by Matt Novotny
“Good morning, Jackson,” she said and gestured to the scene below. “What do you think?”
Rains put on his goggles and studied the scene. Force 25 was assaulting what looked like a heavily held Tortantula position in an enormous cavern. The infantry, several squads of Zuul, were pushing forward under cover of Araceli’s CASPer. Several others were approaching from a flanking position in a higher gallery. Jackson could see the ingress point was a large rope ladder. The Zuul were being propelled up the obstacle by Quin’taa, who grabbed each Zuul in line by their harness and simply hurled them to the top of the obstacle to be caught by their teammates.
“Misfits are broken up,” said Rains, more to himself than to Tara. “Flankers are in a good position. Not much fire support from the CASPers, though.”
Ibson nodded agreement. “Can’t,” he said. “We would risk collapsing the cavern with artillery.” Ibson highlighted several areas in the cavern that were no-go zones because of collapse. “What else?”
“No recon drones up. Who’s running OpInt?”
“That would be the Misfits,” said Ibson. “But they got hit early and haven’t been able to reset. They reassigned Araceli to fire support.”
“CASPer sensors?” Rains asked.
“Jammed,” said Tara.
“Command?” asked Rains.
“Kolak,” said Ibson, referring to the former Trenta Knights sergeant major. “He’s ready for more than what the Knights could offer him, but we have to get him up to speed on mixed-troop combat.”
Rains paused, then said, “Not enough enemy. Tortantula usually have higher numbers. And the lead elements are too far forward.”
“I told you he’d spot it,” said Tara.
“Time to drop Kolak into the grinder, then,” replied Ibson.
Tara keyed her headset. “Lucille, please start Phase Two.”
Rains watched as the lead elements suddenly came under withering fire from almost directly above. Tortantulas moved from cover on the cavern’s ceiling, some with Flatar carrying automatic weapons based on the XT-12 platform. The cacophony of hypervelocity rounds being fired sounded like popcorn over the din of the heavier weapons. There was a redoubling of fire from the main target position.
Force 25’s flankers shifted fire to the new threat, but the damage was already done. The main assault elements had taken enough damage from the ambush that it would be almost impossible for them to achieve their objective.
“All right, Lucille, that’s a wrap,” said Tara. “Force 25, assemble in the main area for debrief, and we’ll talk about what we can do better.”
Jackson grinned. “That last bit was nasty. Whose was it?”
Ibson snorted. “You can thank Araceli. It seems she’s picked up a keen appreciation for the capabilities of different merc races.”
Rains laughed. “You think? Hope she keeps that up. Someday it might save our asses. I’m going to head down for a workout while they debrief.”
Jamie gave Rains a wave.
Jackson jogged down the ramp from the catwalk and into the warm-up area. He moved through a series of stretches to loosen up. He had intended to run the course, letting his body do the work of settling his mind, but the lingering effects of the nightmare and a host of questions kept breaking in and sending him in circles.
He needed to focus so he stepped into an open exercise area. Years ago, one of the things they had taught the boys at his group home was tai chi. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time. There were groups that had practiced at the Peacemaker Academy, and he had drifted in and out of a couple before giving it up to devote his time elsewhere.
Rains settled into an opening stance. No, that’s not it, he thought and adjusted his balance. Let’s see how much I remember. He moved into the form, trying to remember each position, to make each movement exactly right.
As his body recalled the movements, Rains mulled over the problem of Kr’et’Socae again. How did Thraff and Ch’tek come to be on Snowmass? Everyone is searching for Snowman, and after a good look at the master control center, I’m fairly sure resources are the key. If Kr’et’Socae had captured those materials, what would he do with them? Sell them? There are easier ways to make money.
Rains stopped, realizing he had lost track of the routine. He reset, spent a few minutes breathing, then restarted. As he moved back into the form, he found his mind wandering again.
