Glory Main (14 page)

Hatches in the roof of the carrier were also open, so a modest amount of light shone in as he slid down the plates of the sloping floor. A mounting post for a heavy weapon arrested his movement halfway, and folding troop seats on either side of him provided handholds as he moved toward the lockers at the front of the carrier. His boots made contact with something soft and for a moment he feared it was another body, but when it gave beneath his weight he recognized it as some kind of bag. When he moved his foot it landed on a discarded helmet, and he realized that the flotsam and jetsam left in the vehicle had slid to the front when it finally came to rest.

Bending his knees, he found the snaps holding the bag closed and gently began unfastening just enough of them to reach inside. As he'd expected, it was a tool kit of a kind that he'd seen on his training ride months before. He hefted a large hammer and then lost control of it when he went to move the bag off to the side. The mallet twisted in his hands and fell to the deck with a dull metallic thud that nonetheless seemed to ring for hours.

He froze for several moments, wondering if Trent had heard the noise. When her face didn't appear in the much-­lighter maw of the rear opening, he decided the hammer hadn't made that big a sound after all. Right after that he began to ridicule Cranther's system of warning slaps on the outer hull—­if Trent hadn't heard the hammer dropping on metal, how was he supposed to hear her bare palm pounding on armor?

Not for the first time, he pondered the notion that Cranther's knowledge of small unit tactics might be a bit deficient because the Spartacan almost always worked alone. He had no established procedure for warning fellow soldiers because he so seldom had any of them around him. Despite his extensive combat experience and survival skills, in the end he was hardly the voice that a brand-­new lieutenant would seek for guidance on managing a platoon, a squad, or even three strangers.

But I bet he scrounges like nobody's business.

The thought spurred him back into action, and he shifted a large water container out of the way as quietly as possible. He was reaching for the recessed handle of the first locker when a question crossed his mind.

Where are the weapons? Why haven't I found any of those?

Mortas pressed a palm against the metal door before releasing the catch, and was rewarded with only a tiny ping when it opened. The interior of the locker was invisible in the darkness, but he recognized the feel of a ration box when he touched it and almost cried out in joy. There were twelve condensed meals in that box, and he had only to—­

Where are the weapons?

It wasn't possible that every soldier riding in that carrier had carried his rifle or machine gun out with him. Mortas had already found discarded pieces of field gear, and when he reached around near his feet again he found a complete combat harness loaded with canteens and ammunition pouches.

Empty ammunition pouches.

He looked around him, his eyes now fully accustomed to the gloom, and noted that the onboard rifle racks were empty. The crewmember they'd found dead in the ravines had been unarmed, and if they'd bailed out as fast as he expected, it was reasonable to assume that at least some of their weapons would have been left behind.

They took them. The Sims took them. And the ammunition.

What if they left booby traps in their place?

He reached back for the ration box, but this time in fear. He slowly worked his fingers around the carton's outline, expecting at any moment to come across the wire or the spring or whatever other device would indicate the food was a trap. He was only partially relieved when he finished the blind inspection, too aware of the enemy's fondness for rigging human equipment, and even human corpses, so that they would detonate if moved. A pressure switch either behind or below the box would be beyond his reach, and the only way to find out if it was there was to actually lift the carton from the shadows.

He might have stayed there in that position for a very long time had he not heard an insistent hiss behind him. Looking up and back, he saw Trent's head just visible over the rear ramp. Her arms came up in a gesture that was part concern and part exasperation, but it was enough. Without pausing to think, he seized the carton on both sides and pulled it out of the locker. He was still holding his breath when he slid it up the incline to Trent's waiting hands.

M
ortas dropped to the ground several minutes later, holding a rucksack that he'd emptied. A more thorough search of the carrier had revealed no weapons of any kind and no food other than the rations he'd already found. Trent stepped out from the hulk's shadow, and Mortas traded her a human combat harness for the ration box. At least they wouldn't have to haul the makeshift tube-­canteens anymore, now that they had real ones. He went to stuff the carton into the ruck's open top, and was mildly impressed to note that its tension bands were still intact. Trent hadn't helped herself to any of the food while she'd been waiting outside, which surprised him. It wasn't a criticism; while still inside he'd secretly hoped to come across something small that he could eat quickly and had to believe Trent was just as hungry.

