Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (63 page)

No more encouragement was needed. We charged ahead
, over the rubble and corpse-filled trench. Zalton went down. Sergeant Sayrah drained the last of the power pack and threw the heavy laser aside. O’Vorley, Potts, and I laid into the wave of Stegmar. The two marines near Potts died while downing a Crax trio.

They came on. Thirty yards. Twenty yards. I reloaded. O’Vorley turned and fired on Stegmar in the trench line to our rear.

I emptied my shotgun and Potts did his assault rifle as the insectoid enemy leapt over the edge. Everything was a blur. Stab, slice with my bayonet. Block with stock, smash with shotgun butt.

Potts’s machete flashed. He beheaded one Stegmar and whacked two arms from another before three came down on him. He bellowed, hacked and punched. I smashed one on his back before it could tear into him with claws and hooked knives.

That was all I could do. Instinct called. I swung my barrel overhead and clipped one in mid-flight with my A-Tech bayonet, shearing through its abdomen. I stomped what was left of the tenacious mantis warrior, only to have three close and fire needles. Most deflected off my helmet or didn’t penetrate my combat gear, but two pierced the flesh of my left hand.

I had trouble holding my shotgun so I dropped it and drew my revolver. Another needle nicked my chin as the first AP round burst through a chitinous head. I thumbed back for the second when a grayish beam, maybe gold, sliced the remaining two in half. Several more beams arced.

“Phibs on the ground,” I shouted. My jaw was numb but workable. I turned and kicked a Stegmar Mantis struggling with Potts. It landed four feet away. I aimed and killed it.

Potts staggered to his feet, then fell back. Blood flowed from his neck, face and chest.

“Hold on,” I said, administering anti-toxin to my numb left hand and chin.

“Kra!” O’Vorley shouted. “You’ve got to see this!”

I ignored him and focused on Potts. I tugged open the first aid kit on his belt. “Let me see.” I pried Potts’s hand from his neck. Blood pumped from a deep jagged tear. I slapped a bandage on it and applied pressure.

Potts gazed up at me, struggling to speak. Nothing came out except a trickle of blood. His eyes bulged in terror. He clasped his hands over mine.

“I’m right here, Potts,” I assured him. “The Phibs are on the move. Hold on.” I knew the wound was mortal, unless a medivac arrived within minutes. Maybe not that long.

A pair of hands injected pain meds. Sergeant Sayrah’s eyes met mine. She knew it, too. “You fight like a Marine,” she told Potts, wiping blood-matted hair from his forehead.

His eyes met mine again. More relaxed. The throbbing weakened.

“Would it be okay if I said a prayer?”

One crimson-stained hand slid up my arm and he nodded ever so slightly. His frightened eyes never left mine. I recited the 27th Psalm as best I could remember. It seemed appropriate. By the second verse Potts managed a grimaced smile. By the end of the sixth he was gone.

Sergeant Sayrah pulled my hand from Carver Potts’s neck. “Fine words, Keesay. You a preacher?”

“No. Practice,” I said. “Too much damn practice.” I pulled and pocketed Potts’s CNS modulator. No sense leaving intelligence assets. “Like they won’t recover any.”

“War’s like that,” Sayrah said. “A better death than acid or toxin.” She thumbed over her shoulder. Zalton was propped up, struggling to salvage an MP carbine. “Private Lazarus,” she winked. “Additional anti-toxin kicked in.” She whispered. “May be permanent nerve damage, but he’ll live.”

“Uh-oh,” said O’Vorley.

Maybe not, I thought, and stood to see what Kent was looking at. Sayrah did the same while helping Zalton to his feet.

A sleek, oblong war-machine maneuvered a half mile away. Enemy attack craft and fighters dove on it. Hostile artillery and armor fired on it. In response a beam emanated from the Phib tank. First flashing above, then behind. Where it touched, a fighter fell, or an enemy tank took damage, unless its shield was down. Those exploded.

The remnant of a smashed marine tank company fired on the enemy’s right flank. The Crax all but ignored them and concentrated fire on the Umbelgarri battle tank.

“Nine smaller combat bots were defending it,” said O’Vorley. “Some of the acid’s getting through. Only four now.”