What line of reasoning brought them here? Were they monitoring Force 25? If so, how? Is there a connection between Kr’et’Socae and the Dream World Consortium? What were they doing at the facility they blew up?
He stopped. Reset, breathe…breathe…and move…This time Rains settled into the form, gaining confidence as his body remembered the routine. He became centered in his breathing and his balance, and, other than an occasional slight hesitation, he continued through the entire form without distraction, keeping his attention on shifting his weight, placing each limb, each finger, in exactly the right position. Rains concluded the form and took a few moments to breathe. Then he relaxed and grabbed a towel to dry off, basking in the warm burn you only get from a good workout.
On the other side of the warehouse, Rains spotted two techs in the staging area running tests on a CASPer he hadn’t seen before. They were in the middle of an animated discussion. The woman in the open cockpit made wide, exaggerated motions with the CASPer, while the man at the diagnostic console shook his head and swore.
Rains walked toward them and looked the CASPer over. The old Mk 6 was painted a flat black, but somehow the lines were off. It looked thicker than it should have been, the armor plates that were usually smooth curves were angled, and on the machine’s back was what looked like an old-fashioned extendable antenna array…
“I’m telling you, we just need to recalibrate the haptics and—” The young man at the console froze when he saw Rains. The tag on his coverall read Thomas. “Peacemaker Rains! Well met. What do you think of Bruno, here?”
“Bruno? You mean the CASPer?” Jackson said.
“Yeah,” said the woman. “I’m Bev. I’d make a funny looking Bruno.” Bev dismounted. “Pretty, isn’t he?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a CASPer like it,” said Rains.
“You probably won’t see another, either. Bruno is a hybrid. The Mk 6 chassis means he has a higher carrying capacity, heavier frame, and armor. Not as fast. We think that’s what the oversized jets are to compensate for. It looks like Bruno might have been an attempt at a stealth suit, judging by the angled armor. In addition to the overpowered jump jets, he also has a once state-of-the-art ECM and C&C package, but the haptics and targeting are pure Mk 7, minus the extra systems. As near as we can tell Bruno here was a test frame.”
“Is it?” Rains said. “Stealthy, I mean.” Rains looked at the mech doubtfully.
“Nope,” said Thomas cheerfully. “The armor is standard composite, though it’s thicker, and the angled plates probably have better deflection unless you hit a seam. My guess is they were going to apply another coating of some kind. What you have in Bruno is a freight train. He’ll go through anything you point him at. Sealed for EVA ops, too, and his C&C suite could run jamming or coordinate a full battlenet.”
“Sounds handy,” Rains said. “So, what’s the problem?”
“Haptics are screwed,” Bev said. “The signal from the C&C is so strong it’s overloading the internal systems. We need to do a full calibration, and to do it right one of us should run the diagnostics while the other reprograms. But we keep hitting roadblocks.”
“Can I help?” said Rains, thinking he could provide some additional resources for the team. Maybe Tara would let Lucille take a look.
Bev and Thomas shared a look. “Well…” said Bev with an impish grin. “We saw you working out. Tai chi, right?”
“Yes,” said Rains. “I’m not very good.”
“If you really want to help, Bruno could use a workout, if you are up for it.”
You have got t
o be kidding, Rains thought. But he smiled, set down his towel, and headed for Bruno’s cockpit. “What the hell,” he said, “this’ll be fun!”
* * * * *
Chapter Two
15 Years Ago
Jackson, Mississippi, Earth
“Hey, sleepyhead. Let’s get a move on. We’re going to be late for opening day.” Benjamin Rains shook the sleeping boy’s left foot. Jackson rolled over in his bed and blinked sleepily at his father. Benjamin watched his son from the foot of the bed. “Up!” he said. “We don’t want to miss the opening pitch, and those hot dogs aren’t going to eat themselves.”
“And those beers won’t drink themselves, either!” said Jackson, feeling very grown up.
“That’s root beer for you, kiddo,” his father said. “Now get dressed.”
