MERCS: Crimson Worlds Successors (17 page)

Anderson had been a strong and intelligent man, possessed of the DNA of one of the Corps’ finest.  Once she’d freed him of his conditioning, he’d made the most of his short life, doing his best to help his brethren.  The Shadow Legion soldiers had been the Marines’ enemy, but they had been tools, victims themselves, created to fight and die and controlled with experimental brain surgery and psychological conditioning.  When Sarah had removed the conditioning, many of the survivors were wracked with guilt at the things they had done under Stark’s control, driven to the edge of insanity.  Many committed suicide, others turned to alcohol and drugs to block the pain.  Anderson had worked with many of them, helping them to adapt and become productive members of society. 

When the First Imperium returned, the old Shadow soldiers flocked to the Marine standards, despite the fact that they were already beginning to show signs of accelerating physical deterioration.  They served with great distinction in that war, many of them fighting under Erik Cain in his last battles.

He shifted, trying to get comfortable, apparently without success.  “It just hurts everywhere,” he finally said, sinking back again.  “Might as well accept it.”  His speech was slow and labored, but that was all physical, the best he could manage between his rasping breaths.  But Anderson had kept his wits about him, and his mental state was as strong as that of any man in his late thirties.  Sarah didn’t wish that her friend suffered from dementia, but it somehow made it worse to watch such a young and strong mind trapped in a decaying body.

“Sarah,” he said, looking up at her, “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me all these years.”  There was a sadness in his voice, and a weakness that made her eyes watery.

“Anderson…”

“No, Sarah,” he croaked softly.  “Please, let me say this.  I remember how hard you worked to break that terrible conditioning, to allow me to live as a human being and not a slave.  My life may have been a short one, but it wouldn’t have been mine at all without you.”

He reached out a trembling hand and put it on her arm.  “I know how much sadness you have endured.  Don’t give up on the rest of your life, Sarah.  You have more time, and where there is time, there is always hope.”

“Thank you, Anderson.  But you have already given me your gratitude…in how you have lived your life.  You have shown me that every bit of effort was worthwhile.  You may have begun life in a laboratory, but you are more of a human being than most I have known.”

She sighed softly, and sat in the chair next to the bed.  Her eyes were on his chest heaving up and down, her ears listening to the raspy, liquid sound of his breath.  She had seen far too many men and women die in her years in the field hospitals, and she knew in her gut her friend Anderson wouldn’t wake again when he slipped back into unconsciousness.

The clone lay still, silent, drawing increasingly shallow breaths.  Sarah laid her hand on his and sat with him quietly.  The minutes slipped into an hour then two.  Anderson’s breathing was becoming increasingly difficult, and he’d slipped back into a gentle delirium.  Sarah sat and listened as his labored breathing became quiet, slow.  A few minutes later she stood up and looked down at him, reaching out and gently closing his eyes.  Anderson-45 was dead.

“General Cain?  I am sorry to disturb you…”

Sarah always felt a pang when someone called her that.  To her, General Cain would always mean Erik.  But she was General Cain now as well.  She had decided to change her name when they’d gotten married.  It was old-fashioned to be sure, but that had been the trend on colonies like Atlantia then, and Sarah had wanted nothing more than to fit in and live a normal life.  And she’d lived that life, if only for a short while.

“Yes?”  She turned and looked back toward the door.  One of the ICU techs was standing there.

“There is a messenger waiting in your office, General.”

That’s strange.  Who would be visiting me?
“Did they say who it was?”

“No, General.”  A short pause.  “Only that he was sent by a Roderick Vance.”

Chapter 13

Axe was adrift, floating in darkness.  He knew it was over.  Everything was lost—Ellie, Jericho, all of it.  He was dying, or was he already dead?  He didn’t know.  Nothing seemed real.

Then he felt something different.  Pressure.  On his shoulder, his leg.  It was firm, not like the gauzy sensations he’d been feeling.  Then pain.  Terrible pain, agony.  His whole body hurt.  His arms, his gut, his legs—and his tortured lungs.  Then he saw light, dim at first, spotty, cutting slowly through the blackness.  Brighter.  Sunlight.  Shining through hazy eyes. 
I’m alive, at least for a few moments more.