“If they’ve got enough firepower to stop that Phib tank,” Sergeant Sayrah said, “they were just toying with us.”

“Lured them out,” agreed Private Zalton. “Look, they’re retreating.”

The Umbelgarri had inflicted damage in minutes that equaled what our armor had managed since the attack began. “If they call that a victory,” I said, loading my revolver. “They’re getting slaughtered.”

“So will we if we don’t get out of here,” said Sergeant Sayrah. “Everybody out.” She hefted Zalton, then held her hand as a step for me. “You’re next.”

Crack Crack
! MP fire. I made it out of the trench just in time to see Zalton die. An elite Gar-Crax warrior stepped over the bisected Marine.

“Gar warrior,” I yelled, diving and rolling. It followed. “Get clear. I’ll hold it.” I didn’t dare take my eyes from the towering, armored alien. I spit on my bayonet and held my shotgun in challenge.

It charged and swung its halberd. I retreated and deflected its strike. It seemed surprised. I sent buckshot into its face armor and charged. It blocked my thrust and slammed me in the side with the haft of its weapon.

Laser and MP fire bounced off its armor. It turned hissing and snarling.

“Get out of here,” I shouted. “I can take it.”

“Like hell,” Sayrah yelled. She fired laser blasts into its face, blinding it. It raked a stream of caustic pellets just over her and O’Vorley’s head.

I searched for a weakness and spotted where the armored bands met at the base of the tail and the leg. I stalked forward and drove my blade in.

It snarled and spun counterclockwise, flinging me to the ground. I held onto my gun and scrambled to my feet. My sawback blade was covered in blood and gore. I’d pissed it off and readied for its charge. A rip of cannon fire tore up the ground between us, and then slammed into the elite warrior. I ducked and fled the explosions. The auto cannon didn’t penetrate, but pounded the alien back. A round caught its halberd, knocking it away.

O’Vorley and Sayrah were already boarding the troop carrier. I circled wide and leapt up the ramp. “Go!” shouted Sayrah. The APC tore away before the ramp cycled shut.

“Look,” said O’Vorley. Fifty yards from the
trench line the pitted Umbelgarri battle tank stalled. Five giant armor-clad crabs, Bahklacks, emerged, surrounding a twelve-foot, low-slung quadruped. At first I thought it was an alligator. But then I noted the more rounded features and scintillating flesh. Harnessed to its back was a large tube. Like an intense floodlight, it rotated and flashed, slicing out at the closing enemy. The Bahklacks supported the foot-retreat with laser blasts.

“We can’t abandon them,” I called forward. I grabbed Sayrah’s sleeve. “We can’t.”

“They gave the order,” said the gunner. “We’re to defend the city.”

“No,” I said, peering out one of the ports. Several Bahklacks fell, their defense screens overwhelmed by acid. “They won’t even make it to the trench line.”

“Their choice,” Sayrah said. “Just like you intended to stand against that elite while we retreated.”

“But I had a chance.” She cocked her head in doubt. “I wounded it,” I said.

“You cut it.” She held up a hand. “No minor feat. But until then it didn’t think you could harm it.”

I detached, wiped, and sheathed my bayonet. “Why didn’t you run?”

She pointed to her stripes. “Sergeant.” Then she pointed to me. “Conscript. I’m your superior.” She sat back. “Who do you think is the senior partner in our alliance?”

O’Vorley pointed at me. “I prefer you alive, and that Crax knocked senseless in a trench.” He shouted forward, “Thanks for the pick up!”

“How long will we last?” I asked.

“Until reinforcements arrive,” said Sayrah.

“Oh shit,” screamed the gunner. “Attack craft!” The auto-cannon spit rounds skyward. The APC swerved.

I held on with one hand and threw MP reloads to O’Vorley. “More explosive rounds!”

“Good idea,” said Sayrah, discovering a cache of medium-duty power packs. “Damn lucky, Keesay,” she chuckled, and tossed me a bandoleer of shotgun shells.

Concussions echoed through the APC. “Reactive armor,” shouted Sayrah.

O’Vorley and I belted in and held our hands over our ears.

“Reload!” shouted the turret gunner.

Sergeant Sayrah yanked a box and slammed home a replacement. “Loaded!”

