By Force of Arms (31 page)

The scouts wasted little time signaling for the group to come down and pushed their way out through the hatch. That’s when Hillrun realized that someone was missing.

He looked upwards and saw the dangling body. Quickhand

Knifemake—dead at twenty-five.

Someone yelled “Stand clear!” and cut the rope. Metal clanged as Knifemake’s body hit the mesh. A replacement rope tumbled me length of the shaft and swayed as a Hudathan started down.

Hillrun stooped to unclip the handmade combat knife from the scout’s harness, made a promise to return the weapon to the warrior’s family, and ducked out through the hatch. The carnage was sickening, even for a veteran like Hillrun, and he averted his eyes. He felt sorry for me Thraki and knew the same thing could happen to him. Would happen if he wasn’t careful. The first thing to do was to establish some sort of defense perimeter. The Thrakies would send reinforcements soon, and the majority of Red Team was still on me surface. The NCO eyed his surroundings. “Fareye, Warmfeel, take that end of the corridor. Block the point where it turns. Surekill… come with me. We
U take the other end.”

Lieutenant SeebaKa followed the Naa down, was glad when his boots hit the mesh, and swore when he saw the hatch. Though sufficiently large, a Naa, or the average human, there was no way in hell he was going to fit his bulk through that hole. He got on the radio. Red One to Red Team … I want humans first… Hudathans last. We need a laser torch down here … and I mean now!”

Private Lars Lasker was among the first humans sent down. He landed on the mesh, freed himself from the rope, and turned toward the hatch. One glance at the Hudathan officer and the Thrakisized rectangle of light told him everything he needed to know. The legionnaire laughed, gave thanks for the protective visor, and ducked through the hatch.

There were boot prints in the blood, and the legionnaire followed a set down the corridor to the point where the passageway took a sharp righthand turn. Fareye and Warmfeel were waiting. They gestured. Lasker had no more than skidded to a stop when a bolt of energy hit the bulkhead to his left, made a black blotch, and left the odor of ozone floating on the air.

“Shit!” Fareye exclaimed, not wanting to stick his head around the comer. “What the hell was that? Some sort of crew served energy cannon?”

“No such luck,” Lasker replied grimly. “Feel the deck.”

The scouts followed the human’s suggestion, felt the floor vibrate, and looked at each other in alarm. “It’s a robot,” Warmfeel exclaimed, “or robots plural.”

“Damn the fur balls anyway,” Lasker said darkly. “I heard they were into robots.”

“Fur balls?” Fareye growled. “You got a problem with fur?

“Hell, no,” the human replied hurriedly. “You ever seen my back? I got more fur than you do.”

“Let’s try to stay focused,” Warmfeel put in. “Are either one of you idiots packing a rollerbaU?”

“That’s affirmative,” Lasker replied. “I’m toting a satchel of six.”

“Well?” Fareye inquired sarcastically. “You gonna use them? Or send ‘em to your momma?”

“Sorry,” the human replied contritely, “here you go.”

Another energy bolt hit the wall, heat washed over the legionnaires, and air thumped their eardrums. “Damn,” Fareye complained, dipping into the haversack. “This bastard is starting to piss me off! Let’s see how the sonofabitch likes these babies…”

Just as the name would suggest the rollerballs were spherical in shape. The Naa felt for the thumb-sized depression, pressed three times in quick succession, and tossed the weapon around the comer. It bounced off the opposite wall and caromed down the hallway. Three more followed. The explosions shook the walls.

The legionnaires waited for a full thirty seconds before risking a peek. The rollerballs had accomplished their purpose. The attack robot was down. That’s when the newly liberated SeebaKa arrived, eyed the mass of twisted metal, and frowned. “So what the hell are you waiting for? A thank you note from General Booly? Let’s move out.”

Ice crackled, snow crunched, treads clattered, engines roared, and explosions pushed fountains of soil high into the air as a pair of Hudathan cyborgs advanced toward the end of the canyon. They operated side by side, tracks pushing them forward, white arm-mounted rollers applied pressure to the half frozen ground. Mines blew in response, a path was cleared, and the rest of Blue Team followed behind.