But there shouldn’t be light.
  He’d been shot.  He remembered now.  He’d been lying on the ground, watching one of the raiders raise his gun to finish him.  But it had been the middle of the night.  What was this light?  Had he been lying here for all those hours?

“Axe?”  He heard his name, softly, far away.  He felt the pressure again, harder this time.  Hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him.  “Axe, you awake?”

Axe heard a sound, a groan.  He realized it had come from his lips.  His throat felt like fire as he tried to force words out.  “What…”  The pain was almost unbearable.

“Axe, come on, man.  You’re going to be OK.  I got you out.”

He turned his head slowly, so slowly he wasn’t even sure it was moving at first.  The light was brighter, his vision beginning to clear.  He was in the woods, not Jericho.

“I managed to get the emergency message off before we left.  To the Martians.  I don’t know if they received anything, but there’s a chance at least.”

Axe moved his head toward the voice.  It was familiar.  He forced a word through his agonized throat.  “Where?”

“Axe, we’re about half a klick from Jericho.”

“I managed to get you out.  They left you for dead.”

“Jack?”

“Yes, Axe.  It’s Jack.”

“What happened?”  Memories were coming back. 
I was fighting, the shot in the leg, falling back—that face staring down at me.  Raising a pistol... 

“The town is gone, Axe.  Whoever they were, they took almost everybody.”  Jack’s voice was firm.  There was a commanding sound there, a calmness in the face of disaster.  “It was some kind of knockout gas.  I’d say about 200 are dead, but the rest were dragged out, still alive.  At least I think they were.  They brought in a bunch of transports and loaded them all up.”  He paused.  “Axe, they didn’t take anything else.  The grain, the equipment in the shed, none of it.  They just burned it all.  They didn’t come to steal.  They came for the people.”

Axe looked up at Lompoc.  His thoughts were still fuzzy.  “The people?” he repeated, half question, half statement.  He coughed hard, spraying blood all over himself as he did.

Lompoc dropped to a knee right next to him.  “My God, Axe, what is that?  Are you shot somewhere else?”

Axe stared down at himself, confused for a second.  “Oh, the blood,” he said, coughing again.  His chin was covered with red, and it was splattered all over his shirt.  “No, not a wound.”  He felt terrible, but his head was starting to clear.  And he damned sure wasn’t dead.  Not yet, at least.  “No, it’s not a wound.  I haven’t told anybody, but…”

Jack nodded.  “I got it, Axe.”  His voice was somber.  No one survived thirty years after the Fall without watching friends and loved ones die from the long-term effects of radiation.  “How long?”

“A while.  It’s been getting worse.  But we don’t have time for that now.  We have to do something.”  He stared up at Lompoc.  “Ellie?”

“I don’t know, Axe.  I really don’t.  I searched for survivors, and I didn’t see her with the…”  He paused for a second.  “…bodies.  My best guess is they took her.  And they didn’t come for a pile of corpses, so I’d bet she’s still alive.”

Axe struggled to sit up, and Lompoc reached over and helped him.  “We have to do something.”  What, he had no idea.

“Once I got you out and set you down, I went back and followed them.  It took them a few hours to get everybody loaded up, and then they drove about three kilometers to some spot that looked like a makeshift base.  They’re still there, I think.”

“Anybody else make it?”

Lompoc sighed.  “I’m not sure, Axe.  I think a few must have gotten out and run to the north.  Tommie’s with us.  I sent him to get some water.  He got clipped in the leg, but he’s OK.”  He paused, and his voice became darker.  “Reg was helping me search for survivors, but then I lost him.  I don’t know if he’s dead or if they captured him.”

Axe let out a deep breath.  “You said you sent the distress call?”

“Yeah, Axe, but I’m not sure what that’s going to do for us.  The Martians send us food and meds, and that’s great, but I’ve never seen a Confederation soldier down here, have you?  That message won’t accomplish anything.  Probably just let them know they can scratch one drop from their schedule.”  There was frustration in Lompoc’s voice.  Axe figured he’d been trying to decide what to do over the last ten hours, and he’d come up with almost nothing. 

“We need to track them when they leave, Jack.  We need to stay on their heels until we figure out what to do.”  Axe sat up.  He felt like death, but he didn’t have time for that now, and he pushed himself by sheer force of will.  He looked up at Lompoc.  “Give me a hand.”  He reached out.