The gunner fired several more rounds before the APC banked sharply. First the driver, then the gunner screamed. The familiar acidic stench of dissolving metal and flesh filled the troop compartment. The APC straightened and rolled to a halt.

Sayrah manually lowered the ramp. “Keesay, O’Vorley, out!”

We grabbed our gear and ran. He went right. I went left and hit the dirt near a clump of buckwheat.

Sergeant Sayrah bolted past, and shouted, “Coming around for another pass!” She knelt and opened fire.

I drew my revolver and added several AP rounds, and O’Vorley cracked away with MP fire. Several of Sayrah’s blasts were on target. I think one of my rounds hit. It was hard to gauge what volume of O’Vorley’s struck.

At the last minute we dove for cover. It strafed and missed. The tail gunner sent a wild stream that came closer.

“She’s smoking,” said O’Vorley.

“And coming around again,” I said. “Any ideas?”

Sayrah pointed. “Cover.” She ran toward a decimated artillery battalion.

“That’s why she’s a sergeant,” said O’Vorley, pounding on her heels.

I pushed to keep up. “And I’m a relic conscript.”

“Spread out,” ordered Sayrah.

I dove behind a half-dissolved 6-inch towed howitzer.

A dozen assorted firearms added to our effort. The Crax attack craft pulled out before completing its pass. A ragged cheer rose from the destroyed gun emplacements and surrounding foxholes.

“Form up,” barked Sergeant Sayrah. She stood. “Form up and form up NOW!”

Fourteen conscripts emerged. All scanned warily behind and to the sky. An elderly conscript limped forward. “There’s two shell-shocked ones won’t move for anything,” he said.

I clicked on my com-set and searched frequencies. “Jamming is weak,” I said.

“See what you can hear while I round this rabble up. O’Vorley, check those trucks. We can’t stay here long.”

It was a sorry lot. No question why they weren’t defending the
trench line. Old men and others obviously not up to combat.

I picked up communication bits and fragments and tried to piece them together. Sayrah huddled the group between a half-dissolved emplacement and a burned-out ammo wagon. I approached and waited for her attention. She interrupted her organizational questioning. “Report, Keesay.”

“The north line collapsed. Ground assault shuttles are dropping Crax and Stegmar in the city. I heard the Stickley Café mentioned as a rally point. Ate there once before my assignment.”

“I know it,” said Sayrah. “It’s near the west end of the city. Good tea. Decent service.” She turned to the conscripts. “You heard that? That’s where we’re going. They’re fighting in the city. We’ve got to hold it.”

“Why?” asked a teenager. “We can fight just as well from here.”

Sergeant Sayrah’s freckles disappeared in red. “Because,” she said with forced calm, “a reinforced mechanized regiment is on our ass. And they want the city intact. They’ll be willing to waste more than a few Stegmar and an occasional Crax in taking it. But it’ll take time.”

“Time for our reinforcements,” I added.

They all looked less than convinced. Pursed lips, shaking heads and sighs. Marine Sergeant Sayrah trembled on the verge of violence.

I stepped closer. “Besides, that attack craft got away. They carry com-sets. Think he’ll forget to tell that closing regiment?” I pointed at the rising dust column. “Stay here if you want. I’m following the sergeant.”

O’Vorley ran up to Sayrah. “Sergeant, there’s a truck and an ATV with a small wagon full of rations. Looks like they’ll run. Everything else is wrecked.”

Sayrah scanned the area. “Good. A little luck. Any heavy weapons around here?”

“None of the artillery works,” said the teen.

The elderly man shook his head. “There’s a couple of heavy-duty lasers. None of us know how to use ’em. All we got are these.” He held up an MP carbine. Most had carbines with a few MP rifles and pistols.

“Where?” Sayrah followed the limping man to a bunkered ammo dump. “Keesay, O’Vorley, bring the vehicles here.”

O’Vorley looked at the two-and-a-half ton transport truck.

“I’ll take it.” Luckily I’d observed a colonist session on driving aboard the
Kalavar
. One of the instructors let me put theory into practice in repayment for keeping an eye on Carver Potts. Thinking of Potts caused me to stall it once. After that I shifted gears smoothly. I followed O’Vorley on the six-wheeled ATV with wagon in tow. It was a smaller version of the one that delivered our daily rations.