Jackson jumped out of bed. Today was the big day. His father was home between assignments and was leaving the next day to meet up with his company. But before he left, he had promised to take Jackson to his first major league baseball game.
“All ready for your first opening day?” asked his father.
“Yep,” replied Jackson, tugging on the stained and frayed cap that proudly proclaimed him a fan of the Mississippi Mockingbirds. “I’ve got Grampa’s ball cap and my glove, just in case. The glove finally feels like it’s starting to break in!”
“You know, the Jacksonville Generals have won eight World Series, including last year,” his father said. “They’ll be gunning for another, so expect them to be a tough team to beat.”
“It’s my first game!” Jackson exclaimed. “Our guys are gonna win. I know they can do it. Today’s gonna be great!”
The only thing that would have made the day better was if Jackson’s mother could go with them. Unfortunately, she was out of town at a medical conference and wouldn’t be back until late that night.
His father gave him a quick once-over. “Well,” he said. “We were lucky to get tickets. The ones for opening day are always hard to come by. When I was your age, we had season tickets and your grandparents would take me to a lot of the games. Your grandfather was a huge fan, and we would spend the entire day at the park. Once, he even took me to a meet-and-greet, and I got to meet some of the players.” He pointed to a baseball with a dozen signatures in a display case on their mantle. “That’s where I got my lucky charm.”
“I wish I could have known them,” Jackson said wistfully.
“Me too, kiddo. That would have been great.” His father had a faraway look in his eyes. He rarely talked about his parents. They had died in a car accident long before Jackson was born. But when he did, the stories his dad told made Jackson feel like he had a connection with his grandparents.
Jackson and his father walked the few blocks from their home in the medical center complex to the transit station. It was a sunny day and the smell of flowers from the center’s landscaping drifted on the sticky air. They grabbed the next pod and his father put in the stadium coordinates.
His mother worked in the med center running the emergency facility and taught trauma medicine on the side. His parents joked that the only reason she had married Jackson’s father was so she would have someone to practice on.
Benjamin Rains was a mercenary with the Aces High company. It was something that Jackson was particularly proud of, and it gave him bragging rights with the other kids at school. Of course, a lot of his schoolmates had parents who worked with the mercenary companies, but Aces High had promoted his father, and he was going to be driving one of the Aces’ Mk 6 CASPers. He had even promised he would show Jackson the mech when he got back from this mission.
“The Aces are bringing on a bunch of new blood after this run,” his father told him. “We’ll have an extended stay before we head out again so we can train them up!”
“I want to join. Can I? Please?” begged Jackson.
His father had laughed at that. “When you’re old enough. I think we need to work on getting you to pass your VOWs first.” Then, in a quiet voice, “There are a lot of things you need to learn before you decide if you are going to be a merc. Study hard, and if you do well in school, when the time comes, I’ll help you get signed on. But it’s a dangerous job, and I think your mother has her heart set on you being a doctor, like her.”
“Awwww, I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to kill aliens!” Jackson announced. He struck a pose like he was in a CASPer, moving his arms back and forth. “Pew! Pew! Pew!”
His father looked at him, a troubled look in his dark eyes. “I know, Jackson. It sounds exciting, doesn’t it? But it’s something you should think about. It’s an awfully hard thing to do, taking a life.”
Jackson was confused. “But you—”
His father cut him off. “Yes, being a mercenary is the life I have chosen, but it’s not an easy one,” his father said. “I need you to understand that I don’t enjoy killing. It’s something that has to be done if I’m to provide for our family. But an alien life and a Human life are more alike than they are different.”
“But they’re aliens,” Jackson said.
His father reached out to take Jackson’s hand and held it against his own. “There was a time when Humans treated each other differently because of the color of their skin.” He held his son’s dark hand against his own even darker skin. “It took being bombed by aliens for us to start really thinking of each other as Human. Everybody is someone else’s alien. We all look different. You are what you do.”
