Glory Main (13 page)

Those personnel coasted down the cofferdam in giant wheel-­shaped carriers whose outermost rings hugged the transparent walls of the transit tube. It had been astounding to see these giant metallic snowflakes expand from mere dots in the sky to enormous rings of connected personnel compartments. Powerful deceleration rockets had fired when they approached the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust that had erupted from inside the cofferdam, but most of the snowflakes were so badly damaged on impact that Mortas had suspected they'd never be repaired. Hundreds of unsteady foot soldiers had emerged from the damaged rings and the war game had continued from there. Even with that experience, Mortas was still confused by Cranther's comment about the odor.

“I didn't know they had a smell.”

“The beam is always a little off when they hit a new planet. As they adjust—­” He stopped suddenly, focusing on something in the distance. Cranther raised himself up on his elbows, shading his eyes with both hands as if holding a set of binoculars. “Oh no.”

“What is it?”

The scout lowered himself back to the dirt, his eyes on the ground. Without a word, he put an elbow on Mortas's shoulder and pointed with his fingers in a knife edge.

Trent and Gorman saw it before he did, and Mortas heard them both uttering subdued words of alarm. He squinted in the sun, expecting to see the fractured snowflakes of an assault landing that had come to grief, but what they were viewing was farther out. Several hundred yards away, presumably in the direction of the enemy settlement, he could just make out the gun barrel of a heavy fighting vehicle. It was raised as if to fire at the sky, and a moment later he saw that the tank itself was stuck in the ground as if it had plummeted from a great height.

Once he recognized the wreckage, the rest came into focus. He knew he was probably looking at the near edge of an entire debris field, but even so the tank was surrounded by personnel carriers and scout cars that were likewise jammed into the dirt. It reminded Mortas of the queasy sensation he'd felt when the carrier he'd ridden in the war game had been released into the maw of the cofferdam. It had been a helpless, lurching fall that had gone on for several seconds before the quasi-­gravity of the energy tube had slowed it down, and he'd feared the worst even though he'd been warned.

Had the cofferdams simply failed here? Had the occupants of the half-­buried wrecks made the awful drop unaided, tumbling, screaming, accelerating? He shuddered at the very notion, and when he looked at the others he saw they were imagining the same thing. Gorman's lips were moving in silent prayer, Trent's eyes were fixed on something he couldn't see, and Cranther's face was still twisted in thought. The scout spoke first.

“Wait. Look there.” He pointed again, this time at a spot only a hundred yards away but not in the direction of the debris field. Following the hand, Mortas was taken aback that he hadn't seen it earlier. An enormous circle of brush was flattened or missing, and the dirt inside it was furrowed as if recently plowed. A quick survey showed other sites like that one, on a rough line between the two ridges.

“That's where the cofferdams touched down.”

“Right. So whatever happened to them, they landed safely and headed in to attack the settlement.”

“Could it have moved? The cofferdam, I mean.” Gorman's voice was strained, but his point was a good one. Perhaps the vehicles had been dropped when their transport tube had shifted.

“It's happened before, so maybe.” Cranther came to his knees and shaded his eyes again. “But I don't think that's it. If that tank dropped all the way, that turret should have popped right off. And those recon cars would have flattened, hitting from that height.”

“What are you saying?”

“That they didn't slam into the ground.” The look of consternation was back. “I don't know how, but I think they sank.”

T
he energy bars they'd consumed now proved to be a double-­edged sword. Packed with the nutrients they so badly needed, the food gave them the strength to quickly move across the shorter expanse of flat ground and reach the next ridgeline. Mortas was amazed by the speed with which they traveled until he was able to consider that perhaps they'd been providing their own locomotion for so long, and without any nourishment at all, that of course it now seemed easier. But even as the food had given them what their bodies needed, it also served as a reminder that they hadn't filled their bellies in days. The renewed growling of their insides and the sight of the ruined fighting vehicles now combined to drive them toward a very risky decision.

