Dire Steps (7 page)

“Mira? What do you think of that?” Reena whispered.

The fourth member of the Special Committee on the Step was a slight, gray-­haired woman named Mira Teel. She was a prominent member of a large, loosely connected collection of ­people who maintained that the Step was more than a mode of transportation. Derisively nicknamed Step Worshipers, they considered the faster-­than-­light method of travel to be a means of communicating with superhuman entities.

“I'm more than happy to go in the Chairman's stead.” Mira's voice was calm, measured. “Unfortunately, I fear that would not accomplish the goal of this journey.”

“Mira's right. She's provided us with invaluable insights from her Step experiences, and the experiences of others, but for this to work, it has to be me.”

Woomer sat down, leaving the hologram in place. “Speaking purely as a scientist, there is no proof that these Step ‘experiences' are anything but a dream.”

“Not everyone dreams in transit, Gerar.” Mira spoke evenly. “In fact, it's only a small percentage. Of that small percentage, only a tiny fraction can remember the details of the dream. All of those dreams fall into one of two categories, either a ‘memory' dream of a real event that actually occurred, or a real person from the dreamer's past communicating with them in a way they never did in life. Chairman Mortas's experiences in transit fall in the second category.

“I have long believed that the entities who gave us the Step meant to use it as a means of observing us and communicating with us. It makes no sense that they would give us the Step, then hide themselves.”

“I've studied the panels that came back with that probe, and almost every one of them reveals a key element of Step technology. But two or three have never been fully explained.” Reena's fingers whitened in Olech's grasp. “One of those seems to fit this theory exactly. It looks like a stick-­figure human lying on a blanket, soaking in rays from the sun. I've never dreamt in the Step, not that I'm aware of, and yet from listening to the tapes of the ­people who have, I believe I know what that panel means.

“It's the explanation for why they gave us this gift in the first place. The rays in that picture are thoughts, or some kind of scan, and the figure on the blanket is a sleeping human.”

“I've always dreamt in the Step, and my most recent dreams contained urgent commands to attempt this mission.” Olech released Reena's hand and stood. “I want to thank you all for everything you've done. Many years ago, President Larkin tried to contact the beings who gave us the Step because he felt it was vital to winning the war against the Sims and whatever is making the Sims. I believe he was right in that intention, just misinformed in the way he chose to go about it.”

“We're going to temporarily suspend the Step, so that this voyage will be the only one taking place.” Olech touched the blinking light on the hologram. “From this location, the
Aurora
will generate a series of Thresholds that will send me out to ten different warships. Each of those vessels, in turn, will send me back to the same spot.

“I believe that the significance of this location, combined with my sole presence on the craft making the journey, cannot be overlooked by whatever is using the Step to examine our thoughts. If they are indeed monitoring us in this way, I believe they will recognize this as an attempt to contact them. If we can find a way to communicate with these obviously higher beings, we may be able to use their knowledge to win the war.

“As far as I'm concerned, that's well worth the risk.”

Woomer turned off the hologram, stood, and shook Olech's hand. “I'll be monitoring the whole process personally, Mr. Chairman. God speed.”

Mira hugged him tightly, a blissful smile on her face. “You are going to reach out to a power that is far beyond human comprehension, dear Olech. Be of pure heart, and the entities will hear you.”

The scientist and the mystic departed together, leaving Olech alone with his fiancée. They embraced for a long time, Reena's body wracked with silent sobs. She finally raised her brimming eyes to his.

“I can't believe you've managed to turn my wedding day into the second-­hardest thing I'm ever going to do.”

“What's the hardest?”

“Watching you climb into that capsule.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

“I
was pleased with the company movement today. We made good, steady progress through some tough terrain. We have got to move more quietly, however; you have to glide through this stuff, not crash through it.” Captain Dassa's low voice came through the speakers in Mortas's helmet. “Remember that Sam is out here somewhere, and we still don't know if he's been reinforced somehow. Fifty percent security through the night, but don't shoot up the first thing that makes a sound out there.

