by Steve Perry
A bullet passed through the space he’d just occupied, close enough he could hear it whistle, feel the air displacement.
Motherfucker!
But his adrenaline surged: Missed me, asshole!
More bullets whizzed past—
He yelled into the night: “Hey, dickhead, I’m a doctor! You aren’t supposed to shoot at me! Don’t piss me off!”
It was going to be iffy here . . .
And then he saw a blur to his right
Formentara?—what?
Zhe flashed past, firing a carbine full auto. What in the hell—?
Ask about it later. Move!
He scrabbled through the downpour, slipping and sliding. Set what was probably a record for the loaded-gurney-in-a-hurricane sprint.
Even so, Orton was ahead of him. Second place, damn!
The medic helped Wink slide the second gurney in, then raised his carbine to fire past the doctor into the dark—
Formentara arrived and leaped into the vehicle.
“Anytime, Doctor,” zhe said. “I believe we have overstayed our welcome.”
Orton slammed the doors as small-arms fire began to pepper them. None of it got past the crawler’s armor—
Wink scrambled forward, Formentara already ahead of him. That’s twice I’m bringing up the rear.
And: Zhe moved way too fast for normal.
He released the brake and squeezed the accelerator. The treads dug deep, and the crawler lurched forward.
Formentara raised the rotoscopic gun and ran it at 360 degrees, hosing a circular shower of jacketed death at a thousand rounds per minute, and let the pradar pick the targets.
There was rain, and then there was rain . . .
Nothing big enough to damage the crawler hit it, and the small-arms fire eased off as they moved away.
“Orton?”
“We’re stable back here.”
Wink looked at Formentara. “What the fuck was that? When did you get tuned up?”
“Recall the augmentor Gee, on Ananda, the one amping the Rel? Had not Kay been there, I would have been in considerable danger. I thought it might be useful to have some basics onboard. My autobots were sufficient for such simple installations.”
Simple. For hir, that word had a different meaning than it did for others.
“You shoot real good for a noncombatant.”
“You thought I was just another pretty face?”
He laughed. “Well . . . yeah.”
He was as high as a kite. Been a while since he’d had a rush this good.
“Careful, Wink,” zhe said. “You are very near to drooling.”
“Shows, huh?”
“Yes, it shows.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t tell Jo,” he said. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“Good luck with keeping her from finding out.”
Yeah. But—it was still worth it.
On the noncoded override opchan, a Monitor said: “Attention, Dycon force, you are firing upon a medical transport vehicle. Cease at once.”
“Oh, right, now they show up. More dickheads.”
SIXTEEN
Cutter slowed the ATV as he paid more attention to the heads-up display. The hurricane had played hell with the gear exactly as one would expect that it might.
Mobile Base Four, just outside the woods and designated by a small red number on his display, was still not responding.
He pinged the satellite relay for an update.
Nobody at MB4 answered. Not vox, not data, zip.
It might mean nothing; a shorted circuit from the rain or interference from the trees. Or it might mean something worse.
In an engagement of this limited size and scope, it was all about getting the most advantageous position with the fewest troops. It was like a game of chess: Unlike a war of attrition, they didn’t need to kill or destroy most of the opposition, just get them into positions where they couldn’t win. In this case, MB4 was a valuable pawn, in the right place to cover things. If somebody rolled on them, they should have had time to call for backup.
He checked the display again. It would be a short detour on his route to the FCV, and MB4 was in CFI’s territory. In theory.
He glanced at the heads-up display. What was the point in being in command if he couldn’t make a command decision?
Gramps was in the FCV: He called it in: “I’m swinging out to check on MB4.”
“You have people for that,” Gramps said.
“I’m here, they aren’t. It’s our property.”
“You aren’t supposed to be out there. Jo will be pissed when she finds out.”
“She’s got other things on her plate. I’m not going to tell her. Neither are you.”
“You right about that, I’m not saying shit. Be careful.”
– – – – – –
As Cutter neared MB4, he turned his displays down and his sensors up, scanning the area. He rolled forward, looking for his team, then he saw the crawler and the tow gun.
No signs of life.
He did a quick scan on the sensors and saw nothing.
He did a quick query on the opchan. No response.
He rolled to a stop. Climbed out, his carbine at the ready.
He stepped carefully across the muddy ground.
The trailer with 40mm recoilless behind the crawler looked okay until he got closer.
The targeting array had been destroyed—looked like fire from small arms.
On the other side of the trailer, he found the eight troops of MB4.
The stink of death filled the wet air.
He did a quick check of the corpses; all were CFI. If any of the enemy had been killed or wounded, they weren’t here now. Fuck!
They were mostly dead by gunfire. Two of them had no throats left, only gaping, ragged holes where a powerful claw had ripped voice boxes out. Lot of blood from that soaked into the ground around those bodies.
No boot prints leaving, unless they walked in the dead’s tracks; be odd for an enemy patrol in the aftermath of a hurricane to be that careful.
