The Mammoth Book of SF Wars (47 page)

As though in answer to his wish, 2900 called, “Show some snap for once, 2910. He says He wants us in the CP.”

When he himself thought
He
,
He
meant God; but 2900 meant Lieutenant Kyle. That was why 2900 was a platoon leader, no doubt; that and the irrational prestige of a round number. He climbed out of the trench and followed him to the CP. They needed a communicating trench, but that was something there hadn’t been time for yet.

Brenner had someone (2788? Looked like him, but he couldn’t be certain) down on his table. Shrapnel, probably from a grenade. Brenner did not look up as they came in, but 2910 could see his face was still white with fear although the attack had been over for a full quarter of an hour. He and 2900 ignored the SBS man and saluted Lieutenant Kyle.

The company commander smiled. “Stand at ease, HORARS. Have any trouble in your sector?”

2900 said, “No sir. The light machine gun got one group of three and 2910 here knocked off a group of two. Not much of an attack on our front, sir.”

Lieutenant Kyle nodded. “I thought your platoon had the easiest time of it, 2900, and that’s why I’ve picked you to run a patrol for me this morning.”

“That’s fine with us, sir.”

“You’ll have Pinocchio, and I thought you’d want to go yourself and take 2910’s gang.”

He glanced at 2910. “Your squad still at full strength?”

2910 said, “Yes, sir,” making an effort to keep his face impassive. He wanted to say: I shouldn’t have to go on patrol. I’m human as you are, Kyle, and patrolling is for things grown in tubes, things fleshed out around metal skeletons, things with no family and no childhood behind them.

Things like my friends.

He added, “We’ve been the luckiest squad in the company, sir.”

“Fine. Let’s hope your luck holds, 2910.” Kyle’s attention switched back to 2900. “I’ve gotten under the leaf canopy with the ornithocopter and done everything except make it walk around like a chicken. I can’t find a thing and it’s drawn no fire, so you ought to be OK. You’ll make a complete circuit of the camp without getting out of range of mortar support. Understand?”

2900 and 2910 saluted, about-faced, and marched out. 2910 could feel the pulse in his neck; he flexed and unflexed his hands unobtrusively as he walked. 2900 asked, “Think we’ll catch any of them?” It was an unbending for him – the easy camaraderie of anticipated action.

“I’d say so. I don’t think the CO’s had long enough with the bird to make certain of anything except that their main force has pulled out of range. I hope so.”

And that’s the truth, he thought. Because a good hot fire-fight would probably do it – round the whole thing out so I can get out of here.

Every two weeks a helicopter brought supplies and, when they were needed, replacements. Each trip it also carried a correspondent whose supposed duty was to interview the commanders of the camps the copter visited. The reporter’s name was Keith Thomas, and for the past two months he had been the only human being with whom 2910 could take off his mask.

Thomas carried scribbled pages from the notebook under 2910’s air mattress when he left, and each time he came managed to find some corner in which they could speak in private for a few seconds. 2910 read his mail then and gave it back. It embarrassed him to realize that the older reporter viewed him with something not far removed from hero worship.

I can get out of here, he repeated to himself. Write it up and tell Keith we’re ready to use the letter.

2900 ordered crisply, “Fall in your squad. I’ll get Pinocchio and meet you at the south gate.”

“Right.” He was suddenly seized with a desire to tell someone, even 2900, about the letter. Keith Thomas had it, and it was really only an undated note, but it was signed by a famous general at Corps Headquarters. Without explanation it directed that number 2910 be detached from his present assignment and placed under the temporary order of Mr K. Thomas, Accredited Correspondent. And Keith would use it any time he asked him to. In fact, he had wanted to on his last trip.

He could not remember giving the order, but the squad was falling in, lining up in the rain for his inspection almost as smartly as they had on the drill field back at the crêche. He gave “At Ease” and looked them over while he outlined the objectives of the patrol. As always, their weapons were immaculate despite the dampness, their massive bodies ramrod-straight, their uniforms as clean as conditions permitted.

The LA Rams with guns, he thought proudly. Barking “On Phones”, he flipped the switch on his helmet that would permit 2900 to knot him and the squad together with Pinocchio in a unified tactical unit. Another order and the HORARS deployed around Pinocchio with the smoothness of repeated drill, the wire closing the south gate was drawn back, and the patrol moved out.