The sun was setting when they scrambled up the side of the escarpment, largely concealed by a species of tall, dry grass that covered it. A hurried group consultation had given voice to what they'd all been thinking, and so they'd agreed to take a serious chance and try to raid the broken war machines for real food.

It made sense, in a way. Before the sun set they'd drawn close enough to see that most of the vehicles hadn't been hit by enemy fire. There'd been no need; whatever had caused them to sink into the now-­hardened surface had stopped the assault completely. The occupants of the tanks, scout cars, and personnel carriers had been transformed from armored aggressors to sitting ducks, and so they'd probably bailed out at the first opportunity. The dead man they'd found in the ravine, wearing the tanker suit and carrying no weapon, gave ample support to that theory. So if the crews and riders had run off in a frenzy, it was highly likely that they'd left food behind.

It was just as likely that the enemy knew this and might even have the area under surveillance, but intense hunger had helped the group to minimize that threat in their minds. The Sims had obviously sustained major damage in the attack; they had no air assets and could be expected to withdraw into a tight defensive perimeter once night came. The belching excavators seemed to verify this theory, as they hadn't ventured beyond the ridge where they'd originally been seen and now even their roaring had gone silent.

Cranther had gone so far as to suggest that the killing of the hapless guards at the bridge might have helped by spooking their opponents even further. The battle had taken place far from that crossing point, and the two militia men had probably been posted as a precautionary measure only. The bulk of the fleeing humans from the trapped assault force had most likely gone in the opposite direction, toward the series of ridges from which the group now observed the debris field. For the surviving humans to have even found the bridge, they would have had to cross an enormous amount of open ground, and for no reason. It was clear that they were harassing the Sim settlement, and the enemy's efforts to fill in the approaches suggested they were more concerned with those nightly attacks than with watching an enemy junkyard.

Having decided to take the risk of approaching the wrecks, they resolved not to easily accept any others. They moved along the ridgeline, just down from the crest on the side away from the battlefield, until they were close enough to get their final bearings. Darkness was coming fast, but the elevated position gave them a good view of the disaster. It was even worse when seen from above.

Two long, almost parallel ridges formed the boundaries of a long stretch of flat ground, a kind of a lane over which the assault had charged after it had separated from the cofferdams. Although no lights were in evidence at the end of that lane, not even a glow, the Sim settlement was presumably just beyond the open ground. Over a hundred tanks, scout cars, personnel carriers, and support vehicles were ranged over the expanse for a great distance, most of them half submerged.

“Look at that.” Gorman pointed toward the center of the lane. “The ones in the middle are almost buried. Whatever caused this, it was more potent in the center.”

“It's got to be something completely new. I've never heard of anything like this.” Trent mused.

Mortas didn't reply. “How should we do this, Corporal?”

“Pairs. Gorman with me, the captain with you. Only one goes inside a vehicle, and the other keeps watch. Two hard raps on the hull means come out fast, one means stay put. You're looking for bags of any kind, first to see if there's any food in it and second for carrying it away. Rucksacks are best; you want to be able to carry whatever you've found on your back. And don't stop to eat anything until you're back here. After the bags, you look for lockers; inside a tank they're in the rear and inside a personnel carrier they're toward the front.”

“Done this before, Corporal?” Gorman sounded downright giddy, but Mortas understood. The prospect of real food was positively thrilling and he couldn't wait to get moving.

“I've stolen food from just about everything at one time or another. And the troops who get to ride everywhere usually stock up on the good stuff.” He licked his lips. “See that tank there, the one with the gun pointed straight up? That's your bearing to get back here. Remember a walking Sim looks like a walking human, so don't say hello to just anybody you meet out there.”

He stopped talking, and after a moment or two Mortas knew he was finished. It was dark enough now, and he honestly didn't think he could wait any longer. “Let's go.”