“Captain Pappas will now provide an important update from the social scene back home.”

Stretched out on his stomach, Mortas winced behind his goggles. Sergeant Dak and the platoon's three squad leaders were facing him in a ring, flattened on the jungle dirt near the center of the platoon's night perimeter.

The battalion's intelligence officer spoke. “This one comes from the entertainment officer on the good ship
Dauntless
, orbiting over our heads. I'm sure you all sent your regrets at not being able to attend, but our very own Chairman of the Emergency Senate, Lieutenant Mortas's father Olech, has married his longtime companion Reena Corlipso in a ceremony on her home planet of Celestia.”

The leadership of B Company's three separated platoons was quick to comment.

“Wait, I didn't get my invite. I really would have gone to that.”

“She's nice-­lookin', for an older girl.”

“Why weren't you invited, Jan?” Mortas recognized the voice of Wyn Kitrick, the platoon leader of Third Platoon. “You get disinherited or something?”

“El-­tee Mortas is the black sheep of the family—­thought you knew that.”

“That musta been some party.”

Dassa let the merriment continue for a bit longer, then cut it off. “Okay, big day tomorrow. I want to be ready to move right at sunup, but in the meantime, let's not get too cozy. Sam is in the vicinity.”

The different platoons signed off, leaving Mortas to address his platoon sergeant and three squad leaders. In the black-­and-­green world of his goggles, the armored men looked like bug-­eyed turtles huddled on the floor of a green lake.

“I can't help thinking this feels a lot like every other training exercise we've been on.” The turtles nodded, so he knew he wasn't alone. “Seven months out of action is a long time, so let's all remember this is for real. Sergeant Dak?'

“El-­tee and I will be checking the lines during the night, so don't shoot us. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” came the voice of Sergeant Frankel, who had already proven himself quite a wit. “Lieutenant, I only kissed up to you because I thought you were tight with your dad. I think you owe me an apology.”

“Does it help that I sent a gift and said it was from the whole platoon?”

“Whatcha send, El-­tee?” Sergeant Katinka, hulking even without the armor, asked in a gruff voice.

“A pair of old socks in a used ration bag.”

“I'm not chipping in for that,” said Sergeant Mecklinger, who had been with the platoon on Fractus. “And thanks for getting the whole platoon on your dad's shit list, sir.”

“We were already on that list,” Dak intoned. “I'll be by in a few minutes. That's it.”

The turtles began to slide backward across the jungle floor, finally rising and heading off to their portions of the perimeter. Mortas rose to a crouch, but only moved a few feet to where Vossel, the platoon medic, was sitting with his back against his rucksack.

“Anything interesting?” Mortas asked as he sat down. The dirt beneath him was damp, and riven with thousands of threadlike roots common to that part of Verdur.

“No, sir.” Vossel had been monitoring the surveillance imagery beamed down from the
Dauntless
while Mortas and the others had been communicating with Captain Dassa. “Lots of little heat signatures, animals probably, staying well clear of us.”

Mortas flipped the view in his goggles to the feed from the
Dauntless
. Stretched across roughly a mile, three rings of whitened dots stood out against the night jungle. Despite the heavy canopy of tall trees and thick foliage, the heat signatures of individual soldiers showed the defensive perimeters of B Company's three platoons. Targets for protective fires were marked all around them, and he narrowed the view to a tight focus on his own position.

First Platoon's perimeter was more of an oval than a circle because of the undulating nature of the ground, but he was satisfied that it was a good arrangement. The Orphans had spent so many weeks in training that setting up for the night was second nature. His three machine guns were positioned where they could provide the most protection, and the three squads had filled in around them. His grenade-­launcher men, known as “chonks” because of the sound their weapons made, had already targeted any low ground the Sims might use to approach without being seen.

“You take your stink pill yet, sir?” Dak's voice came through his earpieces even though the platoon sergeant was out checking the lines.

