell. The soldier was routed, in a panic, searching for escape.
That can’t be an adept. They have to be more disciplined than that.
“Farrell, if you can handle him, he's yours,” Gilbert radioed. “I don't want to fire so close to your position.”
Static. “I have an idea, sir, I'd like to let this one go if he has any brains at all.”
“Don't get killed,” Gilbert responded.
As the local soldier raced toward Farrell, Farrell stepped from behind cover. The local collapsed to the ground in a rolling tumble, terrified by what must have looked like a supernatural horror to him. Farrell's exosuit, coupled with the cooling pack on his back and his scout electronics made him look completely inhuman. Large green optics covered Farrell's face, allowing him to see well in the lower light of Refuge as well as providing holographic data to his retinas. A bulbous helmet covered his head, and the exosuit carried a large machine gun on the right arm. Farrell let loose a burst of shots into the ground near the man. The ground erupted as dirt exploded into the air, at the same time fire erupted from the gun.
The soldier stood up, screamed a blood curdling cry of desperation, and raced in the opposite direction from Farrell.
Gilbert's tanks broke out in laughter. Gilbert keyed up, “Okay, Farrell, very funny.”
“Can I let him go, sir?” Farrell replied.
“Yes, let him go. He can live to spread the word to his friends about the Farrell monster.”
“Letting one scumbag go, sir.”
Gilbert peeked down from the cupola at the marines sitting toward the front of the tank. “Don't laugh too hard. The real threats are the adepts. There may have been one in this group, but we’ll never know because we’re not going to risk asking. If they can pull the Amalli from orbit, they can destroy this tank in a heartbeat. Or any of you thick skulled lunkheads if you're on foot. So don't get cocky. Stay alert.”
Gilbert keyed his mic. “Farrell, caution is still job one. Lead on. If the trail follows the road, I want to make sure the civvies see us too. They’ll tell everyone that ‘demons’ saved them. Let our legend grow.”
“The trail goes right to the road, sir, I'm right at the edge of cover with the civilians. Should I break cover again?”
Most of the civilians ran when Farrell stormed from the woods toward the soldier, but returned after the “beast” disappeared back into to the woods from which it came.
“No, we don't want to scare them any more than we need too. I'm hoping tanks aren't as scary as your getup, although that's not very likely. Hold position. I want them to get a good view of us.”
A burst of static erupted from the speaker. “Holding,” Farrell replied.
Two tanks rolled onto the road near the wagons, and most of the onlookers broke and ran again. Gilbert could hardly blame them. To the locals it must seem like angry gods killed the soldiers.
“Let them run,” Gilbert said. “It looks like a few brave souls are standing their ground.”
The tanks rolled to a stop fifty meters from the wagons. Gilbert opened the top hatch and climbed out on the deck of the tank. Three older people, too old to run away, stared at him, quaking. A fourth man, the man who was beaten by the soldiers, stood hunched over. His nose bled profusely, and he wasn't able to stand up upright. He was angry and glared at Gilbert.
The leader.
The wounded man had an empty scabbard at his side, which meant a knife was somewhere. The man was brave but unlikely a threat in his condition. Despite that, caution was in order. The four adults had a small child nestled between them.
“Farrell, don't fire unless it looks like they’re going to kill me,” Gilbert said into his mic. He was too close to the tanks for them to protect him from a small mob, he'd trust Farrell.
“Covering you,” buzzed in Gilbert’s ear.
Gilbert stepped down off the tank and approached the locals, a friendly smile on his face. He stopped three meters from them, his right hand on his holstered sidearm, his left hand extended palm open. An idea struck him.
Nothing speaks friend like a gift.
He slowly reached into his left leg cargo pocket and pulled out a single foil wrapped package. Removing his hand from his still holstered pistol, he cautiously opened it. He took a small bite of the contents, and said, “Mmmm.” He knelt down and extended it toward the child while looking right at her.
The adults didn't move, and they held the child
in place.
“I wouldn't trust me either,” Gilbert said in a passive tone. He laid the silvery packet on the ground, still smiling, and walked backward toward the tank several steps. “Em' Jully,” Gilbert said and pointed toward the gas giant hovering in the sky. Gilbert remembered Eislen thought the gas giant to be a god, he hoped it was a good god and the locals would appreciate the reference.