Lompoc stared back doubtfully for a few seconds, but he didn’t argue.  He grabbed Axe’s hand and helped pull him to his feet. 

Axe stood still.  He was a little dizzy, but he could feel his balance returning slowly. “OK, as soon as Tommie gets back, we’ll head down to that camp.”

Lompoc nodded, but he had a frown on his face.  “And do what, Axe?”  He sighed hard.  “There are at least 40 men down there, and they’re well-armed.  There are three of us…and you and Tommie are wounded.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Jack, but we’re damned sure not going to lose them.  I don’t know what these invaders want with our people, but it can’t be good.”

And it’s probably downright unthinkable.

*        *        *        *        *

“Final headcount is 849.  I’d estimate about 200 dead in the raid.”  Barkley was holding a small tablet.  It was an old unit, crude and outdated.  But on Earth 32 years after the Fall, it might as well have been witchcraft.  And it was more than enough to do the job of tallying and sorting the captives.

Grax nodded.  “I’d have liked a lower death count, but the target was just too big.  We couldn’t take any chances.”  And not taking chances meant shooting first and asking questions later.  “Still, that’s a damned good haul, my friend.  How’s the sorting going?”

“Good.  Like any group of Earthers, there’s a fair amount of them that are half-rotten.  Too much radiation and contaminated food.  But I’d say half of them are in good shape.  And maybe 80 are prime.”  Barkley turned and glanced over his shoulder, where most of the crew were moving unconscious prisoners around.  The initial sort had been done roughly, based on a cursory examination, and the captives were divided into four groups.  Then the expedition’s two doctors scanned them all more closely, moving a few up or down a category.

The primes were the first group, men and women sixteen to thirty years old, with no signs of long-term radiation sickness and in good physical condition.  Eighty was by far the largest number Grax’s people had ever bagged in one place.

“Eighty?  Nice.”  Grax allowed himself a smile.  “The Buyers will pay a top price for them, and a bonus for so many in one group.  That alone will guarantee us a healthy profit on this run.  All the rest are just gravy.”

“I’d say we’ve got 250 As.  They’ll fetch a decent price.”  The A rated captives were basically healthy and strong enough to have a life expectancy of five years or longer at hard labor.  Some of them had minor impairments that knocked them from the highest level, or they were out of the designated age range. Most of the As were destined for agricultural or factory work. 

Grax nodded.  “The As alone would be a strong payday, even without the primes.  You were right, Pete.  It was worth the risk of hitting that settlement.”

Barkley nodded.  “Of the rest, I culled out about 200.  Too old, too weak.  Or ones the doc flagged as sick—mostly cancers and other long term effects of radiation.  I detached Waters and a team to put them down.”

“So that leaves about 300 Bs then.”  The B class were older and weaker candidates, mostly destined for work in mines and other dangerous activities.  Bs had a life expectancy of a couple years at best, which made them considerably less valuable than the As.  Still, with the expedition already paid for, the proceeds from the 300 Bs was all profit.  And 600 projected man-years of labor had a value, even deducting the costs of transit.

“Yeah.  Looks like 309 total.”  Barkley smiled.  “A damned good haul by any measure.”

Grax returned the smile.  “Maybe we’ll recruit some more men after we get paid, and we’ll try to find some other big targets.  A couple more like this one, and we’ll retire to some tropical planet and spend our days in a hammock with a couple girls each.”

“Sounds good to me, boss.”  There was something in his voice, a hint of nervousness.  Barkley had long ago overcome the moral issues of rounding up humans and selling them into servitude.  There were enough mercenaries out there killing people for money, after all.  But he still had reservations about the Buyers.  The strange group ran an efficient operation, and they’d come through on every payment they had promised.  But Barkley still didn’t trust them.  For one thing, he wondered where their human cargo was taken after he delivered them.

Society throughout Occupied Space was becoming harsher, the lofty ethics and optimism of the immediate post-Fall era rapidly fading away, but there still weren’t many worlds that openly allowed human beings to be held as slaves.  And the few that did generally restricted it to convicted criminals and indentured servants paying for transit with a set labor period.  Kidnapped people stolen from another world were completely different.  Perhaps there were a few small fringe worlds that might welcome such cargoes, but not many.  And he knew there were other teams working Earth, sending hundreds, no thousands, of people to whatever world or worlds the mysterious Buyers represented.