“Of course. Can't you tell?” Mortas wrinkled his nose, repelled by the chemical aroma rising from his pores. The stink pill was a multipurpose drug that anyone new to the Verdurian jungle had to take every day. A single mission's exposure was enough to build up an immunity, but in the meantime, much of the platoon reeked of an odor that reminded Mortas of rubbing alcohol.

“Make sure you take it, sir,” Vossel murmured. Though teenaged in appearance, he was a veteran Orphan medic respected throughout the company. “Some of the garbage that's around us will have you puking so bad, you'll feel like you're turning inside out.”

Mortas returned to the overhead imagery and widened the view again. The three platoon perimeters disappeared, and three glowing shapes emerged several miles to the north. The monitoring stations stood on top of high ground, surrounded by antipersonnel wire and constantly watched by satellites in geosynchronous orbit. From west to east, they were code-­named Almighty, Broadleaf, and Cordvine. Broadleaf, in the middle, was a Human Defense Force retransmission site, while Cordvine was a planetary monitoring station. Almighty, farthest to the west and separated from the other two stations by a wide stretch of lower terrain, belonged to Victory Provisions. Originally established to study potential food sources in Verdur's riotous garden, Almighty's more recent activities were a mystery.

In order to avoid detection, B Company had been inserted by shuttle several miles south of their current location. The day's movement had been intended to get them close to the region where the Sims were believed to be operating. Now they would begin patrolling in earnest, attempting to locate the enemy that had somehow learned to hide from the surveillance satellites overhead.

“R
emember, we're looking for any indications that Sam's been around. As soon as you see anything—­footprints, trash, holes—­stop right there and let me know,” Dassa's voice whispered through the headsets of every man in B Company just as the darkness was lifting. “Slow and easy, nice and quiet. You see Sam, don't shoot him up unless you have to. Use orbital weaponry to engage, and they might think they got spotted by aerial reconnaissance. Let's go.”

“Move out,” Mortas murmured, the platoon already arranged to search their assigned sector. The three squads were separated by roughly one hundred yards, with the middle squad slightly advanced. The terrain was so restrictive that the men would be moving in long files, the three elements parallel to each other. Mortas was in the center of the middle squad, and Dak was in the same position in the squad farthest to the west. Patrolling in a northerly direction and separated by close to a mile, the three platoons were arranged west to east as First, Second, and Third Platoons.

The jungle world had changed overnight and was now cloaked in a choking ground fog. Ghostly fronds and branches reached out from the whiteness, and the spongy terrain rolled up and down. The brightly colored birds that he'd seen roosting or flying the day before were nowhere in sight, and only a few of their desultory calls could be heard in the distance. Mortas kept flipping his goggles to the satellite view that allowed him to monitor the progress of his three squads.

His boots were still covered in mud from the previous day's march, and he quietly scraped the soles against an exposed root while walking up a slight rise. A vine hooked on his Scorpion rifle, and he reflexively pushed against it, thinking it would break. Strong as a cord of wrapped wire, it ran along the barrel with a loud scraping sound. Mortas stopped immediately, mindful of the near silence all around him, and eased the vine out of the way.

Topping the rise, he gauged his distance from the man walking in front of him. It was important not to bunch up, individually or as a unit, because the Sims had been in this jungle for a long time and had become experts at ambushes. The movement formation he and the NCOs had selected for the day was intended to cover a wide area while also allowing for a quick response to enemy contact. The outthrust middle squad, as the point of the spear, was likely to encounter the Sims first. The two squads to either side would then be able to move up and flank their opponents while the middle squad was returning fire.

