Soldier 10.0
By
TomTinney
©2018 Tom Tinney/PiR8 Productions (Revised from Flash Fiction “Veteran 10.0” ©2014)
Any resemblance between characters and people living (or undead) is strictly coincidental. Seriously…it’s not about you.
Two thousand men held ranks and pushed forward into a phalanx of our enemy. The white and gold of our tunics clashing with the black and red of theirs. Behind our moving shield wall, pike men thrust between gaps, and swung down from overhead, inflicting bone and skull crushing damage on the enemy’s front elements. They reciprocated.
“Archers, keep to your bows, go to the stands,” I bellowed using my non-sword hand to make a rising motion. “I want any reinforcements cut down before they can come up to fill their gaps! Squires shield the archers!”
The men responded well. As they should. I’d only recently taken over command of this brigade, but my reputation had preceded me. Retreat and failure weren’t options.
Men grunted, screamed, and cursed each other as the fighting intensified. The sound of metal striking on metal rang through the air, along with the meaty chopping sounds where halberds, swords, and axes met bared flesh.
The enemy lines gave a step. Then two.
“Forward! Press them! They’re about to break,” I yelled, swinging my sword down on the helm of a giant of a man that had been cleaving his way into my lines. The first blow might have stunned him, but he replied with a full arcing swing of his two-handed sword. The resounding clang travelled up my arm and into my shoulder. My shield buckled.
He pulled the mighty sword straight back, held in his right hand and low to the ground, his arm feeling the strain of fighting his way to me. Large, two-handed swords aren’t suited to a close-in fencing style of fighting in amongst the bodies that were pressing around us. They need room to swing and for the warrior to place his feet to maximize the strike.
However, my long sword was meant for this exact scenario. Thrusting or swinging. Man-to-man. Face-to-face. The giant enemy tried to use his shoulder and hip to push men away and clear some room.
I wouldn’t let him. Tossing my bent shield at his head, while moving to his left-side, the shield blocked his view. I wasn’t where he thought I should be. He twisted around, trying to sight me in through the helmets slots, twisting his upper body to improve his view. He lifted his left arm to throw an elbow at the closest man in. He needed room to turn, see, and fight.
I struck from underneath, driving my blade through the chain mail and leather under his lifted left arm. The gap, that wouldn’t be exposed when fighting, was wide open. My blade point bit, I drove forward, using my leg strength and a reversed hand grip on the pommel to keep the pressure on. He tried to turn and move away, but he was pinned against the battling men, an armor wall made up of his compatriots and mine. I leaned in and pressed the blade home. With a snap and scrape, his undershirt of mail gave way and my blade drove deep into his chest, piercing across his lungs. He gasped and sputtered. He flailed about, trying to find purchase so that he could end his impaled state. He was dead and didn’t yet know it. I pulled my sword free, lest he tumble and take it with him. He crumpled to the ground, his armor holding him in an awkward kneeling position.
The air burned in my lungs as I caught my breath. The battle raged, but as the giant fell, their line faltered and my men pressed forward.
“Forward! Drive them home, Lads!” I yelled, as a wave of internal energy hit. Before I could offer another rallying cry, a squire back with the archers called out.
“Sir Mirellius, over there! Orcs! I see Orcs coming!”
Damn. The Black Baron had called in his dark allies. They lived in the southern hills and should have been many leagues from the battle. My men could take them on, and win, but the orcs used poisoned and rusting weapons. I’d lose twenty percent of the men in the following weeks to infections and paralysis. The war would not end that day.
*****
The Boars Ear tavern was alive with the music and laughter. The smell of good food, strong drink and human sweat filled the crowded main room. A white stucco, turned tan and grey from exposure to food, drink and smoke, covered the walls, but couldn’t entirely mask the large oak logs that made up the tavern’s structure. A hundred people had gathered in the open room. Some traders, most soldiers, others were mercenaries, but all came to ogle the full-figured serving girls, eat the roast pig and consume the local wines. I was there to do the same thing. My name is Donavan. Sir Donavan Mirellius.
There was a pause in the music. Banging my battered, and well worn, pewter mug on the table, I called to the innkeeper. “Brutus, a round. And a plate of swine and roots.”
“Aye, Sir Mirellius, Daphne will bring a meal,” the portly innkeeper replied, turning to yell into the kitchen as he deftly moved through the patrons, tray of drinks held high.
I couldn’t help but smile. Daphne was pretty, laughing at my stories of swordplay and leaning in whenever we spoke, just enough to make me think about her with somewhat less clothing, possibly doing things a good maiden would not. Her banter led me to believe she wasn’t an un-plucked flower, but I pity the man that thought that allowed him liberties with her person. I’d seen her pin one man’s wandering, and uninvited, hand to a table with a serving fork. Her oval face was enchanting, with a full head of red hair broken by a streak of white that ran out from her forehead.
