Empire of Man Page 30

  The charge exhaustion warning tone sounded insistently, and she ejected the ammo clip and slapped in another. The magazine contained lithium-deuteride pellets and a power source to feed the laser compressors and initiate the fusion reaction that drove the weapon. The system was relatively simple for imperial technology, but to ensure that everything worked properly, the ammunition manufacturer’s quality control had to be precise, or the condition of the weapon firing it had to be perfect.

  In this instance, neither was the case. The pellet that dropped into the firing chamber was partially contaminated by carbon. The contamination level was low, barely a tenth of one percent of the mass of material, but the results were catastrophic.

  When the packet of lithium-deuteride was lased, the carbon reacted chaotically, causing a “flare” in the fusion reaction. The flare, in turn, exceeded the design parameters of the magnetic containment field, but even that would have been survivable under other circumstances. There was a backup containment system, designed specifically to prevent uncontrolled discharge in situations just like this one.

  Unfortunately, Marduk’s climate had had its way with the capacitor ring managing the critical feature. When the containment spike hit the capacitor, it exploded.

  The result was a small nuclear detonation in the lance corporal’s hands.

  Pahner cursed as the detonation’s blast front punched outward through the jungle. Whether it was a string of grenades or a plasma gun hardly mattered. The general roar of combat had already begun to panic the pack beasts; now the explosion accelerated that process, and the hail of javelins continued unabated.

  He called for reinforcements to fill in the sudden hole in the line in First Platoon’s sector as he followed the Second Platoon squad which had been covering the headquarters section towards the concealing cover from which those javelins came. His helmet HUD was a welter of icons and images, but he’d had years of experience in deciphering them at an almost subconscious level, and the density of the spears and the width of the attack made it clear that they faced a large group of hostiles.

  That was when he noticed a single gold icon on one end of the line.

  “Roger! Your Highness! Damn it, get to cover! You’re not supposed to be leading the damned assault elements!”

  The grenade launcher appropriated from the late point-guard wasn’t exactly familiar, but his helmet systems managed the conversion easily. Roger replaced the empty box of ammunition and hung the dead Marine’s spares over his shoulder. The area had been cleared by the flar-ta, which was now headed into the distance, and cleared again by “His Royal Highness.”

  I really have to have a talk with Pahner about how I keep ending up on my own.

  The com net was filled with chatter, and, as usual, it was impossible for him to sort out the conflicting calls. On the other hand, his visor HUD made it clear that he was behind the majority of the Mardukan ambushers and well in the lead of most of the company. He thought about that for just a moment, then smiled and looked down and shook his head as Dogzard trotted up to him.

  “Am I crazy, Dogzard? Or just evil?

  Kosutic pulled her knife out of the scummy’s head and looked around. She was deep in the brush now, and the damned assault elements had bogged up in the middle of the ambush. No matter how many times you told them, no matter how many times they practiced it, the unit always seemed to stop on the objective instead of going through the damn thing. Now the surviving scummies and the Marines were inextricably intertwined. It was practically down to hand-to-hand, since to fire in any direction was just as likely to hit a friend as a foe.

  She was just about to charge back into the fray when she was assaulted by friendly fire.

  Again.

  Pahner ducked as the scummy’s spear whistled overhead and struck another Marine with a meaty “thunk!” He triggered a single round into the center of mass of the spearman, following the targeting caret of the helmet systems automatically, and looked around. Undergrowth restricted his line of sight, but everywhere he could see the Marines were locked in hand-to-hand combat with the larger Mardukans. He saw one private picked up and hurled away by a native who was nearly three meters tall, and shook his head angrily.

  “Move through the ambush!” he bellowed over the com, and sprinted forward just as the trees around him started to come apart under the hammer of grenade rounds.

  Roger laughed like a child. He’d figured out how to use the helmet systems to aim, and he was dropping grenades to the side of and above all the blue icons. Since the grenades threw out high-velocity shrapnel which, unlike javelins and swords, was stopped by the chameleon suits, theoretically the fire should be doing more damage to the enemy than to the Marines.