With his turret retracted, Pinocchio the robot tank stood just three feet high, and he was no wider than an automobile; but he was as long as three, so that from a distance he had something of the look of a railroad flatcar. In the jungle his narrow front enabled him to slip between the trunks of the unconquerable giant hardwoods, and the power in his treads could flatten saplings and bamboo. Yet resilient organics and sintered metals had turned the rumble of the old, manned tanks to a soft hiss for Pinocchio. Where the jungle was free of undergrowth he moved as silently as a hospital cart.

His immediate precursor had been named “Punch”, apparently in the sort of simpering depreciation which found “Shillelagh” acceptable for a war rocket. “Punch” – a bust in the mouth.

But Punch, which like Pinocchio had possessed a computer brain and no need of a crew (or for that matter room for one except for an exposed vestigial seat on his deck), had required wires to communicate with the infantry around him. Radio had been tried, but the problems posed by static, jamming, and outright enemy forgery of instructions had been too much for Punch.

Then an improved model had done away with those wires and some imaginative officer had remembered that “Mr Punch” had been a knockabout marionette – and the wireless improvement was suddenly very easy to name. But, like Punch and its fairy-tale namesake, it was vulnerable if it went out into the world alone.

A brave man (and the Enemy had many) could hide himself until Pinocchio was within touching distance. And a well-instructed one could then place a hand grenade or a bottle of gasoline where it would destroy him. Pinocchio’s three-inch-thick armour needed the protection of flesh, and since he cost as much as a small city and could (if properly protected) fight a regiment to a stand, he got it.

Two scouts from 2910’s squad preceded him through the jungle, forming the point of the diamond. Flankers moved on either side of him “beating the bush” and, when it seemed advisable, firing a pattern of flechettes into any suspicious-looking piece of undergrowth. Cheerful, reliable 2909, the assistant squad leader, with one other HORAR formed the rear guard. As patrol leader 2900’s position was behind Pinocchio, and as squad leader 2910’s was in front.

The jungle was quiet with an eerie stillness, and it was dark under the big trees. “Though I walk in the valley of the shadow …”

Made tiny by the phones, 2900 squeaked in his ear, “Keep the left flankers further out!” 2910 acknowledged and trotted over to put his own stamp on the correction, although the flankers, 2913, 2914 and 2915, had already heard it and were moving to obey. There was almost no chance of trouble this soon, but that was no excuse for a slovenly formation. As he squeezed between two trees something caught his eye and he halted for a moment to examine it. It was a skull: a skull of bone rather than a smooth HORAR skull of steel, and so probably an Enemy’s.

A big “E” Enemy’s, he thought to himself. A man to whom the normal HORAR conditioning of exaggerated respect bordering on worship did not apply.

Tiny and tinny, “Something holding you up, 2910?”

“Be right there.” He tossed the skull aside. A man whom even a HORAR could disobey; a man even a HORAR could kill. The skull had looked old, but it could not have been old. The ants would have picked it clean in a few days, and in a few weeks it would rot. But it was probably at least seventeen or eighteen years old.

The ornithocopter passed them on flapping wings, flying its own search pattern. The patrol went on.

Casually 2910 asked his helmet mike, “How far are we gong? Far as the creek?”

2900’s voice squeaked, “We’ll work our way down the bank a quarter mile, then cut west,” then with noticeable sarcasm added, “if that’s OK with you?”

Unexpectedly Lieutenant Kyle’s voice came over the phones. “2910’s your second in command, 2900. He has a duty to keep himself informed of your plans.”

But 2910, realizing that a real HORAR would not have asked the question, suddenly also realized that he knew more about HORARS than the company commander did. It was not surprising – he ate and slept with them in a way Kyle could not, but it was disquieting. He probably knew more than Brenner, strict biological mechanics excepted, as well.

The scouts had reported that they could see the sluggish jungle stream they called the creek when Lieutenant Kyle’s voice came over the phones again. As routinely as he had delivered his mild rebuke to 2900 he announced, “Situation Red here. An apparent battalion-level attack hitting the North Point. Let’s suck it back in, patrol.”

Pinocchio swivelled 180° by locking his right tread, and the squad turned in a clockwise circle around him. Kyle said distantly, “The recoillesses don’t seem to have found the range yet, so I’m going out to give them a hand. Mr Brenner will be holding down the radio for the next few minutes.”