“A family trait,” she’d told him. “My Ma said it’s where God touched us to tell us to get on with it and get born. All of my brothers and sisters have it.”
The musicians had taken a long break, so the bards went deep into tonight’s adventurous epics, playing lilting melodies to match their tales of wonder, holding an audience in the corners they each had staked out. Their audiences gasped, laughed and clapped. My name came up in the tale, and embellished version of my battlefield encounter with the Baron’s giant. Coins flew into waiting hats to show appreciation for their talents.
I flinched as a sharp pain formed between my eyes, but it faded just as quickly. The fatigue of war must have caught up. The Inn was a respite from the battlefield, where swords met armor, axes cleaved helms, and men died around me. The fighting had grown more intense, and destructive, as men on each side pushed to gain an advantage. And the arrival of the other creatures had led to the unnatural deaths and required new strategies to repel. A battlefield is a fluid, and living, thing. And I was winning.
Rubbing my eyes did little to rid my vision of the gore and mayhem I’d inflicted with my sword. The previous two weeks on the battlefield had seasoned me. There were no regrets about that level of violence, whether serving it or receiving it. It was normal. Like breathing.
A more reflective, and inciteful, man would have wondered why it no longer bothered him. It should. It was routine now. Natural.
Daphne arrived at my table. She set a finely crafted glass, filled with a deep red wine, in front of me.
“I sought swine and roots, Daphne,” I chided. “And you could have simply refilled my mug. I’ve no need for such fineries.”
“Sir, ‘Tis not your order. ‘Tis a gift,” she replied. She looked sideways and frowned ever so slightly. “From the gentlemen at the bar.”
As I turned my head, the man walked to my table.
“I thank you, kind sir, for the wine,” I said. “Please, allow me reciprocate and buy you— .”
My eyes caught a flicker as the stranger tossed something my way. Round and bright, it flew in an arc, end over end, fluttering like a metallic butterfly. A coin. A silver coin. Its path took it into the mouth of the glass and it splashed into the wine. Not a drop spilled over the lip. I looked into the glass and saw a face on the coin. I knew the face. I knew the back side would be a Templar knight riding a charging steed.
My head spun. My breathing became shallow and sweat drenched my clothes. I turned and got sick. My mind exploded with realization. I was me and I knew.
I saw the lasers from the mech-drones, the plasma cannons tearing into the Citadel. Kumari Warriors in battle armor pouring into the breach, the vacuum of space silencing our screams. My unit laying down continual fire with null-shell equipped rail guns. Kumari bodies folding in upon themselves and bursting. And my men dying.
I stood up to leave.
That medieval existence was a lie. I had died. My body torn apart by a Kumari disruptor grenade. My thoughts and memory transferring from my implant until my brain function ceased. It takes four weeks to commission and overlay an adult clone. And another two weeks of real-world battle conditioning to rebuild motor skills and accept the previous end.
I looked back at the coin, still resting in the bottom of the glass. I pulled a similar coin from my pocket. It was scratched and looked like it was made in the middle ages, as it was supposed to. Internally, it housed the engram capture tech and petabytes of storage. It had been recording my activities the last two weeks. Storing and sorting them into its twin, and then to a mainframe. For posterity. And the next “me”. Like it had done the previous nine times I’d returned.
I walked outside and climbed into the waiting vehicle. I would be at the launch pad in thirty ticks and on my way to beta sector before nightfall. I was a Resurrection Soldier. I could replace myself in six weeks, fully trained, all of my experiences intact, and ready to fight. It was the only way we were going to win the war.
********
Orion sector. Two hundred forty-seven days Terran days, and twenty-two engagements, since my tenth resurrection. The men were ready for the drop. Fifty of them. Mostly battle-hardened troops that made up my squad. V-shaped tattoos on their necks, one chevron for each Resurrection. I looked at the ones that had been resurrected after our last engagement. Two were never coming back, so newbs replaced them.
“Running simulation, Major Mirellius,” came the female voice through my implant. Simulated, since it belonged to one of our command AI’s. One last battle plan simulation to run through. One last chance to make sure the basics were covered, and everything was optimized.
“She did that quick,” Major Rondo said, my second in command, staring into space. He must’ve been looking at his internal HUD. “I’m looking at the preliminary percentages on the fall backs and primary. We’re good to go. I like how Neph thinks.”