  Theoretically.

  Julian had just discovered that grappling with something with four arms and the size and disposition of a wounded Terran grizzly was a losing proposition. The Mardukan had him in a bear hug, and the knife was inching closer and closer to his throat when the world seemed to explode.

  He and the native were thrown sideways into a tree, but the chameleon suit reacted to the strike, hardening to take the damage and puffing to pad the impact point.

  The native wasn’t so lucky. The explosion of the grenade tore off its head and one shoulder.

  Julian stumbled to his feet, favoring his left hand, and looked around for his weapon. He finally found it under a pile of leaves thrown up by the explosion, then tried to get his bearings.

  Throughout the ambush site, other Marines were doing much the same thing. Whoever had been firing the grenade launcher had apparently walked the things all the way down the ambush, and there were bruised Marines and dead scummies everywhere.

  Pahner saw Julian and walked over to him.

  “Sergeant, assemble your squad and sweep this area. Then move out another twenty meters and establish a perimeter.” He started to move on, then stopped when Julian didn’t start moving. “Sergeant?”

  Julian shook his head and took a breath. “Roger, Sir. Will do.”

  Pahner nodded and moved on down the line, shaking the occasional Marine into coherence or calling for a medic. Most of the injuries were the result of the fighting with the Mardukans, not the grenades from whatever maniac had peppered the fight. Whoever that had been was not going to enjoy the ass-chewing he had coming.

  As the captain reached the end of the line of impacts, he saw the prince striding towards him, appropriated grenade launcher propped on his hip like a big-game hunter surveying his kill.

  “Did it work?” Roger asked with a grin.

  Kosutic eeled out of the brush and looked around. The firing had died to nothing, and she’d found no sign of the scummies in the area beyond the ambush. It looked like the company had reacted so quickly that it had gotten every one of its attackers.

  She walked over to Captain Pahner and was just opening her mouth when she realized he was rigid and shaking. She’d occasionally seen him perturbed, even angry, but she’d always wondered what he would look like if he was furious. Now she knew.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “That arrogant, intolerable, insufferable little snot was the one with the grenade launcher!” Pahner said tightly.

  “Oh,” Kosutic said. Then: “Oh. So, was he an idiot or a genius?”

  “Idiot,” Pahner said, calming just enough to make a rational judgment. “We’d already taken most of the casualties we were going to take. The Mardukans were either going to run away or stay in place as we passed through. Either way, we could have taken them with aimed fire. Now we’ve got half a dozen broken wrists and cracked ribs, not to mention shrapnel wounds.”

  “So what now?” Kosutic asked. She had her own opinion of the prince’s actions. And she suspected that the captain’s might, eventually, moderate.

  “Reassemble on the trail.” The captain ground his teeth. “Move back to drier ground to make camp, send out parties to recover the pack beasts, and dig in. I think this was the group that was
going to hit Q’Nkok, but that doesn’t mean that we’re out of the woods.”

  “Nope,” Kosutic agreed, looking around at the vegetation flailed by the grenade launcher and the scattered bodies of the Kranolta attackers, “it sure don’t.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Cord examined the blade in the firelight.

  The weapon was a Mardukan two-handed sword. At nearly three meters in length, it would have been ridiculously oversized for a human, but its proportions were lean, lethal, and graceful, and its silver-and-black patterning and elaborate engravings reflected red in the flickering light.

  “Beautiful craftsmanship,” Cord whispered. “Definitely Voitan work.”

  Much of the pattern was covered in a patina of rust which had been inexpertly scrubbed in places, damaging the very artistry the scrubber had meant to reveal.

  “Damned Kranolta,” the shaman added.

