Glory Main (17 page)

“Which means they're waiting for help to get here.”

“How about us, sir?” Cranther spoke gently. “Are we waiting for help?”

The major snorted before sitting back down. “Of course not. We were only a battalion when we landed, they never sent the second wave, and then they ran off on us after that. Oh, they might be back someday, once they've figured out how to drive through armpit-­deep mud, but they won't be coming for us.” He paused. “But we don't need them anyway.”

“What was that, sir?” Mortas hadn't known he was about to speak, but the words hung in the darkness.

“I said we don't need them, Lieutenant. The enemy will be reinforced any day now, probably a whole squadron, which will replace all their ships that we destroyed. That's why I've spent so much time scouting the arrangement of that base. Once the Sim reaction force comes down, we're going to steal one of their ships and get off this rotten planet.”

He looked up, his smile widening.

“And you four are going to help us.”

H
elp you how?

Mortas knew the question was on all their minds, but he also knew better than to put it into words. Command took a dim view of insubordination at the best of times, but in a crisis like this even a dissenting opinion could be fatal. He searched out Cranther's eyes, and the scout gave him the smallest nod.

He understood what I wanted without hearing a single word. We're more of a unit after just a few days than this grab bag will ever be.

“Major, I believe Corporal Cranther has had some experience in this sort of thing. Particularly stealing a ship from the enemy. I wonder if you might like to discuss your plan with him.”

“Really?” It was the first time Shalley had appeared remotely lifelike. “That true, Corporal?”

“Yes sir. I've had to commandeer a ride from the enemy once or twice.”

“Well, step up here.” The major moved to the ring of sticks, producing a telescoping pointer and extending it. “As you can see, we're faced with the standard defense arrangement for a new Sim colony. Reactive wire, anti-­vehicular ditch, concrete fighting positions, and active mines, all of which are a real problem. But their perimeter is elongated to incorporate their spacedrome, and their defenses weren't completed when we hit them. In the meantime I believe they don't have sufficient troops to man all those positions anyway. The drome itself was heavily damaged in the initial bombardment, but they've repaired much of that and appear ready to accept the relief squadron when it gets here.”

“Excuse me, sir, but where did they put the wrecks?”

“Damn good question, Scout.” The pointer touched a wall-­like heap of stones. “They pushed most of it off to this side of the main pad. It would serve as an excellent screen for our movements, but unfortunately that's not a good approach route.”

“I was thinking it might hide a smaller party working its way through the obstacles.”

The commander mulled this over. “Think that would work?”

“It's a good access point. Piling that junk up has disjointed their perimeter.” Cranther aped the major's earlier presentation-­speak, reminding Mortas that he'd been trained to brief high-­level commanders in their own terminology. “Any change to a standard defensive layout is usually a good opportunity for the aggressor, and an adjustment they made in an emergency is bound to have created a hole or a blind spot or both. Not to mention it's on the far side of the settlement, and judging from what we've seen their defenses are oriented in this direction.”

“They have to be. As I said, they're as short of manpower as we are . . . just a second. What have you seen of their defenses?”

“Nothing, really. That's why I think they've got the bulk of their attention facing these hills where you are. We came from this direction here.” Cranther walked around the diagram and began carving a line in the dirt with a spare stick. “We crossed a river, that was the first time we encountered the serpents—­”

“Fuckin' things. Attacked us as we were retreating. They've really channelized our movement since then. Can't go near the water.”

Cranther shot Mortas a look. “That's what we discovered. The enemy has a temporary bridge right about here, which was guarded by what appeared to be two colony militia members. We killed them both, dumped them in the water, and kept going. We only encountered enemy fire once we'd climbed the ridge near the battlefield. That's why I say their defense is oriented more in this direction.”

“Makes sense. Our patrols never went near this bridge of yours. Our earliest efforts went down this ridge, the one closest to the settlement, and almost every time they bumped into counter-­surveillance patrols. Later on I sent them around in a wider arc. Those were the ones that came back with the real intel.”

“It might be helpful if I had a look up there myself, sir.” Cranther made this offer as if he was thinking out loud, a subtle manipulation that Mortas recognized as the first step in getting them away from this circus. “Get an updated picture, I mean.”

“Oh, I'd like nothing better, Scout.” The major closed the pointer while regarding the sand table as if seeing it for the first time. “But that enemy reaction force is overdue, and I want to be ready to move when it gets here.”

