Stone Blade

by James Cox

  PAIN, burning PAIN racked Micah. His fingers twitched and he crashed the ship with no survivors. His body still twitched under the neurolashes woven into his ersatz flight suit. He should have known!

  Once Micah crawled out of the sim Sergeant Rosswild looked at him without speaking. Also without speaking Micah shed the flight suit and jogged to the door. He knew from experience that if he ran hard he could be to the Pylon and back before dinner. If he got back in time to take a shower he'd be allowed to eat.

  The Punishment Pylon was an interesting exercise in psychology. Placed deep inside very rough and rugged terrain, it held the name of every recruit who had ever washed out. Whether by failing classes, not receiving antidote or dying alone their names were there. When Micah approached he saw his name glowing around the middle in very large letters. As Micah ran around the Pylon his name followed him. When it finally winked out Micah started back toward the base.

  As he ran Micah felt no small pride growing within him. Besides himself and the other four only seven from his group of recruits made it. The others were simply gone: names on the Pylon. The sergeants treated them almost as comrades now with instructions aimed at building and training rather than weeding out. Micah and the others were almost soldiers now and they'd passed the worst and most hellish training the Commonwealth had to offer. They'd graduate soon to serve the Commonwealth as only they could!

  Something else bit the edge of Micah's awareness but ignoring it took no effort at all. The sun hovered just over the mountain and Micah knew he'd have his shower and his meal!

  ***

  Bands blared Caustik's anthem and began cycling through the military ones. Micah and his ten fellows stood proudly in their dress greens. He scanned the stands for his family but saw no sign of them. A small sad twinge, quickly quashed. He and the others stood patiently, indifferently waiting their turn. Though most of the other groups sweated Micah's didn't. The weather might be hot and inhospitable for this latitude but to them it felt almost cold.

  Micah thought he recognized several crunchies from boot camp. Terry McRiddle received an academic recognition. Astrogation and piloting. Micah smiled for him. Mobile Ground also made an issue of losing a recruit during training. One! Well, thought Micah, if that was all they lost and they made such a fuss over it the training simply couldn't be that hot.

  The General Officer called the 113 TAS last. On hearing his name Micah walked across the stage, saluted smartly, received his rank insigne, saluted and walked off the stage. He supposed it should mean something but he'd had his true graduation the previous evening. Micah wore his spearhead proudly! Forged of real silver with red enamel bonded into the metal, he'd “paid the price” for his. The thing pinned on without the use of stick-patch and Micah now knew the reason.

  Late into the night the sergeants roused them from bed. They ran to the Pylon. There, beneath the sickly glow, each of the recruits searched for his name. When they failed to find them the sergeants shouted “YOU MADE IT, SLUG!!” Then, standing at attention, each man received the spearhead, its pins driven into flesh and bone by a fist as hard as the sergeant could punch. Then they ran back to camp with the admonishment not to lose their spearheads.

  Once dismissed Micah headed for the guest registry. He searched for his parents or Jennifer. Not there. Another twinge of disappointment; they truly had written him off. Then Kitten threw a punch that would have felled Micah had he not sensed it coming. The two of them set out for a night on the base.

  ***

  Micah read his briefing spool absently. He knew most of it but he didn't want to appear idle. The months after Graduation passed much as the ones before. He and his squad drilled, learned and drilled some more. Now, though, they didn't need drill instructors goading them. The 113 barracks area lay on the equator a good distance from the training camp and Micah found the accommodations comfortable to the point of decadence! He acquainted himself with several members of other squads but spent little time with them. Such was the way of the 113th: the team bonds formed during training were simply too strong to break. Most squads numbered between eight and fifteen with the larger ones resulting from merging several others that had taken heavy casualties. Most of the others wore thin rings around their left cuffs. When Micah asked, the man explained it proudly as the number of casualties his units had taken.

  Micah's CO, Lieutenant Sanders, entered the room. Instant and absolute silence fell.

  “Gentlemen,” began Sanders, “As you've no doubt read our colony on Taralon IV is experiencing food riots again. Normally the civil authorities would quell them but the authorities are strangely incompetent this time.”