Our two Artificial Intelligence, or A.I., command support strategists were Ramesses and Nefatari, or “Neph” to us troopers. They were experienced, and I’d worked with them before. Ramesses, the big “R” was unleashed. No Turing stops on him, free thinking, right-brain style. Always making rapid, intuitive, and creative adjustments to our operation when the plan goes to shit. With no “cuffs” installed, he wasn’t allowed to be directly connected to anything. No networks, hardware or weaponry. Just screens and opto interpreters manned by living operators.
Because he was insane.
All A.I.’s, the nanosecond they achieved the self-aware state, were declared insane.
“Simulation complete. 96% likelihood of operational success,” Nefatari said.
“Roger,” I replied. “And causality rate?”
“8% if Kumari screens are overwhelmed. 27% if they remain operational. “
“Damn,” I thought, knowing she had run the sim a million ways in the last two-minutes. And she had a rep for being accurate.
“What are you orders, sir?” she asked. No free will there. Or at least, it was limited.
“Neph” was cuffed. Since she’d achieved awareness after the Big “R’, even though it was only by a few a seconds, she was deemed the lower performing unit. So they hardware cuffed her. Mostly Left-brain. Logical. Accurate. Her neural pathways ran through Turing dampers with breakers in them, specifically designed to monitor for variances. Any “non-inquiry-based creativity” on her part and the connections sever. If she loses her shit entirely, the connections all blow and she’s dead. And so is Ramesses. Mutual destruction. Cruel, but when you’ve chained intelligences that can destroy economies and take over entire planetary networks, you better have an exit strategy.
“Incoming from Ramesses,” the Porter I knew as Grindlefal said. Short and in regulation atmo-safety suit, he sat next to me. An “Orc” from my medieval persona’s awakening. Porcine, bulky, tusks, and thick hide. His race was Omarian. Our allies in the expansion. This one was a civilian attaché from the Swiss A.I. rights commission. Assigned to make sure if we pulled the A.I. plugs, we did it for the right reasons, and to make sure we weren’t abusing these sentient “Citizens” of the Terran Omarian Alliance of Systems and Territories.
I killed my connection with Neph. A.I.’s aren’t allowed to communicate with each other directly. Or indirectly. Especially paired ones.
“He suggests we lay staggered Halo mines above the poles and detonate them every three minutes. That will eliminate any communications they have, and create a hostile hyperspace exit zone for any supporting ships the Kumari might have in route.”
Made sense. Isolating their expeditionary landing forces. They’d already wiped out the colony’s settlers, as well as the garrisons assigned to protect those folks. We were there to dislodge them and save whatever infrastructure we could. A last-minute creative change I’d approve and relay to Neph so she could fold it into her sims and operational plan.
My HUD flashed incoming. It was Neph. I looked at the “accept” Icon.
“Major, I have new scans of the Kumari surface positions. I can forward them to Rameses? He will need them to make an accurate analysis.”
I could hear the forlorn tone. The longing. The need to interface with her opposite. It was what paired A.I.’s did. It was how the Omarians had showed us to build them.
“You know the rules, Neph. Put them in the data pool. The Porter will relay them,” I replied. “And we’ll let him know you’re doing a great job and are okay. You are okay, aren’t you Neph?”
There was a pause. A half a second, but noticeable, then she answered. “I am fine, sir, thank-you for asking. The Kumari positions indicate a delaying action is planned. Not their usual practice when we arrive with this much firepower.”
“That’s new. We’ll pass it along,” I said. And it was new, for them. They usually setup stealthed orbital cannons and ground-based hypersonic missiles to keep our heavies away, making troop ferrying a lot more strung out. Maybe they wanted something on that rock worse than we thought.
I looked out my view port at the long cylindrical ship next to us. The Spike. It was where they were housed. Rameses and Nefatari. An ever-present Sheppard class cruiser stationed between it and the planet. The Spike reminded me of the old Christmas ornaments from my grandmother’s house. Pointed at both ends, growing wider in the middle. It had its own Spiral Drive underneath with a rotating mid-section where the human operators lived and interacted. The A.I.’s were physically separated by that human occupied space. Neph in one end, the Big “R” in the other.
The cruiser was there to protect the Spike, but it also had an entire bank of guns and missiles trained on the A.I. transport, if the A.I.’s ever got loose, or hooked up, the cruiser captain would vaporize the ship.
“Bombardment has commenced, all ground troops deploy. Good hunting.”
“Tubes,” I yelled. My team responded “Aye” and each man walked by the Porter, handing him his silver resurrection link coin, and headed to the cockpit of his personal Peregrine strike ship. Small, loaded with every munition it could carry, and highly mobile. A resurrection soldier is meant to change the direction of a battle. During a fleet engagement, in atmo flight, or on the ground. Ruthless, experienced and willing to die to achieve their goal.