2900 transmitted, “We’re on our way, sir.”

Then 2910 saw a burst of automatic weapon’s fire cut his scouts down. In an instant the jungle was a pandemonium of sound.

Pinocchio’s radar had traced the bullets back to their source and his main armament slammed a 155 mm shell at it, but crossfire was suddenly slicing in from all around them. The bullets striking Pinocchio’s turret screamed away like damned souls. 2910 saw grenades arc out of nowhere and something struck his thigh with terrible force. He made himself say, “I’m hit, 2909; take the squad,” before he looked at it. Mortar shells were dropping in now and if his assistant acknowledged, he did not hear.

A big of jagged metal from a grenade or a mortar round had laid the thigh open, but apparently missed the big artery supplying the lower leg. There was no spurt, only a rapid welling of blood, and shock still held the injury numb. Forcing himself, he pulled apart the lips of the wound to make sure it was clear of foreign matter. It was very deep but the bone was not broken; at least so it seemed.

Keeping as low as he could, he used his trench knife to cut away the cloth of his trousers leg, then rigged a tourniquet with his belt. His aid packet contained a pad of gauze, and tape to hold it in place. When he had finished he lay still, holding his M-19 and looking for a spot where its fire might do some good. Pinocchio was firing his turret machine gun in routine bursts, sanitizing likely looking patches of jungle; otherwise the fight seemed to have quieted down.

2900’s voice in his ear called, “Wounded? We got any wounded?”

He managed to say, “Me. 2910.” A HORAR would feel some pain, but not nearly as much as a man. He would have to fake the insensitivity as best he could. Suddenly it occurred to him that he would be invalided out, would not have to use the letter, and he was glad.

“We thought you bought it, 2910. Glad you’re still around.”

Then Brenner’s voice cut through the transmission, jumpy with panic: “We’re being overrun here! Get the Pinocchio back at once.”

In spite of his pain 2910 felt contempt. Only Brenner would say “
the
Pinocchio”. 2900 sent, “Coming, sir,” and unexpectedly was standing over him, lifting him up.

He tried to look around for the squad. “We lose many?”

“Four dead and you.” Perhaps no other human would have detected the pain in 2900’s harsh voice. “You can’t walk with that, can you?”

“I couldn’t keep up.”

“You ride Pinocchio then.” With surprising gentleness the platoon leader lifted him into the little seat the robot tank’s director used when road speeds made running impractical. What was left of the squad formed a skirmish line ahead. As they began to trot forward he could hear 2900 calling, “Base camp! Base camp! What’s your situation there, sir?”

“Lieutenant Kyle’s dead,” Brenner’s voice came back. “3003 just came in and told me Kyle’s dead!”

“Are you holding?”

“I don’t know.” More faintly 2910 could hear him asking, “Are they holding, 3003?”

“Use the periscope, sir. Or if it still works, the bird.”

Brenner chattered, “I don’t know if we’re holding or not. 3003 was hit and now he’s dead. I don’t think he knew anyway. You’ve got to hurry.”

It was contrary to regulations, but 2910 flipped off his helmet phone to avoid hearing 2900’s patient reply. With Brenner no longer gibbering in his ears he could hear not too distantly the sound of explosions which must be coming from the camp. Small fire made an almost incessant buzz as a background for the whizz–bang! of incoming shells and the coughing of the camp’s own mortars.

Then the jungle was past and the camp lay in front of them. Geysers of mud seemed to be erupting from it everywhere. The squad broke into a full run and, even while he rolled, Pinocchio was firing his 155 in support of the camp.

They faked us out, 2910 reflected. His leg throbbed painfully but distantly and he felt light-headed and dizzy – as though he were an ornithocopter hovering in the misty rain over his own body. With the light-headedness came a strange clarity of mind.

They faked us out. They got us used to little probes that pulled off at sunrise, and then when we sent Pinocchio out they were going to ambush us and take the camp. It suddenly occurred to him that he might find himself still on this exposed seat in the middle of the battle; they were already approaching the edge of the minefield, and the HORARS ahead were moving into squad column so as not to overlap the edges of the cleared lane. “Where are we going, Pinocchio?” he asked, then realized his phone was still off. He reactivated it and repeated the question.