  “Yeah, but it’s useless for us,” Lieutenant Jasco said, shaking his head. His arm was cradled in a sling with a broken ulna as a result of the ambush. Fortunately, his quick-heal nanites were on the job and he’d be out of it in a day or two, none the worse for wear.

  Others hadn’t been as lucky.

  Captain Pahner appeared out of the darkness. He tossed a short sword or long knife point-first into the ground beside the shaman and nodded to the lieutenant.

  “True,” he agreed. “But this will work just fine, and most of them were carrying at least one of them.” He paused, looking speculatively at Cord, and then cleared his throat. “And a bunch of them were carrying something else, too. Horns that looked . . . sort of familiar.”

  The shaman clapped his true-hands in agreement with a shiver of disgust.

  “The Kranolta take the horns of kills as souvenirs. They prefer the horns of champions, but in fact, any will do. The souvenirs of lesser enemies are made into musical instruments,” he added, examining the knife before he tossed it down dismissively. “Well crafted, but it’s only a dagger.”

  “Maybe for you Mardukans,” Pahner replied, taking a seat by the fire. “But for us, that’s a short sword. Combine it with large shields and a javelin, and I think we’ll show you a thing or two.”

  “You’re planning on using the Roman model?” Jasco asked. The need to use local equipment was a foregone conclusion. The ambush they’d just survived had depleted nearly ten percent of their plasma rifle rounds. At that rate, they would be “fired dry” before they made it to the next city-state, and that didn’t even consider what had happened to Corporal Bosum. They had to start training on local equipment as soon as it could be obtained, but Q’Nkok, unfortunately, hadn’t had sufficient supplies of human-sized weaponry to outfit the company.

  Jasco had been arguing in favor of a technique using longer swords and smaller shields: the “Scottish model.” He felt that the longer swords would be more effective against the reach of the Mardukans. Of course, against a weapon like the one the shaman was examining, any possible human reach with a sword wouldn’t matter.

  “I think the Roman model will be easier to learn,” Lieutenant Gulyas put in. The Second Platoon leader joined the group gathered around the fire and took a seat as well. He slapped a bug on his neck and shook his head. “Not that it will help worth a damn, if today is any example.”

  The company had taken heavy casualties, particularly in First and Second Platoons. And while the majority of the deaths were from the spears and swords of the attacking Mardukans, there were numerous minor injuries from the grenades of the prince’s bombardment. Reactions to Roger’s actions were mixed. It came down to those who’d been saved by his intervention being in favor of it, and those who’d been injured by it being against. The only undecided were those like Sergeant Julian, who’d been saved while being injured. He said he would make up his mind after the ribs healed.

  “We survived it,” Pahner said stoically. The company had been devastated by the ambush, and had lost Lieutenant Sawato, a platoon sergeant, and two squad leaders. But that didn’t mean the mission was a failure. Or impossible. “We need to move smarter. From now on, we’re going to put a squad out front on a three-pronged point. That should spring any ambushes before we get to them.”

  “It’s not doctrine, Sir,” Jasco pointed out, fingering his sling. “It won’t spring a long-range ambush, and you’re effectively offering a squad as a sacrifice instead of one Marine.”

  The captain shook his head angrily.

  “We keep forgetting that the Mardukans are range-limited. Or these Mardukans are, at least—that may change when we finally hit some of them with gunpowder. But as long as we keep flankers out at thrown-weapon range to the front, the Kranolta can’t ambush the main body. They don’t have the range. So we change the doctrine.”

  “And pack up the goddamned plasma guns,” Gulyas said with a grimace. Bosum’s death had been spectacular, and most of the plasma gunners had already unloaded their weapons as a precaution. No one knew what had gone wrong, and no one wanted to be the next person to find out.

  “Yeah,” Jasco snapped. “No shit.”

  He was out half a squad and a team leader from the malfunction. Between Koberda’s death and the loss of most of the squad’s Alpha Team to the plasma rifle malfunction, Gunnery Sergeant Lai had been forced to roll what was left of Second and Third Squads together under the Third Squad leader.