  Micah paid attention but let his mind rest. Old news.

  “We suspect the current administration is involved with certain rebel elements. Not the first time, I know, but Intelligence also suspects offworld support.”

  That focused Micah's full attention!

  “If this is true we need hard evidence to present to the League.”

  Several of the men chuckled derisively. By its own charter the League would not interfere with planetary affairs. Its definition of local, though, seemed quite elastic at times.

  “The tricky part is this,” continued Sanders, “If we land in force and begin taking the rebs they'll have time to destroy evidence. If we bomb 'em from orbit we might destroy it ourselves. If, however, we can successfully execute a decap raid against their HQ we should be able to overcome local resistance before they can dispose of what we want.”

  The screen behind Sanders displayed a holoenhanced map. Sanders indicated several regions.

  “The 113th will be saturating these areas. They form vital military communication links and we'll need to take 'em fast. Our specific orders are for this orbital AS emplacement. We are to take it down, deal with any resistance and capture any who choose to surrender. Are there any questions?”

  “When do we eat, sir,” asked BJ Tyler.

  “That will be after the mission, Tyler. Unless you find something there to your taste. I'm told they recycle dray leather for rations.”

  Chuckles. They then snapped to attention as Sanders left.

  Micah snugged himself into the minimally conforming contour inside the HRAT and signaled the Navy crunchy to bolt him in. Dubbed “High-Rats” by those who used them the high-release atmospheric transit capsules had a grim reputation they had all too frequently earned. Used by most armed forces to land troops quickly on a planetary surface, the HRAT worked well unless the enemy spotted them. Against advanced doppler spotters and gaussmissiles armed with millions of razorwire shards HRATs had another name: still target.

  The secret lay in not letting the enemy see them. Micah, his squad and two others spent two weeks in a StealthTAC; a small starship designed to hide from detection. The other squads of the 113th rode similar transports. They jumped to just outside the Taralon system, spent a day locating each other, then microjumped for planet. The Navy ratings didn't like hitting too close to a planet so they spent another pair of days on a low-detect burn into orbit.

  “Two minutes to launch,” said a soft, feminine and synthetic voice.

  Rumor said soldiers about to rat down to a planet enjoyed hearing what might be the last words they ever heard in a dream-date voice. Micah couldn't prove or disprove it. Sometimes he thought about Jenn and other times he just wondered about her. He synced his chrono and relaxed.

  Launch came as a hard shock that drove Micah into his straps. He felt a jab of fear, quickly suppressed but annoying. His helmet hud cleared to a view from the rat's external cameras: a spectacular vista of the planet below that would last until the cameras burned off. Old stuff. Micah had dozens of practice drops under his belt. He chuckled. This one didn't even have the prospect of an active volcano to stir the blood.

  By the time Micah's cameras burned away the freqs tuned to local chatter started noising up. The rebs spotted something and decided to talk about it. The meat didn't know it but it was alread
y too late. Micah hoped they didn't nail his transport. One of the ratings still owed him for cards!

  The HRAT finally ablated to splitting. With the last of the re-entry sheathing gone Micah allowed himself one superstitious look around. He saw nothing, of course. Nightvee wouldn't kick in until just before he landed and nothing worth seeing would show in the darkness. He pointed his feet downward and waited for his 'chutes to deploy.

  A few seconds before ground Micah received pulses from the rest of his squad. Three on the ground and the rest above. His night vision activated just in time for him to spot a likely LZ and he hit it dead center. His hud showed the way to rendezvous so Micah kicked in his myoboosters and loped toward it.

  Ten blips out of twelve converged at the target. Sanders linked to their suits.

  “On schedule and on target. First element, hit from the left. Second, right. Take out the comm, the ack and then take it personal. Two hours.”

  Sanders and his two flankers - chosen, after some grumbling, by cutting cards - headed for the observation position. They'd likely see action before dawn but for now they'd stay low and slow.

  Micah grounded prone and aimed a smite at the cluster of delicate comm equipment looming before him. Tyler grumbled.

  “I'm hungry.”