T
he Mauler bumped against his back as he shuffled across the uneven terrain, and Mortas wondered if he should have left it behind. The stars weren't out yet, but his eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he was able to avoid most of the rocks sticking out of the wave-­like earth. The dirt didn't feel like anything he'd stepped on during their sojourn on the planet, and its solidity reminded him of concrete. Crouched over as he was, he was able to reach a hand down without breaking stride and wasn't surprised that the surface felt like roughened stone.

Cranther and Gorman had veered to the left of the tank that was their reference point, and so he followed Trent to the right. For her part she moved as if it were broad daylight, almost jogging along toward a half-­exposed troop carrier that Mortas had pointed out. She'd never ridden inside an assault vehicle, and he had, so they'd quickly decided that Mortas would be doing the searching. But that worked; he remembered the lockers Cranther had mentioned and also that the troops who'd given him the training ride in their carrier kept some wonderful treats in them.

He glanced at the shadowy mass of the tank as they passed and was reminded of an old, cracked tree on the grounds of one of his earliest prep schools. Wide at its base but topped well short of its normal height, at night it had looked like a blood-­crazed ghoul waving its arms. The tank's gun tube resembled a large splinter that had jutted out of that tree, and he remembered being told frightening stories by the older students about what happened to newbies who left the dormitories at night and ventured too close to it.

And now I've found a place where those stories are true.

They scampered past the tank and headed for the carrier. Its nose was stuck in the solidified earth so that its open rear ramp didn't touch the ground, and the childhood spook stories made him think of it as the open mouth of a sleeping giant. He didn't get much time to develop that image, as Trent abruptly came to a silent halt and he almost skidded into her. His free hand landed on her shoulder, and she took that as some kind of interrogatory gesture. Raising a hand, she pointed at something right at her feet.

Mortas stepped around her, unslinging the Mauler just in case. He knew its bark would alert anyone within a mile, but it was a weapon and he'd be damned if he'd carry the thing this far and not have it ready. He needn't have bothered.

At first he thought the rectangular block in front of them was just another rock, but then he made out the arms and the combat armor that covered the dead man's shoulders. Only the very top of his chest was visible, and his head was missing. Mortas tried to think of the numerous ways in which this could have happened, but he kept coming back to a conclusion that was as likely as it was hideous. The soldier had become trapped in the same way as the vehicles, and the odds were good that the enemy had decapitated him in his helpless state.

The horrifying chain of events appeared in his mind and there was no stopping it. The machines roaring like beasts, slewing and sinking and spewing mud or whatever the ground had become. The dead man leaping from the top, feeling his body jamming straight down into the goo. Too far, too deep. Trapped. Struggling, hollering for help, drowned out by the sound of the gunfire, the explosions, the straining engines, and the cries of the others.

The others. Had his buddies left him? Or just not seen him? Had he watched them flee, knowing he was being left behind? How long had he been there, alone? And when the Sims found him, had he been frightened or relieved?

Mortas could have gone on with that for much longer, but he sensed eyes on his face and looked up to see Trent studying him, gauging his reaction.

Fuckin' headshrinker. Still doesn't understand this isn't some sterile shipboard sick bay.

He pointed a knife-­edged hand at the tilted carrier just ahead, angrily directing her to get moving.

The canted hulk loomed up in front of them as they covered the final distance, and they took cover next to its mud-­clotted treads. The front of the vehicle was buried, and so Mortas peered across under its armored belly and into the gloom on the other side. There was no wind and no sound, and he waited for a long while in order to make sure they hadn't been spotted. Trent turned to face in the other direction and crouched down, placing her buttocks against his own.

At least she understands three-­sixty security.

When he saw no reason to wait further, he reached back and tapped her thigh. She looked at him, mouth closed, and he pointed at his chest and then at the back ramp to indicate he was going in. She nodded and turned so that her back was against the heavy wheels that had so recently moved the treads that should have propelled the behemoth. He slung the Mauler behind him before reaching up for the carrier's thick back wall, the ramp that had swung down to allow the troops to exit during the disaster. Pulling himself up over hardened clumps of dirt, he wondered how many of them had escaped.