Shalley turned to look at Mortas and the others. “You see, there's an incredible amount of confusion when that many reinforcements land somewhere, Sim base or human. That spacedrome is going to be utter chaos for a time. And if they get attacked at one point on the settlement perimeter while that's going on, they're gonna throw a big chunk of those fresh troops directly at that spot. They'll have new guys running all over the place, no idea where they are. And if the base gets attacked just a few minutes later at a different location, whoever's left standing around is gonna get tossed at that.”

The major paused, and the corners of his mouth curled up as if he'd arrived at a conclusion that pleased him mightily.

“They're gonna be jumping all over the place at that drome, and a small group using that debris pile for cover is going to have a decent shot at crossing the open and hijacking one of the ships that can handle human passengers.”

The pointer came out again as the plan fell into place, and Shalley extended it to its full length. He tapped the pile of rocks that indicated the Sim ships destroyed in the initial bombardment. “Corporal, you'll be with me and the last group, coming through here. Our faithful sergeant will be leading the second attack, hitting the perimeter almost directly across from us.

“And you, Lieutenant Mortas, as the only officer besides me, you get the prize. You get to start this show with the initial assault right here.” He pointed at a spot very near the field of wrecked assault vehicles, as if Mortas would be continuing the attack that had bogged down on the first day. The very heart of the enemy defense belt.

The pointer snicked closed again, and Major Shalley looked at Mortas with a wide grin. “Right about now I bet you wish your dad really
was
a senator, huh?”

 

CHAPTER 8

“A
ctually, sir, I was hoping you might let me take the others with me. They've been watching my back these past few days and it would help me recon the far side of the drome—­where we'd be coming through.” To Mortas, Cranther seemed to be talking from a great distance. “If you haven't had eyes-­on there recently, they might have changed up on you.”

“I already told you there's no time for that, Scout.”

“But it's worth it, sir. Think about it: the four of us have seen the ground on the other side of the river and everything from there to here, so if you let us check out the far side of the drome, we'll be the only members of your command who've been all the way around this place.”

Mortas heard the words but somehow couldn't focus on them. The strain of the last few days, the physical toll of intense hunger and sleep deprivation, their brush with extinction on the ridge, and now the discovery that salvation was going to be snatched away finally combined to overload his brain. A pair of intense thoughts did manage to fight their way through the mental murk, though.

We have to get away from this bunch.

I have to get
my ­people
away from them.

The major was talking. “That would be quite a valuable thing, Corporal, but I'm dead certain the Sim reaction force is going to be here in the next few hours.”

“And what makes you think that?” Trent stepped up next to him, her eyes on the sand table as if memorizing it.

“Already forgotten that long, noisy bombardment a ­couple hours ago? The one that brought you to us? They haven't thrown anything like that since the first day. A few times they've dropped those blasted mud-­makers on what was left of our vehicles, when they saw we were getting weapons and chow from them, but nothing bigger than that. So why did they just expend all that ordnance on that valley tonight?”

“Could be any number of different reasons,” Trent murmured, and Mortas found his dulled mind locking on to her words. “They might have thought you were making a move on them, using the wrecks as cover. Or maybe somebody in their perimeter just got nervous. The Sims get nervous, you know, just like we do.”

Her voice was soft, soothing, and Shalley turned to give her his full attention.

“That was an awful lot of ammunition if they're just nervous, Captain.” The comment had no bite to it, so Trent continued. Her tone continued gentle and warm.

“Really? How would you know what's a lot for them? What if they have much, much more than that and just decided to use some of it? That's reasonable, isn't it?”

“No, if they had a lot they would have fired it by now.” The major's reply carried no conviction, as if he was explaining something that was of little importance. “You see, we've been fucking with them every night since we got here, so badly that they only come out during the day. In darkness they hunker down, and if they had any extra ordnance they would have used it to defend themselves. They're so desperate that they've been filling in the ravines so we can't sneak up on them. They're shit-­scared of us, and they were holding on to all that ammunition as a reserve, in case we come through the wire at them.

“But tonight they fired at least a hundred rounds at us, which can only mean one thing. They're expecting reinforcements and resupply very, very soon.”

“Maybe you should let us go take a look anyway.”

Mortas shook his head, not believing what he was seeing and hearing. Shalley seemed actually befuddled by the very same suggestion that he'd summarily dismissed when Cranther made it. The man's argument made sense and showed a good grasp of Sim tactics, but still he appeared to be giving strong consideration to the military advice of a psychoanalyst.