One of the two older women stepped forward cautiously, and picked up the foil pack. She tasted it, as Gilbert had done. Gilbert watched her eyes light up, then she looked at him and grinned a three toothed grin.
“Chocolate does it every time,” he said to her. He imagined the laughing that must be going on inside the tanks.
The old woman divided the chocolate among the four adults, barking at the wounded man when he spoke to her. Gilbert noticed the man deferred to her.
His mother. The real leader of this group.
The child said something angry. The adults ignored her.
Gilbert pointed to the child, who looked at the adults for a share.
The old lady gave the rest of her share to the kid. She then turned toward Gilbert. She smiled, hesitantly for a moment, but the smile broadened as she made a decision. She hobbled toward Gilbert, closing the distance between them rapidly for an old woman. Gilbert flinched, put his hand back on his sidearm in caution, but the woman enveloped him in a powerful hug. “I'm good, Farrell,” Gilbert said with what breath he was able to draw in. “Don't kill the old broad.” He put his left arm on her back to return the embrace.
Galaxies, these people are strong.
She let him go and started speaking to him in a flurry of excitement.
Gilbert recognized two words. Zhenghi as the woman pointed at the dead men, and Em' Jalai as the woman pointed between the gas giant and Gilbert. Gilbert nodded yes at that association, and the woman's smile somehow managed to get even bigger.
So maybe there was an adept here. Not anymore.
The other locals who ran away started to filter back, a few at a time. They seemed to regain some courage after watching the exchange from the cover of the forest on the far side of the road.
“I want two men from each tank,” Gilbert said into his mic. “Satier, not you. You'll need to finish the mission if this goes bad. But it's looking good. Each of you bring something tasty from your ration kits, and quit complaining. There's more on the ship. When you exit the tank, exit slowly. I don't want anyone spooked. Even this old lady is fucking strong.”
The men cautiously stepped from the tanks, passing out treats to the locals who returned from the trees. Everyone who tasted the food seemed convinced Gilbert's men must be agents of Em’ Jalai.
“This is crazy, Commander,” Hamden said.
“They think we're angels, or something. We killed the bad guys for them, and gave them heaven food. Local relations, Hamden. Shut up and pass out your dried blueberries.”
Hamden laughed. “Gladly sir.”
Gilbert tapped his mic. “Okay, the rest of you men and women can exit the tanks. We've made friends here. Farrell, sorry, you're on guard duty.”“
“Just my khhhhhhhck,” came the reply.
“The static is getting real bad. When we roll out, keep your machine close to mine,” Gilbert said to Satier. “We can't lose comm.”
“We'll be in tight, sir,” Satier replied.
A few hours later Gilbert's men drove away from the encounter with gifts of honey, a local alcoholic brew, and some dried meats. The locals were so exited they practically threw a party on the spot. The soldiers gave their entire day of rations away, and were flooded with gifts in return.
“That was a fair trade if I've ever seen one,” Hamden said as he chewed on jerky. “I wonder what this meat is?”
“I wouldn't ask,” Gilbert replied. “They seemed very cordial once they realized we were friendly. Patching up the leader didn't hurt our reputation either.”
“They had some pretty girls, too,” the driver tossed back toward the turret.
Hamden's face lit up. “Did you see their eyes? Oh wow... I've never seen blue like that.”
“I'm up for a bit of human relations work,” the driver quipped.
“I don't think we're on those kind of terms yet, private. Keep it zipped,” Gilbert said. He smiled as he watched the terrain ahead.
They'd lost a few hours in the chase after the downed crewmen. But they were days behind, and a few hours would likely make little difference. Gilbert was torn, what he'd done might have skirted Captain Dayson's orders, but the decision to save the civilians from the brutality of the soldiers seemed to be a natural choice. Not to mention he didn’t really know what an adept looked like. Every Alliance soldier was repeatedly drilled with the rights of civilians. Defending civilians being assaulted was second nature. Gilbert’s men were taught it was their paramount duty to protect, not exploit.
Farrell stayed a half kilometer ahead, leading the tanks along the road. Communication fluctuated in clarity, and Farrell would occasionally have to close with the tanks to establish stable radio contact.
Despite reaching the road and following the trail of the travois, travel didn't get any faster. The road was unpaved, soft terrain for the tanks, and limited their speed nearly as much as pushing through trees did. Farrell often checked the sides of the road, looking for any sign of the missing crewmen.