  “Set,” said Sergeant Walther, “And... Launch!”

  Four clusters of short-range plasma compression rockets lanced into the darkness. They burst across the photon array and the comm uplink, neutralizing both. Lights came on and klaxons blared but it was too late for that. With the array and 'link slagged they had slightly over an hour and a half to kill. Micah started in.

  Panic!

  Micah rounded a corner only to confront a squad of armed meat. They could take him. They would take him!

  The saviorband clamped around Micah's arm sensed his fear and injected a double dose of Flame. Micah quashed the fear. It did its job now he set about doing his. His heavy blast rifle punched through the crunchies' armor easily and Micah used it to good effect. He took down the front two, used them to block the rest as he charged, and mopped up the rest. The Flame washed through him, sharpening his senses and slowing time. The last two moved in slow motion. Micah's hud showed a mass of readings ahead and left. He started toward it gleefully.

  Operations center, small. After he blasted the guards Micah lobbed a plasma grenade into the room. It took most of the equipment and personnel. Micah cut down the ones that escaped.

  Barracks! Two meats had a semi-portable just inside the door. Micah felt it punch through his armor but his saviorband popped him again before he could block the pain. After Micah took down the semi and its crew he braced himself and threw a couple of plasmas into the room. Nothing living met him when he entered so he took the time to slap a skinpatch through his armor and patch the armor itself. His vision blurred momentarily.

  Cleanup. With not many minutes remaining Micah started working his way out. He met some meat on the way, one of them armed. After Micah took him down the rest surrendered. He gestured with his blaster.

  When Micah reached the rendezvous point he found the perimeter well secured by a troop of Marine crunchies. They motioned him through.

  ***

  Sanders sat atop a box taking reports. He took Micah's without comment and sent him to the medic. Just as well; Micah saw two lieutenants, two boxes and two grounded TACBoxes. He also saw numerous prisoners secured in a well-lit area. The rebs looked vacant-eyed and slack. Well they should! They'd been hit by the best!

  “Heaven's flames,” swore the medic, “What the hades did you do?”

  Micah shrugged out of his armor uncertainly.

  “My mission, sir.”

  The man wore Naval officer tags. While he worked Micah concentrated elsewhere. Not squeamish, he simply didn't like seeing his own insides. He barely recognized his armor for all the blood spattered on it. No problem; a solvent wipe would take care of...

  Micah's thought froze at that. Blood. Other people's blood. Blood from the people he'd mown down like so much soy...

  The medic muttered another curse then muffled it as Micah turned sideways and vomited.

  Micah walked gingerly, trying not to re-open his wound. The morning after the raid found most of the 113th doing similarly. They'd all taken casualties and all of the squads swapped stories on theirs. The eleventh of Micah's squad, Ubert, never made it to the ground. Whether his rat hit wrong or just took ack no one knew. His name would go to the Pylon.

  The other casualty, Holder Jamison, earned them a bangle. Surrounded by several squads of armored meat and injured himself Jamison triggered all his plasmas. He dropped most of that meat, several equipment rooms and a lot of supplies the rebs wouldn't be using now.

  “Micah!” The voice belonged to Tyler and Micah was glad to hear it.

  “BJ!” The two swapped hugs. “How many?”

  “Hades! I don't know. You?”

  Micah shrugged. “Opcams'll show. You find any food?”

  Tyler guffawed. “Absolutely! Come along, me pucko, we'll feed you right!”

  Tyler spoke no less than the truth. Not far from the main perimeter lay a deserted farm. Micah found the rest of his squad and several others enjoying freshly-roasted meat. He had a portion of that, followed it with roasted tubers and filled in the gaps with ration bars. For once he didn't notice their lack of taste.

  “Enjoy it, Micah,” said Tyler, “We'll have some dessert after dark!”

  As night fell Micah noticed his squad drawing away from the buildings. He ghosted after them.

  Micah found his squad gathered above a hollow a few hundred meters away. Micah caught a glint from cover as someone moved. Mick Martin, thought Micah. Despite his size the canny Martin could hide behind a footprint! When Micah entered the hollow he saw what he'd taken as the bottom was a tarp with a shelter underneath it.