That's it—­she's pulling some kind of headshrinker stuff on him. The low voice, the suggestions . . . the guy's probably as zapped as we are. That's why it's working.

“It really couldn't hurt to let us try, could it? Right?”

Major Shalley looked up with eyes that were unfocused and lost, and his mouth opened in what Mortas was sure would be assent. Unfortunately that was the moment when the sergeant came back, appearing so suddenly that Mortas almost jumped in surprise. He took a step back as if disengaging physically, and was intrigued to see that he and the major hadn't been the only ones affected by Trent's efforts. Cranther's lower lip was under his front teeth, and Gorman appeared to be almost asleep.

“Sergeant. Good, good. I've adjusted the plan to include our latest arrivals and wanted to tell you about it.” Shalley drew the man with him toward the sand table, and Mortas decided he really didn't care to learn what the two were cooking up. He moved off a few steps, and the others followed.

“Nice try there.” Mortas whispered to Trent. “You almost had him.”

“Yeah, Captain—­what was that trick? Hypnosis?”

“I wish.” Trent regarded the major's back with a speculative look. “But he's practically out on his feet, so it was easier than you might think.” She turned to Mortas. “You do know we have to find a way to ditch these ­people? Before they split us up?”

“She's right. Now's the time.” Cranther cast a quick glance at the other two. “It's still dark out, and their security sucks. Let's just start moving back down the passage real quiet, and as soon as we're out of sight it's up-­and-­over time.”

As badly as he wanted to get away, Mortas couldn't help considering just how that would look if any of the troops in the gully managed to get back to Command. Desertion was a hard charge to beat, and under the current circumstances . . .

“Okay, come with me.” The sergeant was approaching, and the moment was gone anyway. There was actual buoyancy in his step, and he wasn't trying to hide the triumphant smile of having passed the worst job in Shalley's attack plan to Mortas. He ushered them down the passage, but stopped short of where the others were sleeping. The smile slipped away, but the words were almost mocking. “Lieutenant, I'll talk you through the breaching part of this operation in just a bit. We salvaged a lot of explosives, so I think you'll have enough to blow down whatever's left of their obstacles.”

Blow down their obstacles. The phrase conjured up memories of a ridiculous training event he'd once been tasked to command, an infantry assault on a Sim strongpoint. It had been a complex operation, with live engineer support and numerous phases that had seemed simple when briefed. He'd ended up so focused on remembering what action took place in what sequence that he'd almost completely forgotten the robot enemy that opposed them. While he'd been busily dispatching security teams this way and support-­fire teams that way, the enemy had slipped down from their bunkers and shot up the crawling engineers long before the doomed sappers got even close to the targets of their explosives.

He'd been chewed out by a crusty colonel for having flunked the exercise so badly, but right in the middle of that he'd looked over the man's shoulder at the foolishly simple arrangement of defensive wire that had thwarted him. It wasn't half as complex as the enemy obstacle belts he'd viewed on the Bounce, and the exercise of course hadn't included any of the fiendish devices the Sims could shoot and throw through the air at exposed troops like the breaching teams. His sappers had been wiped out by simple direct fire from rifles, and he'd sworn then and there that the only way he would ever try a breaching assault was inside an armored vehicle.

The sergeant turned to Trent and Gorman. “Do either of you know how to load and fire a Scorpion?”

“I do,” Trent answered unhappily, and when Mortas gave her a questioning look she explained with a shrug. “I told you I don't have much to do in my job. So I ask ­people to teach me theirs.”

“I don't.” Gorman looked right into the NCO's eyes. “I'm an objector. It's against my principles to wield a weapon.”

“Is staying alive against your principles?”

“It can be—­and in that case I'd rather die.”

The big man's face screwed up in annoyance, and he leaned in close to Gorman even though the chartist didn't move. “Oh, would you? Well that's fine when you're alone, but you're gonna be with a bunch of good men trying to fight their way onto that base, and you're going to help them.”

“I can help. I just won't fight.”

“So you say. But I got news for you: you're wrong. I've seen it myself. You pacifists get in the thick of it and you suddenly find out your survival instincts are as strong as anybody else's. Then you start fighting like ten mad bastards, except you're shooting like ten mad spastics because you don't know one end of a rifle from the other. So you are
going
to learn how to load and fire one of these weapons.”

“No I'm not.”

Cranther raised a hand, his eyes holding Mortas back. “Hey Sarge, why don't you let me teach him? And the Captain too, no matter what she says about already knowing how.”