Technically, it didn’t matter where the captives went after he and Grax were paid, but there was still something about it that nagged at him.

*        *        *        *        *

Andre Girard crept through the heavy woods, moving slowly, cautiously.  He was anxious, impatient, but decades of field service had taught him you could be quiet, or you could be fast, but not both.  And he had no idea who else might be prowling around in these woods.

He’d checked out the village.  Vance’s information was correct.  The place had been attacked and burned.  He’d scoured the wreckage for clues, but he’d come up with very little.  He was fairly certain some of the population was still alive somewhere—or at least that they’d been taken someplace else before they’d been killed.  He’d found bodies—and ashes and bits of bones where others had been consumed by the flames—but nowhere near enough to account for the population of the settlement.

It didn’t look like Jericho’s meager wealth had been plundered.  The village didn’t have much, but Girard imagined that farming tools and stored grain would be valuable to any group wandering around post-Fall Earth.  Yet it was clear the storehouses had been well-stocked before the fires took them. 
Why would raiders from another settlement leave so much food behind?  And why would they take the people instead of slaughtering them?  It was just more mouths to feed.

Girard never underestimated Roderick Vance, but when his friend had asked him to come to Earth and investigate the distress call he’d received, he’d wondered if Martian Intelligence’s long time master had finally become a touch too paranoid.  But now he was thinking differently.  He had no idea what had happened here, but there was definitely something wrong.  This was more than just warfare between rival settlements.

He crept along, following the trails leading south, and he stopped dead in his tracks.  There were footsteps, and disturbed earth where bodies had been dragged.  And there were trails left by heavy tracked vehicles.  As far as he knew, none of the surviving settlements on Earth had any trucks or transports left, and even if they did, they didn’t have fuel to run them.  Now Girard was sure Vance was right.  Something very strange was going on here.

He slipped off to the side, back into the cover of the woods.  He was dealing with something different now, and he had to be careful.  Anyone who had a dozen or more transports could have other equipment too—binoculars, scanning devices, even drones.

He continued south, following the trail slowly, making sure to keep hidden as he did.  It took him an hour to cover a kilometer, but Andre Girard had a lifetime of discipline, and he made certain each step was silent.  There were dozens of ways to give a position away—a broken twig under foot, stepping on dried leaves, rustling branches as you passed.  But Girard moved like a phantom, silent, invisible.

Another kilometer, another hour.  The tracks continued in the same direction.  Whoever he was following, they’d made no effort to hide their trail. 
Why would they?  Who would they be hiding from down here?
  Still, he had a disapproving smile on his face.  Girard believed in strong tradecraft, even when you didn’t think you needed it.  Especially when you didn’t think you needed it.  That’s usually when you got in trouble.

He stopped suddenly.  He’d caught a sound, something off in the distance.  He couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t sound like something from the forest.  He crouched down, still, listening.  Yes, there was something ahead.  He moved forward, his pace even slower than before, creeping toward the faint noise.

It became louder and more frequent.  There was definitely something ahead, and whoever was there, they weren’t trying to stay hidden.  He swung off to the side, giving a wider berth to the camp as he moved around it.  He found a good spot to hide, and he stayed there, motionless, listening.  It was dusk already, and he decided to wait for dark to investigate further.  He’d done his homework as always.  It was overcast, and the moon would only be a sliver.  A dark night.  Perfect for scouting.

*        *        *        *        *

Axe was sitting against a tree, looking toward Jack and Tommie.  The three of them had been hiding on the outskirts of the enemy camp for three days now.  There had been a lot of activity, but the raiders had stayed in place.  They appeared to be keeping the captives sedated, but Axe was pretty sure his people were still alive.  The raiders were carrying still bodies around with a lot more care than they would have put into corpses.

He closed his eyes for a minute.  Jack had cleaned out his wounds with a gusto that almost brought tears to his eyes.  Axe considered himself fairly tough, but his friend had dug into him like an interrogator hard at work.  But when he was done, the projectiles were both removed, and the wounds were thoroughly washed and neatly bound.  They still hurt like hell, but Axe couldn’t argue with Jack’s skills.  There wasn’t a sign of infection, and he was beginning to heal.