“What I do?” asked Jackson. “When?”
“When it matters,” said his father.
Their pod pulled into the station. They got out and headed across the street to the stadium proper. Kennedy Stadium was still fairly new and could hold over a hundred thousand people. It boasted three concourses, a state-of-the-art holo-imaging system, and a whole range of vendors, restaurants, and shops. Baseball was very popular in Mississippi. If you preferred to be close to the action or wanted a different view, you could check out a pair of VR goggles that would let you access cameras from a variety of viewpoints.
The entry plaza was decorated with banners and set up with a host of booths and games. His father stopped at an ice cream stand.
“Jackson, you want your usual?”
“You bet!”
“Two strawberry chocolate swirls with waffle cones, please,” his father told the woman running the stand. His father paid then handed Jackson his cone. They walked around the plaza looking at the booths while they ate.
“See anything you want to do?” his father asked, looking around at the various vendors and stands.
Jackson pointed. At the end of the row was an old-time arcade inside a tent. They had some old classics, like a shooting gallery where you could fire water into different targets to earn tickets and skee-ball. But the big draw was Merc, a row of games where the player used a VR hood and controls to pilot a CASPer.
“Can I?” asked Jackson.
“Sure!” his father said and held up a hand to get the attendant’s attention. The attendant fitted Jackson with goggles and set up on the controls. His father stepped back, gently coaching as he watched his son play on a monitor attached to the side.
Jackson made it through the first two rounds of the first game before being eaten by an Oogar. He cycled through three levels before being dismembered by MinSha in the second.
Jackson raised the VR hood. “Aww, this is hard.”
“Things worth doing usually are,” his father said. “You’re doing better each time. Tell you what, we have time for one more game, and they have a tandem mode. What do you say we try that?”
“Okay!” Jackson said excitedly. His father rarely played video games with him.
After his father geared up, the two of them set out on the first level. He let Jackson take the lead and concentrated on keeping him alive while his son wreaked mayhem. They made it through almost ten levels before finally being eaten by a giant Canavar.
Jackson pulled off the VR gear. “Th
at was great! Can we—”
Jackson’s father shook his head. “We need to get to our seats, maybe on the way out if they’re still here.”
“Wow! Great score!” exclaimed the attendant. “Pick your prize! Do you want one of the stuffed aliens? Or how about a jersey?”
Jackson pondered for a minute. “A jersey, I think…for my dad.” His father smiled.
“Let’s get two then. I’ll buy the other one.”
Jackson and his father donned their jerseys and headed into the stadium. The ticket lady smiled through the window at Jackson.
“Aren’t you handsome! What’s your name? How old?” she asked his father.
“I’m almost eleven.” Jackson boasted.
“Well, I’ll be!” she said. “You two enjoy the game and have a fantastic day!”
They grabbed drinks before heading for their seats, located only a few rows up on the lower level between home plate and first base. Jackson’s father explained what was going on as the teams took the field. He pointed out the umpire.
“Play ball!” he bellowed.
* * *
Sanctuary Plantation
Louisiana, Earth
From New Orleans, take Bayou Road out past the old plantations to where the road turns into Delacroix Highway. Then down past Reggio and Wood Lake, past Delacroix Island toward World’s End. Just past the old Lafitte place, you turn down a wide dirt lane that leads back toward Lost Lake. The road itself is bordered by white stones and overshadowed in oak and bald cypress. A few miles in, you’ll hit a gatehouse of old stone with a heavy gate of rusted iron. Above the gate, new iron lettering reads “Sanctuary Plantation” and below that “Abri Contré la tempête.” Shelter from the Storm.
A muffled boom! from the direction of the arena shook the cookhouse as four of the Cajuns’ more flamboyant CASPers flashed past each other in simulated combat. Amos could hear the announcer’s blow-by-blow echo across the green through the humid air, which was just starting to take on the first hint of warmth from the fall day.