He knew what it meant. The enemy Vastalimi had been here. Probably alone. He shot six, then took out the last two claw-to-hand. It would have been fast and hot, and it proved once again the worth of a Vastalimi warrior in battle.
“We have eight of ours KIA, these coordinates,” he said, “and evidence that the other side’s Vastalimi did the deed.”
“Aw, hell,” Gramps said. “I don’t suppose you can GPS him for a drone hit?”
“Not at this time. Can they even fly yet?”
“Marginally, maybe. I’d risk one in this case. I’ll get somebody in here to collect the bodies and plug the hole.”
“Yeah. I’m on my way back.”
He stood, started toward his vehicle, then thought about it. If they sent their Vastalimi here to do this, they must have had a good reason. And if they planned to go through the hole the Vastalimi made, they’d have to do it fast—they’d know somebody would notice PDQ.
How long had it been? How much time left?
If the enemy punched through here, they could gain a superior position. He’d have to move assets around and reconfigure the lines, at the least.
Damn . . .
He ran back to the 40mm and took another look. Targeting computer was definitely dead, but—
He tabbed the main power and the drive motor hummed to life. He grabbed the paddles and tested the barrel. Moved fine, the touch sensors shifting the barrel okay. It was a little sluggish—the targeting array ran an algorithm that anticipated sensor input faster than human reflexes. He would have to eyeball it.
The ammunition-feed mechanism was okay—he cycled a few shells and heard them snap in and out of place.
Options were get t
he hell out now or try to plug the gap. He thought about the men lying dead next to the trailer and the others who might be killed.
Not really a choice.
He heard the faint sounds of an engine approaching.
He slid down behind the splash shields.
“Company,” he told Gramps. “Be good to get somebody here when you get around to it.”
– – – – – –
Gunny woke up a few seconds before the com lit with Gramps’s incoming.
“Hey, Chocolatte, got a present for you. Have a look.”
“Not porn, is it?”
“Your kind, yes. Jo around?”
“Sleeping.”
“Good. Keep the sound turned down. I don’t want her to see this.”
Gunny tapped a control and a video feed popped up on her heads-up display.
She saw a 40mm tow gun behind a crawler, a gunner in the hot seat.
As she watched, the gunner tracked the barrel of the cannon to his left and began firing.
She watched as targeting rounds stitched their way toward an incoming, lightly armored troop carrier. One of the enemy’s.
She frowned. Why was the gunner missing? The gun’s algorithm must be off—
Then rounds began to slap the enemy carrier clunk-clunk-clunk! and the EU slugs blew through the armor.
The target veered off course, but the gunner compensated, tracked it, nailing it over and over—
Like shooting fish in a barrel—
—the APC skidded to a halt on the soaked ground and rocked a little. Steam came from the ruined engine.
A few seconds passed.
No doors opened. Nobody got out.
Smoked ’em all?
She looked back over at the gunner and got it. The targeting array was wrecked. Guy had been shooting on manual.
That was more impressive. She took a closer look at the shooter.
“Hey. Is that—?”
“Yep, in the flesh. He went to check on MB4. Looks like the other side’s Vastalimi paid a visit. Unit was dead when he got there.”
Motherfucker. “All of them?”
“Yes. They opened a hole. He closed it. We have it beefed up again.”
She knew he was good, but it was one thing to point-shoot a handgun and another thing entirely to do it with a motorized cannon.
Or, apparently not . . .
She shook her head.
“Jo’s going to be pissed.”
“She hasn’t seen it yet—figured you’d enjoy it the most.”
“Yeah. Looks like he was a little off early on, but, all things considered, not bad.”
“‘Not bad’? You are a hard fem, Gunny. That was fucking great. I don’t think Rags ever shot a 40mm on manual before. I couldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah, me, neither. The son of a bitch.”
He laughed. “Don’t say I never gave you anything. You gonna show it to Jo?”
“Not me. My momma didn’t raise any stupid children. You do it.”
“When Hell freezes over.”
SEVENTEEN
The storm wasn’t done, but it had slowed and begun to fall apart, and the worst was over. Cutter listened to the reports, and mostly, CFI and the other units on The Line’s side had weathered things just fine. Some equipment had been damaged, a couple of people had gotten smacked by flying debris, and there were some small injuries from slipping and sliding, to go with the burns and wounds from enemy interaction. Wink had been busy, but mostly with injuries from other than CFI troops. Plus his dickhead foray into enemy territory. Sooner or later, he was going to get himself killed, skating right up to the edge the way he did.
Of course, on Cutter, it looked different. His action had been necessary and right . . .
He smiled.
A relatively quiet night, all things considered. It could have been a lot worse on any of the fronts.
He realized that it was nearing dawn, and that he hadn’t eaten anything since . . . lunch yesterday? Huh.
Third shift had things under control. He ambled to the dining hall.
There were a few people on break, mostly having junk food or caffeinated beverages. They had healthier fare, for those who wanted it, but mostly, troops wanted a fix of sugar or fat once action commenced. The prevailing philosophy seemed to be, Hell, I might get killed any second now, might as well eat what I want and fuck it.