Cranther, you devious little son of a bitch. Where would we be without you?

The big man relaxed, his mind already moving on to all the things he still had to do in order to shift the hard job onto Mortas. “That would be just fine. We'll get you a rifle, but we're low on ammunition so—­”

The dark stillness was broken by a sharp cry, clearly human, somewhere on the surface above. It was immediately followed by the sound of nearby gunfire, a frantic burst cut short followed by more shots. Human weapons, and Sim weapons too.

Cranther was already scrambling up the wall in the direction of the noise, and Mortas followed him in a reflex. The dirt came loose in dry handfuls as they went up, but they stopped short of exposing themselves as they'd practiced countless times in the days and nights before. A long, high-­pitched scream met them at the top and the scene before them was chaos.

The few sentries still living were running toward them at a breakneck pace, terror stamped on their straining faces and some without weapons. Not many yards behind them the darkness seemed to ripple like an ocean wave, and then it cascaded into definition as a long line of armed troops charging forward. Not shooting because that would slow them down too much. Not throwing grenades because they were moving too fast.

Sims.

Cranther had his arm, yanking him back down into the gully. They landed in a pile on top of Trent and Gorman, but fear got them right back up again. All was sound and movement in the trench, the sergeant hollering “Up! Up! Up on the line!” dark figures struggling to their feet or up the incline, more screams from above, now bodies tumbling into the gully or landing full in its center, the remaining sentries reaching safety just a few steps ahead of their pursuers. A brief, roaring volley from the troops who'd made it to the top, the night illuminated by white light ripping straight out of the rifle barrels, Mortas taking in a rapid-­fire succession of images as the bodies in the gully leapt about in confusion, whipping his head side to side in search of a weapon just before the wave hit them.

Dozens of bodies came jumping straight into the ravine as if they hadn't known it was there. Sims bouncing off the opposite wall, dirt flying, humans pulled off the parapet, falling in a tangle of weapons and arms and legs and screams that rent the air. More shots now, close range, the whole world was shouts and booms and flailing arms and legs. A flare burst just overhead, swinging wildly on a parachute and casting the gully into daylight and then night as it whipped around. Light flashed off of Sim helmets, Sim combat harnesses, long Sim bayonets on the ends of Sim rifles. More humans running into the crush, more shots and screams, and a Scorpion rifle skittered down the slope a few yards from Mortas.

He jumped for the weapon, but never made it because a falling body slammed into his neck and shoulder, knocking him over. The body rolled away but then there were two more, right on top of him, fighting, wrestling, biting, kicking, high-­pitched chirping and frenzied growling, he was turned the wrong way, his face stuffed against the dirt, and he couldn't reach them as he tried to push them off. Now the gunfire was all around him, the yelling so loud and desperate that vocal cords broke in the effort, more weight crushing him, helpless, dirt in his mouth and his nose and his eyes, terror and madness mixing as he realized he was going to die right there under a pile of bodies—­and then the weight shifted and he fought his way out from under in a mad crawl.

Coming to his knees just in time to get kicked or clubbed in the side of the head and back down again, pushed up against one wall, knowing in the darkness that if he didn't get up now he would be pinned for good. The body against him rolled, spun; hands reached for his face and the horrible squealing turned into terrified chirps that sounded like an engine getting ready to explode. His own hands moved, found flesh—­fingers gouging, wrapping around—­and by some twist of luck he had the Sim by the throat, choking him. The thing thrashed, kicked, clawed at his sleeves as Mortas found he was strong enough to extend his arms to full length.

The mass of bodies lifted the Sim and he went with him, his back against the wall, pushing to his feet in shock and relief and elated surprise and not even noticing that the form opposite him had gone limp. His eyes darted all around, no longer looking for a weapon, searching for an escape route in the mad crush, and then a face was next to his; somehow he recognized it, the black skull cap. Hands were pulling him away from the fight, and then Cranther was shoving him up the wall, shouting for him to move move
move
!

The roar of the battle came back to him as he went up and over, amazed by his own speed until Cranther went by in a crouch. Shrieks and shots and the dreadful sound of gun butts striking bone, now below him but not far enough away—­Cranther grabbing him again and yelling for him to run—­and then they were both sprinting over the uneven ground, crushing the bushes and flinching at every shot. Driven forward by adrenaline, all thought of evasion and stealth and even thought itself gone, just the mad kick of self-­preservation driving them, until Mortas felt the tearing pain in his left calf that sent him tumbling head over heels when he reached for it.