A day later the scout found tracks of a rendezvous, the contents of the dragged travois transferred to a wagon. The travois lay abandoned on the side of the road. Farrell noticed some cloth tucked into the woven thatch slung between the poles of the travois. He picked it up and held it in front of his face and the tactical camera.
A half kilometer behind, Gilbert stared at the image of a patch bearing the insignia of the Seventh Fleet. It was torn from the flight suit of an Amalli crewman.
They have my men.
Chapter 26 - A Betrayal Discovered
Middle of Longnight, cycle 77, year 8748
Merik surveyed the damage the demons did to her city palace, then retreated to a monastery on the edge of town. She respected that the priests sheltered her without question or hesitance considering her irreligious behavior, although in reality they had little choice. The monastery had subterranean levels, where she could remain hidden from the demons until she thought of a way to deal with them. Surely the gods would not send demons to destroy their own temples.
Alarin, I need you.
Merik kept three younger adepts close to her as a personal guard. They guarded her room at night, and at least one of them always escorted her during the day. She sent for Maratha and kept her on hand as well, the foolish woman would do anything Merik said without any regard for personal safety. Merik toyed with their ambitions, each of the adepts dreamed of securing more power within Merik's domain. Desire made subordinates eager to please.
Maratha stood at the arched doorway of Merik's suite at the monastery. “Master Merik, the scout you sent to Kampana looking for Alarin has arrived. She is ready for your interrogation if it pleases you.”
“Share with me her thoughts, so I can know her mind again,” Merik replied.
Without waiting for Maratha's approval, Merik plunged into the woman's mind, noting the sexual pleasure she derived from the union. Merik found what she needed, and touched Maratha's pleasure center on the way out of the adept’s mind. Unflinching service should have its rewards.
Maratha blushed as Merik pulled away.
“You two,” Merik said to her guards as she pointed at a leather chair, “turn this chair to face that direction.” Merik gestured toward Kampana.
Merik eased into the plush chair, and let her mind wander eastward. She immersed herself in the world around her, and as always marveled at the detail. Merik's consciousness expanded from her body and, using her gift, moved toward the young woman Merik sought. Sensing a pattern familiar to that in Maratha's memory, Merik's mind wrapped about the other. She touched the girl lightly, then sensing her accep
tance, joined with her.
Kahai, tell me what you know.
Master Merik. I’m honored. This is what I have seen.
Visions passed from Kahai to Merik, an hour long conversation along the road, shared in a second. A night at the Kampana inn. Merik's consciousness enveloped a memory Kahai shared of a conversation just a few hours old. The town watchmen appeared before Kahai, his tabard dirty and fear on his face. Merik watched as he backed away from the young adept, until his back lay against a wall and he could retreat no more.
“I have children,” he whimpered.
A lilting voice, unseen, but clearly Kahai, spoke. “Have I said anything about depriving them of their father? You wear the tabard of a watchman, I want to know what became of the adept Alarin. You will tell me, and then you will go home to your children, and your undoubtedly beautiful wife.”
“He was here, but he... he surrendered to the demons. There were four demons, in the bodies of men. Two of them, with sticks that spit fire and barked like thunder, killed one adept. A woman. A second adept, a man, killed the two demons with fire sticks. Then, master, the adept Alarin killed the adept that killed the demons.”
“Have you shared this with anyone not of Kampana?”
“Nobody,” he whined.
“I will touch your thoughts,” Kahai said.
Merik watched as the man's face grew passive, as Kahai took possession of his mind. Then the man's eyes grew vacant as Kahai killed him. He slumped to the ground, his last breath rattled from his body.
This vision is what I pulled from his mind, Master Merik.
Kahai shared the memories of the watchman, his memory of the night Alarin surrendered to the demons. The watchman initially fled, but returned to observe the exchange from cover. Merik watched as the demons killed Eranna, then Alarin killed Salih. She listened to the exchange as Alarin told the demon Corriea lies about how to disarm an adept. Strange the demons needed interpreters, but then, the demon in her prison babbled nonsense as well.
Merik observed the events as they unfolded, the pause as the demon Corriea took the traitorous Alarin away, then the appearance of the flying monstrosity. It blasted fire from its underbelly, and the watchmen, overcome by fear, ran into the night.