Although several other vehicles with open hatches were nearby, he was already inclined to leave the area with what they had when the shooting started. It was far away, somewhere on the opposite side of the next ridge and close to where they believed the enemy settlement was located, but both he and Trent hit the ground in alarm. Despite the distance, it sounded like an entire shop full of unmuffled machinery had come to life with a startling roar of harsh pops and rippling snaps.

Crawling around the wreck to get a better look, Mortas watched in amazement as flares flickered into life in the night sky at least a mile away. He'd been trained to use signals like that, but these were different in color and it took him a moment to realize they were fired by the Sims. The roaring slowed for a few seconds before resuming at a lower volume, and now he heard the deeper, sharper sounds of explosives going off.

Grenades. Whoever was out there was in close quarters.

A tug on the rucksack brought his attention back to Trent, who was gesturing for them to leave the area. A glance down at the bag reminded him of its precious contents and how much he desired it, and he gave a weak nod before Trent pulled the bag from his hand and worked it up onto her shoulders.

More flares popped in the sky as the first ones fizzled out, and the firing resumed. Clearly the Sims had gained the upper hand in that contest, and were now pressing their advantage. Coming to his feet to follow the already moving Trent, Mortas experienced a thought that he would never have imagined possible even a few days earlier.

Nothing we could do for them, even if we were there.

Time to eat.

 

CHAPTER 7

C
ranther and Gorman were already back at the rally point when they got there. The scout had scrounged a rucksack similar to the one Trent now wore, and it looked full. Without a word they formed up in a column, Cranther in the lead, and humped up the ridge while still more flares raced up into the blackness and briefly joined the stars. The far-­off shooting had died down by then, and Mortas had to assume that the enemy was now pursuing whoever was left.

The climb away from the wreckage was steep and tiring, but they all knew they'd get to eat only after putting sufficient ground between them and the place where they'd gotten the food, and so they set to it with a will. Bringing up the rear, Mortas couldn't help but be impressed at the way Trent handled the climb. Granted the rations weren't all that heavy, but she carried the rucksack as if it contained nothing at all while Gorman, bearing the other one, kept overbalancing and reaching out for the ground. The flares provided intermittent illumination that improved as they neared the summit, allowing Mortas to gauge the weariness of the others. Tired and hungry as he was, he noted with secret pride that even Cranther's steps weaved from time to time in a way that his own did not. Trent was the only one who seemed more at home, and Mortas promised to add her treadmill regimen to his workouts when they finally returned to humanity.

If they returned to humanity.

His mind fought against the thought of eventual salvation, not because it was unlikely but because it was so far away. His entire existence had been reduced to the solving of simple problems such as how to move about without getting spotted and how to find water without getting killed, and now it was even more focused on finding a safe place to eat. This reminded Mortas of a veteran from his training who had warned the assembled lieutenants not to get sloppy at resupply time. Units receiving their expected rations on a normal schedule sometimes let security slip in anticipation, and the veteran had said this was doubly so with units that had missed their resupply and gone hungry.

So he knew what Cranther was looking for as they climbed: a spot near the top of the ridge from which they could observe anyone trying to sneak up on them, a hole that would hide them, and a location that would require effort for the enemy to reach them. That meant climbing high, but not so high that they'd be on a natural movement corridor for an enemy who was presumably as tired of walking as they were.

The tall grass slowly gave way to the lower, sparser brush that they'd come to know, and Mortas assumed this meant they were nearing the top. A single flare popped alight just as he looked up, and a thrill went through him when he saw they were almost at the summit. The flare washed along the ridge on the opposite side but didn't expose them, and they were so high up by then that it quickly dropped below them.

They should have stopped moving and flattened on the ground in such close proximity to a light source, but it was a sign of their exhaustion that even Cranther stayed upright. He took the opportunity to search the immediate area with his eyes, and found what he was looking for before the flare flickered and died. They were left in darkness, but Cranther began moving again and Mortas followed the others along the knife edge of the summit until they found the depression Cranther had seen. Though near the top, the ridge here was so steep that it wouldn't have allowed anyone to actually walk on it. Mortas nodded in agreement with the selection as he slid down the shallow hole's crumbling sides and joined the others at its bottom.