War had a way of making carpe diem seem valid no matter what you wanted to seize . . .
He nodded at those who looked his way, went and collected a cup of coffee and a quik-heat roll, found an empty chair and sat. He sipped at the hot coffee, which was good. That had always been part of any unit he’d been in, that he had coffee you could drink and enjoy, and not stuff better used to clean rust stains from oxidized sheet metal. The roll was sweet-potato-flour-based, not bad, but not particularly delicious. Food, and good enough for the moment.
Formentara drifted into the room. Zhe collected a piece of fruit and took a seat three or four tables over. Zhe didn’t see him, or if so, didn’t acknowledge him.
Zhe didn’t look any the worse for her adventure with Wink. His amazement at hir actions didn’t extend to Cutter entirely. He had known zhe had some augs running though not the extent. If being out in a hurricane and a firefight bothered hir, it didn’t show now.
Cutter watched Formentara, his gaze mostly unfocused. He was tired; probably wouldn’t hurt to get a couple of hours’ rest. A good soldier could nod off falling down stairs while eating hot soup, but when you were the officer in charge, that wasn’t as easy as when somebody else was responsible and giving the orders. Once a war heated up, his sleep was always spotty. Sleep, diet, bowel habits, war changed a lot of things . . .
Zhe became aware of his attention. “Colonel?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Something I can help you with?”
“Ah, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I was woolgathering.”
Zhe looked puzzled. Zhe stood, came over to his table. Raised an eyebrow at an empty chair.
He waved at the chair.
Zhe sat.
“Have fun out playing medical rescue with Dr. Death?”
“I did. It was invigorating. I got to test out my augmentation, and, of course, it worked just fine.”
“Of course.”
“What is ‘woolgathering’?”
“Old Terran expression. It means a kind of mindless daydreaming.”
“Wool is an animal product, the hair of ovines, is it not? How is that connected to a blank gaze? Do those kinds of animals have a thousand-meter stare?”
He grinned. “Not that I know about. As I understand it, in the prespace days, when sheep and goats were allowed to range free, they often did so among shrubs and bushes that could catch and remove bits of their hair. Enough so, apparently, that collecting the loose strands was worth doing. This was not an activity that required a great deal of mindful thought. People would wander about, plucking fur from thorns and branches, putting it into sacks, and since it didn’t take much mental activity, their minds would be free for other tasks.”
Zhe nodded. “I see. Moving meditation. And what were you daydreaming about?”
He shrugged. “Life, death, the universe, my place in the scheme of it all.”
Zhe laughed. “Really?”
“More or less.”
Actually, his thoughts were less general and more specifically about Formentara, how zhe looked as she moved. Zhe was the brightest person he’d ever been around for more than a short time; zhe had an air of mystery about hir, and it wasn’t just hir androgynous appearance, which he found attractive. He knew zhe was beyond adept at what zhe did; that there weren’t a handful of aug experts in the galaxy who were as good, maybe none better. And why, he had
wondered before, would somebody who could write hir own ticket, be the head of some corporation or university or just sit back and spend hir money be here, doing this? Working for him? On the face of it, it was a puzzle.
Then there was this grace-under-fire thing earlier this very night. Formentara as a fighter?
Fascinating . . .
Zhe chuckled.
His turn to raise an eyebrow query.
“You’ve never struck me as a . . . reflective person. More of a doer than a be-er.”
“True enough. Still, when one is in a profession that deals in the possibility of sudden and maybe unexpected violent death, the questions arise now and then for examination.”
“The questions being . . . ?”
“What does it all mean? Why are we here? Where are we going?”
Zhe laughed. “A warrior philosopher!”
“Not your bent, to muse on such things?”
“Oh, I used to ask myself those questions. Then one day, I realized that, as brilliant as I am, I couldn’t divine the answers. That, unbelievable as it was, there had been many people smarter than I who had broken themselves of the rock of why-are-we-here? And, even if I happened upon The Answer, how would I know? Who would be able to verify it for me?
“Given my upbringing and experience, religion wasn’t an option, the notion of Somebody-in-Charge-Who-Pays-Attention didn’t work for me: Either zhe was unspeakably cruel, or unbelievably inept, no other possibility. So I let it go. Can’t know the answer, no point in asking the question, is there? That way lies complete frustration. Better to concentrate one’s energy on something useful.”
“I suppose. I think even the remote possibility of a come-to-understand moment, wherein the scales fall from my eyes, and I can see the whole flow of the universe, the why and wheretofor, is still there. It seems to have happened to others.”
Zhe shrugged. “I can do that. I can crank up the god-gene, ramp it into reality for a patient so they feel that cosmic consciousness, the oneness with it all with an absolute certainty beyond question. Since I can do it? Makes it harder to believe it’s anything other than an accident of neurochem; a stray cosmic ray flipping an on switch. Would that be something you’d want? A fake epiphany?”