  “Well, like the King said in Q’Nkok,” Pahner pointed out, “if you have one problem, it’s sometimes insoluble. But if you have several, they sometimes solve each other. We took enough casualties that there are spare weapons for all the plasma gunners to switch over to something else. I’ll have Poertena and Julian start going over the plasmas in the morning, but in the meantime, we’ll limit ourselves to grenades and bead guns.”

  “As long as the ammo holds out, Sir,” Jasco said.

  “That too,” the company commander admitted with a grim smile. “That too. Which brings this conversation full circle.”

  Roger knew that doing kata while angry was pointless. No matter how many times he tried to find his balance, he could never quite manage it, yet he couldn’t stop, either. He spun in the darkness behind his tent, hair windmilling out in a golden halo, away from the eyes of most of the company while he tried to work out his frustration, anger, and fear.

  He was shocked by the casualties the company had taken. Despite everything, it had never truly occurred to him that the Marines might be wiped out by this march. Oh, intellectually he’d acknowledged the possibility, but not emotionally. Not at the heart of him. Surely modern troops, armed with Imperial weapons, would be able to slash their way through an enemy armed only with spears and swords or the crudest of firearms.

  But that presumed the enemy was unwilling to take casualties. And it also presumed that the Marines could see the enemy in time to kill him before he reached such close quarters that all of their advantages in range and firepower were negated. The failure of the automated sensors to detect the attackers before they struck boded ill for the rest of the journey.

  Although the tactical sensors were, theoretically, designed to detect a broad range of possible “traces,” it was now clear that the software depended heavily on infrared and power source input. If it had a possible contact, but the contact was “anomalous,” it filtered by infrared tracing and power emissions, which made perfectly good sense against high-tech opponents who would be emitting in those bands.

  But the Mardukans emitted in neither of them, so the sensors were throwing out most detections as ghosts. In some cases during the battle, the helmet HUDs had flatly refused to “caret” the enemy at all, which had thrown off the Marines, who were trained to depend primarily on their helmet sensors precisely because those sensors were so much better than the ones evolution had provided. Except that now they weren’t.

  Roger had dealt with that problem by ignoring the targeting carets—first by using the simple holographic sights on his rifle, and then by firing into a melee where he knew the M
arines weren’t on the theory that that was where the enemy had to be. Of course, the burst radius of the grenades had caused a few problems, but still . . .

  He spun on the ball of one foot, carrying the heavy sword through a vicious butterfly maneuver. It wasn’t fair. He’d personally broken the back of the ambush. So the method was a little drastic. It had worked, and whatever Pahner might think, his actions had stemmed from neither panic nor stupidity nor arrogant carelessness.

  Now if someone besides the ever-worshiping Dogzard would just realize that, he might even—

  He froze at the sound of a cleared throat and turned gracefully to face the interruption. His face settled into a practiced, invulnerable mask of hauteur as he placed the point of the sword on the toe of his boot. It was an incredibly arrogant pose, and he knew it, but he didn’t really care just at the moment. Screw ‘em if they didn’t like it.

  “Yes?” he asked Despreaux. He hadn’t heard the soft-footed squad leader approach, and he wondered what she wanted.

  The NCO regarded him carefully for a moment, taking in both the attitude and the picture. The prince had changed into a pair of shorts to work out, and the heat and activity had raised a heavy sweat. The greater moon, Hanish, was breaking through the clouds, and the reflected fire and moonlight dappled the sweat on his body like patina on a bronze statue. The image sent a stab of fire through the NCO’s abdomen, which she firmly suppressed.

  “I just wanted to say thank you, Your Highness. We probably would have cut our way through the ambush, but we were in the tight, no question. Sometimes you have to do things that seem crazy when it drops that far in the pot. Blowing the shit out of the Company isn’t the dumbest thing I can think of, and it worked. So, from me, thanks.”