Both rucksacks were soon emptied, and if Mortas had ever received better gifts he certainly couldn't remember the occasion. The ration box proved to be two-­thirds full, but that still meant two meals apiece. Back home such food would have been considered unfit for the family dog, and on training maneuvers two rations would have been one meal short of a daily allotment, but there in that forgotten hole it was quite simply a banquet.

Cranther had found more of the energy bars, another medical kit, and three canteens filled with the flavored water-­and-­additives mix that Mortas had come to love while in the field. Most of the infantrymen he knew carried the powder in packet form and added it to the water in their canteens even though Command had warned its high levels of caffeine were addictive. He snorted at the notion of fearing such a long-­term danger as he took a long, grateful swallow.

They each took a ration pouch at random, unable to see its markings, and set the remaining four on the side of the dirt wall so that the next flare might reveal its contents. It was then that any pretense of control vanished, as all four of them greedily tore into the rubberized bags and began devouring the contents. Mortas would be hard pressed later on to identify the meal he'd been given, knowing only that it was covered in gravy, that it was deliciously greasy, and that it contained some kind of chunked meat. It was gone in moments, no matter how hard he tried to slow down, and he ripped the small bag apart so that he could lick its insides clean. When he was done with that he rubbed his hands hard against the stubble around his mouth and then licked them clean too.

He looked at the others then, and was intrigued to see that they'd also devoured their food but that he hadn't heard them doing it. Reflecting on this, Mortas realized that he'd suppressed more than one moan of pleasure as the nutrients had gone down his throat. The others must have done the same, and he considered it a testament to how long they'd been in a survival situation and how much they'd come to imitate Cranther.

For his part, the short man was half reclined against the hole's sloping wall across from Mortas. His knees were drawn up slightly, and the wrappings from his meal were resting on his thighs. Mortas watched as the scout began stuffing the trash back into the original pouch, and he began to do the same. The revelry of the hurried meal vanished with the memory of an enemy who was hunting humans nearby, close enough for their flares to help the tiny band find their way. It would not do to leave evidence that they had been there, and the picked-­clean wrappers from one of their rations would be a dead giveaway.

“I want another.” Gorman's voice was quiet and passive. He was seated across from the line of four meals awaiting the next flare, but the hostilities seemed to have ended for the night. “I don't care which one it is. I don't want to wait for a flare, or anything involving this war. I just want to eat my next meal.”

“You eat it now, you can't eat it tomorrow.” Mortas kept his voice level, more the tone of a parent giving advice to a child, but even he didn't find value in the words.

“Probably a good idea to wait just a bit.” Trent offered. “Let our bodies adjust to what we just had. We haven't eaten in days, except for those energy bars . . . and didn't you say our stomachs would shrink, Corporal?”

“Yeah I did, but that was a lie. I just wanted to give you something to help handle the hunger pangs.”

There was a long silence, but it finally ended when Gorman began to giggle. As hard as he tried not to laugh, Mortas soon joined in and ended up clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Next to him, Trent was actually shaking with mirth and barely got the words out. “You son of a bitch.”

“I know, I know.” Cranther raised his hands palm upward. “But it worked, didn't it?”

They kept up the stifled laughter for some time, and Cranther took the opportunity to crawl to the top of the ridge and look over at the inky vastness below. When he came back he settled against the wall and pronounced that portion of the night's activities to be over.

“Any idea what happened to those vehicles?” Mortas asked, still mightily puzzled.

“I've seen some weird things in this war, and both sides are always developing new stuff, but that one's a cut above. No idea how they did it, but they turned dry dirt into mud so deep it bogged down treaded vehicles and swallowed men alive. And then it went back the way it was.”

Mortas searched his brain for the term the instructors had used. “Temporary area denial.”

“That's the name of the game out here.” Trent broke in. “No point in fighting over a Hab planet if you make it an Unhab in the process.”

His father's secret briefings came back to Mortas with that observation. One of the techs had used almost those exact words describing the seemingly contradictory nature of the war. Although it was a fight for survival of an entire species, it was very much a limited conflict. Both sides possessed weapons that could blow a planet's atmosphere right off or radiate the place so badly that no one could live there, but the goal of gaining a habitable planet took those weapons off the table. Instead it set the engineers from both sides working on devices that delivered their terrible effect but didn't permanently alter the ground where they were used.