Captain McGowan stood atop the second quad back, braced herself against the side-to-side motion, and checked her wrist term. Blue Team was still on schedule, but just barely, and the hard part lay ahead.

Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov materialized at her side. He was a little man, no more than five-foot-five, but nobody thought about him that way. His face, sorrowful even during the best of times, looked positively funereal now. “No offense ma’am, but if you park your butt up here, the Thraki will blow it off.”

McGowan laughed. “What are you trying to say, Sergeant? That the target’s so big they couldn’t miss?”

Kreshnekov shook his head. His expression remained the same. “No, ma’am. I’m saying that we’re coming up on those automated weapons positions, and the moment you die Lieutenant Seebo will assume command.”

The comment, which bordered on disrespectful, would have been cause for rebuke had it originated from another NCO. But McGowan had known Kreshnekov for a long time, and that made a difference. Neither put much trust in Seebo. She grimaced. “Point taken. Sergeant. Button it up.”

Weapons Emplacement 14 took its orders from the Command and Control computer located deep within the Thraki complex, but had its own localized intelligence as well, to lighten Central’s load and provide tactical redundancy. Sensors registered heat and movement. Scanners checked the atmosphere and detected no signs of incoming aircraft. Convinced that it was safe to engage surface targets, the computer brought 14’s weapons on line, and ordered the target lasers, energy cannon, and launch racks to tilt downward. The computer confirmed a lock, checked with Central, and opened fire. Emplacements 12, 13, and 15 did likewise.

Energy beams stuttered toward the ground, missiles raced to their targets, and the valley seemed to explode.

Sheltered as his brain tissue was by layers of steel armor, the heavy known as Bak BorioBa took note of the incoming ordinance but was more annoyed than frightened. That kind of fear, the type associated with the possibility of physical harm, had been left with his biological body. The sense of invulnerability was deceptive—he knew that—and had been warned to be on the lookout for it, but felt it anyway. Columns of snow-tinged dirt soared into the air. A quad exploded, killing all of those within. Steel fell like rain.

BorloBa thought death toward those who sought to harm him. Servos whined as a pair of tubes rose and spun to the right. The Hudathan’s energy cannon burped coherent light, pulverized rock squirted away from the canyon wall, and pebbles clattered across the top of the hull.

The attack, which had been coordinated by Central, met with a well-orchestrated response. By using hardware and software developed for that very purpose, the borgs were able to construct a temporary or “flying” parallel processor that divided the overall problem into subtasks and worked them simultaneously.

Return fire was prioritized, coordinated, and adjusted. Emplacement 12 was the first to go offline, quickly followed by 14, which took two missiles in quick succession. It opened like an orange-yellow flower. The sound of the explosion was still bouncing back and forth between the canyon walls when the surviving cyborgs entered the maze of obstacles.

Corporal Norly Snyder found the first tank trap the hard way by guiding her enormous body out onto what looked like solid ground, only to have it give way beneath her. The pit, which had been dug based on intelligence obtained from the Hegemony during the early days of the clone-Thraki alliance, was a perfect fit. Though only ten feet deep, it was sufficient to prevent Snyder from climbing out without assistance.

The mine, which exploded the moment she landed on it, settled the matter. Her armor held, protecting the troops riding in her belly, but the cyborg’s right rear leg was damaged beyond repair.

McGowan, who along with Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov, was among those riding in Snyder’s cargo compartment, felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, swore when the barrel of her assault rifle tagged her chin, and knew something was wrong. The explosion, which she experienced as a dull thump, served to confirm that impression. She activated the intercom. “Snyder? What the hell happened?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the cyborg replied sheepishly, “but I fell into some sort of pit. A mine blew one of my legs off.”

“Any tissue damage?”

“No, ma’am. I feel stupid that’s all.”

“Could happen to anyone,” the officer replied. “How ‘bout the Galling gun? Is it still operational?”

“Green to go,” Snyder replied eagerly. “It will clear the edge of the pit if I push it all the way up.”

“Then do so,” McGowan instructed. “Watch for friendlies, mark your field of fire, and stand by. The traps are there for a reason. We can expect a counterattack any moment now.”