Moving through the thick vegetation, Mortas could only see the man walking several paces in front of him. He knew this soldier well, having personally brought him to the Orphans. His name was Prevost, and he'd been a Triage Tech on one of the transports supporting the brigade's disastrous mission on Fractus. Triage Techs were highly unpopular because they prioritized the treatment of the wounded according to a barbaric set of Force regulations, but Prevost had won his place in the platoon when he'd proved to be a savant with the chonk. Merely competent with a Scorpion and useless with a machine gun, he could put a grenade round just about anywhere he was asked. Prevost suddenly stopped and dropped to a knee, and Mortas did the same without thinking. He took advantage of the halt to flip the goggle view and study the terrain to their front.

Boundaries designating each platoon's search area were superimposed on the vista, a combination of aerial imagery that was pretty much a sea of green and a rough map that showed the rise and fall of the ground. The map was only an estimate, but it showed no significant obstacles, and he wondered why they'd stopped.

The air was tight around them, and the climbing sun had already started to burn away the mist. Looking up, he was surprised to see the vine-­choked branches of a tall, thin tree shaking as if touched by a light breeze. Vossel spoke from behind him.

“That's one of the ant trees we were telling you about, sir. The little bastards have hollowed it out, and there's so many of 'em that it shakes when they get moving around. Looks like the wind's blowing the thing when there isn't any.”

“Thanks.”

Katinka gave a warning from the front of the squad. “We should be hearing from the Vree Vrees pretty soon. We just found a not-­banana grove.”

Mortas looked around in expectation, having heard a lot about the loud creatures the troops called the Vree Vrees. Resembling a large, muscular cat with a prehensile tail, the Vree Vrees objected to the presence of humans. Their favorite food was a curved fruit that so many briefers had insisted was not, in fact, banana, that the men referred to it as not-­banana.

Prevost slowly rose, and Mortas was doing the same when a shrill cry burst from the greenery to his front.

“Vreeeeeeee! Vreeeeeeee!” Though expecting the bellow, Mortas was startled all the same. It was quickly joined by a host of others, and then the trees around them became a kaleidoscopic view of swinging fur and gripping tails. One of them, black with gray stripes, leapt onto the trunk closest to Mortas and only a few feet above him. It fixed slitted eyes on his, and huffed loudly at him from tiny nostrils before clawing its way up into the foliage. The troupe of Vree Vrees howled angrily as they raced by, and then they were gone.

“If Sam's anywhere nearby, he knows he's got company.” Dak cautioned the platoon. “Stay alert. Let's move.”

T
hey discovered the presence of Sims at midday. Despite other contacts with the Vree Vrees, there had been no indications of enemy presence. The heat had intensified and burned away the mist, but it had brought a different kind of fog with it, in that the entire unit's alertness had slipped considerably as fatigue set in.

Sweating all over, Mortas was thinking about his last messages from Ayliss. As his sister's departure for the war zone grew near, her questions had taken on a sinister tone. Her last missives had included inquiries about the enemy he had killed on both Roanum and Fractus, and she'd been rudely unmindful of his attempts to deflect them.

Mortas was pondering the possible meaning of that behavior when the sound mufflers in his helmet clamped down around his ears, several times. It was a silent warning sent to the entire platoon, and all three files dropped to the jungle floor in response. Mortas flipped one eyepiece to the aerial view of his zone while sighting down the Scorpion's barrel with the other eye. No heat signatures appeared other than those of his men, and nothing moved in the underbrush to his front.

“Lieutenant, we've found cart tracks.” Sergeant Mecklinger, up ahead, spoke in a whisper.

“Coming up.” Mortas rose and began weaving his way through the prone bodies facing east and west. “First Squad, Second Squad, establish security. No surprises.”

Hunched over, he followed the fresh boot prints through the damp humus. Already the men from Second Squad were spreading out, shifting the file formation to a long oval. The machine-­gun team walking with them began setting up to cover their rear, and to either side of them the two other squads assumed similar defensive positions. Stepping over hard, exposed roots, Mortas soon reached the spot where Mecklinger waited at the base of a towering tree. All around them, the jungle appeared to be an impenetrable wall, the trees and bushes and moss bleeding together with the brush on the jungle floor.