The tech had become visibly disturbed when he reached the logical conclusion that the limited war calculus would no doubt be dropped the day either side found the enemy's home planets.

Cranther murmured, “Very practical boys, the Sims. It figures they'd come up with a way to turn the dirt against us.”

“I heard a rumor that they found a way to defeat the Step,” Gorman suggested. “Either it makes the Threshold collapse as the ship enters it, or they've got a rocket fired on the other side so it makes contact as the ship exits.”

Mortas shifted uneasily. Ships had been lost in the Step since its creation, but another of his secret classes had mentioned a concern that the enemy had learned enough about the technology to turn it against the humans. There had been only a slight increase in unexplained ship losses, but Command was still greatly concerned that the enemy had indeed countered mankind's greatest advantage. It would be typical of the Sims to distill a technological achievement down to a simple question of inertia and have something waiting for the irreversible arrival of the ship making the transgression.

“I heard that one too,” Trent whispered. “A pilot I know said the enemy had captured enough of our ships to figure out how it all works. Said they can't reproduce it yet, but they don't need to if they just want to stop it.”

“Well, Command's gonna have their hands full countering this new thing right here,” Cranther said. “Forget what the Sims might come up with later.”

“Think anyone reported it? I mean, anyone got off a message or maybe even got back to the ships before they bugged out?” Trent's eyes were on Cranther.

“That's almost certain. There were no personnel rings where the cofferdams came down, so they canceled the second wave almost as soon as the first one hit the ground. First the bombers and the rockets come in, then the armor, then the individual infantry right behind them. The troops in those vehicles got written off really fast, so either somebody was watching or they sent a message.” The scout made a quiet sound in his throat and then spit outside the hole. “Sometimes you're better off not letting Command know what's happening.”

“You don't really believe that, right?” Mortas asked in a voice that was slowly drifting toward sleep.

“Oh you bet I do. And the troops left stranded down here believe it too. At least they do now.” The short man leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Did you know that at the beginning of the war Command used to drop huge numbers of Spartacans on Hab planets in Sim space just to get the enemy to attack? The Sims had to figure we were going to follow up those scouts with troops and colonists, so they'd send a force to wipe out the recon parties. Took 'em a while to figure out what Command was doing, buying time with Spartacan lives and getting them to waste a lot of assets on planets we couldn't hope to actually keep.”

“At the start of the war? That was forty years ago. Sounds like a story to me.”

“Maybe. Maybe.” Cranther's voice had taken on a cautious, almost tentative tone. “But here's one that actually happened, might change your opinion of how much Command values your ass.

“I'd been operational for a year or so, finally figuring things out, when they dropped me and two others on this one planet. Had Spartacans running all over the place checking it out. We always knew when a planet was hot because it was the only time they'd send us down in groups. And that one was a special kind of hot.

“You see, there weren't any colonies there and it wasn't a standard enemy base. It was like the Sims were trying out something different. They'd hidden an entire corps on that rock, dug 'em right into the ground and inside the mountains as if it wasn't a Hab planet at all. Their camouflage was almost perfect, and man did they have discipline. They must have spotted my team and all the others, but they just sat tight and waited for the real party to arrive.

“We'd crossed this one big hill a week before the troops came down, and of course nobody thought the enemy was there then. But some of the other scout teams started finding the signs of digging, and then the entrances to a few of the emplacements, and of course then they got taken under fire so the game was on. Our ­people came down in regiments and there was a lot of confusion about where the Sims were because they kept moving around underground.

“So this one platoon got told to occupy that hill I mentioned, the one I crossed with my team before we knew any enemy was on the planet. Some idiot in orbit, turned out to be a Golden Boy captain with a dad who was a general, told them to go up and dig in on this unsecured hill. When they asked if it had been scouted he said, ‘Sure, the Spartacans were all over the thing,' and so they went up.

“They ended up getting torn to pieces. I was told they weren't even in tactical formation, just went for a little hike because some yo-­yo who wasn't even on the planet told them everything was cool.”

He stopped, and didn't seem like he was going to continue, so Gorman quietly asked the question the others were thinking. “How'd you find out about it?”