“Roger that,” the quad acknowledged grimly. “I’ll be ready.”

McGowan replied with two clicks of the switch and nodded to Kreshnekov. “Is everyone okay? Let’s bait out.”

The rear hatch whined open, boots thundered down the ramp, and a familiar cry was heard. “Camerone!”

McGowan joined the response. “CAMERONE!”

Section Leader Hak Brunara prepared himself to meet the gods. Like all the Thraki under his command, the marine had never fought an actual engagement before and knew that most, if not all, of the enemy troops had.

Now, with half of their cybernetic vehicles trapped in the maze, and the rest backed up behind them, battletested infantry were boiling up out of the pits, trenches, and channels that cut the snowcrusted ground.

Even as Brunara stood, even as he signaled the advance, the section leader knew the transports were being loaded. Many would escape, would live to see their loved ones, but not him. Everything seemed so bright, so very, very clear as the marine yelled “Advance!” and led his troops into battle. Snowflakes caressed his face, bullets ripped through his chest, and light flooded his mind. The gods …

Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo872 was pissed. Consistent with his worst suspicions, the Hudathan heavy had wandered into a labyrinth of concrete barriers where it had been ambushed by a Thraki anti-armor team. They were dead—but the problem lived on. How to take the objective with minimum casualties to his clone brothers? The answer presented itself in the form of Gunnery Sergeant Roily True Bear’s leathery face. “The heavy is dead, sir—that’s the way it seems anyway—and we’re taking fire.”

Armor rang as bullets bounced off the Hudathan hull. “Thanks for the intelligence summary,” Seebo said sarcastically. “Genius, pure genius. Now that you have proved your worth as a strategist—it’s time to earn your spurs as a tactician. Take your people out there and secure our perimeter.”

True Bear looked the officer up and down. Seebo appeared small in the Hudathan-sized seat. The legionnaire’s voice dripped with contempt. “Sir! Yes, sir. Let us know when you boys are ready to come out. We’ll be waiting.”

True Bear turned and nodded to Dietrich. The grenadier hit a saucer-sized button. Servos whined, double doors opened outwards, and the noncom waved to his troops. “Vive le Legion!”

Dietrich hung back as the rest of his platoon double-timed out through the hatch, waited for the doors to swing inward, and nodded to the clones. “See ya later assholes … sweet dreams.”

Lieutenant Seebo saw the legionnaire’s mouth move, saw something fly between the steadily closing doors, and heard the grenade clatter across the metal deck.

At least six of the clone brothers realized what had occurred and wore identical expressions of horror. They threw themselves forward, but harnesses held them in place.

Lieutenant Seebo screamed, but the sound of the explosion filled his ears.

Dietrich watched the doors seal, heard a muffled thud, and watch the borg’s body rock from side to side as some demo charges cooked off. Some people hated the Legion, and couldn’t wait to get out, but he wasn’t one of them. No, the Legion was family, the only family he had. And family comes first.

The heavy shuddered as metal sheared and a locker full of ammo exploded. A hatch cover sailed into the sky. Flames shot out of the cooling stacks. Heat blasted the legionnaire’s face. A voice crackled through his earplug. “Dietrich? Where the hell are you? Get up here and do your job.”

The grenadier backed away. “Sorry, Gunny. I had to take a pee… I’m on the way.”

Vice Admiral Ham Ista Rawan stood high on the catwalk, hands clasped behind his back, contemplating the scene below. The interceptors were hot and ready to launch. They crouched in flights of three, sitting on their skids, waiting to lift. The transports, all of which were fully loaded, sat ready to follow. Assuming the fighters could punch a hole through the Confederate air cover and assuming the larger vessels could escape the orbiting warship, the majority of his people would make it to Zynig47.

As for the rest, well, they had done their duty. First against the troops who had dropped through the air shafts—and then on the canyon floor. Even now, he could hear the dull thump, thump, thump of cannon fire interspersed with the crackle of assault weapons. His marines were dying. The officer’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice in his ear. “The transports are ready, Admiral… and the launch parameters are optimum.”