  “We decided on a prisoner of our own,” said Tyler with a grin, “Ops finished with this one but we think they missed something.”

  LaRue pulled the shelter open and Micah saw what it contained.

  She was not old. Her long hair was tangled and dirty, likewise her face. Her eyes were wide and deep and brimming with wetness that hadn't yet made its way down her cheeks. She bore several bruises but didn't struggle. Fear, utter and absolute, froze her in place.

  “We cut cards for first yesterday,” said Tyler, “I took your draw since you weren't here. Lucky bastard!”

  Micah stepped forward and the girl cringed. A sudden stabbing ache hit the base of his skull.

  “C'mon, Micah,” said one of the others, “We don't got all night. She's a reb, for hades sake!”

  “Headache,” said Micah, truthfully. He tried to make it sound funny but it didn't.

  “Flames! Go spell Martin and don't let anybody find us.”

  Micah sat behind cover, watching the terrain and trying to ignore the harsh animalistic sounds below him. And the occasional muffled screams. His head throbbed and he wanted Flame. Regulations forbade this and Micah couldn't banish the pain.

  He knew the girl was a rebel. He knew she was a prisoner. He knew most of the squads probably had their own prisoners. Still his head pounded.

  Micah shuffled through his after-kit. Extra meal bars. Candy. Drugstick. Music chip. Micah popped the chip into his helmet and jacked up the volume. He tried to relax to the gentle music, surf and rain sounds.

  ***

  Micah relaxed and flexed his fingers. The TACLander dropped through the rebel ack, twisting and dodging around the worst of it. Micah had three stripes on his sleeve now and more missions than he cared to remember. The 113th got little rest between missions and they'd have it no other way. Combat made the best training and Micah and his squad proved that again and again. Along with his stripes Micah now had four bangles, the last being Kitten LaRue.

  A group of in-system smugglers set up an asteroid as a base and cachement area. Guarded as Command suspected. The fighting was long and bloody and mostly in
vacuum and no gravity. That last was Kitten's work. The gravgens were near the fusion plant so major explosives were out. After the base went down they found Kitten there surrounded by the dead meats his demo took out. There wasn't much left of the bodies but that didn't matter. They dragged them to the surface, piled them on an inferno, a plasma's big brother, and put Kitten gently on top. When the inferno flared Micah popped some Flame and raised a silent toast to Kitten. The warm rush brought tears to Micah's eyes and he always thought of Kitten when he raised a glass.

  “Report,” barked Sanders.

  “Ninety-five seconds to dirt, sir,” said Micah, “In the tube, four-by.”

  Sanders might have replied but Micah didn't notice, nor did Sanders take offense. This zone had several hot spots, most of them sending Micah heat. The others would ground and go as soon as Micah dusted down leaving Micah and Tyler with Sanders. Micah didn't particularly mind flanking his L-T but he certainly didn't volunteer.

  Ten seconds to dust Micah fired the last of his chaff and smarts. He set the latter for any active signal and the former would scatter to the winds. Each had a part in ensuring the lander dusted safely. Micah's energy readings peaked and the TAC hit the ground. The small ship popped and groaned both as the hull cooled and the soldiers within deployed.

  When the reports started Micah, Tyler and Sanders left. This strike represented a coordinated effort between Commonwealth and League forces. This planet lay close to League territory and had petitioned to join the League. The Inner Rim Corporate States Consortium took exception and launched an offensive. A hollow protest since the IRCSC lay well outside League space. Rumor said they'd been grooming it as a staging area for raids against the League.

  Micah had little respect for League crunchies. From what he'd seen they devised large complex plans with numerous complex ways to fail. Moreover, the League didn't believe in using its troops! The Corpsies had established several mutually supporting headquarters with interlocking peripheral fire bases inside convenient cities: standard tactics for anybody but the League. Standard counter: pick one HQ and two or three of its peripherals. Overwhelm the fire bases and move on to the HQ. Pick the next and repeat. There would be casualties, of course, but the tactic would work.