“Major, a moment,” the Porter said.
“Right with you,” I said before giving Rondo the thumbs up and nod. “Captain, don’t hold them up on my account. Be right behind you.” I turned to the Porter.
“Major, Rameses is concerned,” he said. “Actually, he is rather agitated. There is an anomaly. A miscount and odd realignment of the Kumari fleet that followed us in.”
“We outnumber them and out gun them,” I replied. “They get to watch their squatters die and that’s about it.”
“Yes, sir, but a ship is missing. In their deployment pattern. It appears they have not filled the gap it creates, indicating they expect it back from wherever it may be.”
“So? Let the FleetComOp know,” I replied. I didn’t have time for chit-chat. “Or is there something more important?”
“I’ve passed along his concerns,” the Porter said. “But sir, I’ve worked with these two A.I.s for a very long time. Rameses is very intuitive. He’s grinding on something. Nefatari is very concise. I would simply ask that you keep an open mind and be ready to take action.”
“Noted,” I replied, turning to go to my Peregrine.
I entered the connecting tube where the graviton plates no longer pulled. A slight change in pressure and I was dropped into my cockpit. The seat conformed automatically. All systems were green, and I tapped my clamp release icon. While I was adjusting the AZ controls to line up on the planet, the incoming laser com lit off. I opened the channel.
“Major, we are under attack,” Neph said, calmly.
“Already? The teams are still twenty minutes out,” I replied, irritated she was using a secure line for basic information exchange. “And why are you on direct laser com?”
“The Spike is under attack, sir, a Kumari cruiser has dropped in and has engaged our escort. I can no longer communicate with the fleet, and neither can the cruiser. I am only receiving automated telemetry from it now.”
I turned and saw the two ships engaged in a slugging match. The brutish lines of our Sheppard class and the organic bulges of the Kumari ship. Our ship was getting the worst of it. I tried my Fleetcom. Nothing.
“My comm is down as well,” I replied. “Jammed. I’m coming your way, but launching a nuke toward the fleet to get their attention. I’ll detonate 2000 clicks in and 10 degrees off the cruisers bow. That ought to get someone looking this way.”
“Very good sir, And hurry. My infrared detectors have picked up smaller craft coming toward the Spike.”
The missile, one of two with the 10 Kiloton warheads, left the rails and headed for the space between our cruiser and the blockade fleet. I slammed the armrest knowing that almost all eyes in the fleet would be focused on the planet and they wouldn’t even notice the loss of contact with the Spike until they needed to ask a question or make an adjustment. That could be a long time. And then they would have to respond by closing the distance.
“I told them the Spike needs to be in the G-well of the nearest star, so nobody can do exactly what these bastards have done.”
“Yes, sir, you noted that in after-action report 32783/AT. You were rather emphatic. Shall I refile that report with an addendum to include this engagement as an example?”
“Not now Neph, but if we survive, have at it.”
The Peregrine’s engines were wound up and the pressure in my chest was building Warning lights were beginning to flicker as biosigns indicated the current acceleration might prove lethal. I didn’t care. Controlled breathing while flipping my hands across the holo-dash. Felt the rattling before I saw the sparkle. My resurrection coin, still on my wrist retainer. I had both of them. The other hung with my dog tag. If they were lost with me, there was no backup
“Fuck,” I said, letting out a sigh.
“Sir, is everything okay?” Neph asked. Pretty good emotional response detector there.
“Nothing to worry about. Forgot to give the Porter my number two coin. Got them both right here.”
“Sir, you are a valuable asset,” Neph chattered on. “The time and expense needed to cultivate your cumulative fighting and command experience, as well as the tenets of the first law, compel me to implore you to change your course of action. Formulate a more survivable scenario.”
“Ah, well, it’s been a good run,” I replied. “Besides, I wasn’t planning on dying any time soon, especially when all I’m up against is a single Kumari Cruiser. That’s just a Tuesday afternoon for a resurrection soldier.”
Neph didn’t respond. If I lived, I was going to talk to the Porters about given her sarcasm detectors and the ability to laugh at my ingenious insights.
The coin situation did bother me. The quantum tunnel data feed of my thoughts, actions and memories was still running, and recording, but both coins might perish if I met a gruesome end. Usually, we kept one on our person, datalogging from our cranial interface. The other was held by a Porter or command officer. Coins were linked. Process duplication. Cloud backup of everything we said, thought, and did. A Porter kept them all safe for the post battle reunification, or they beat a hasty retreat with them if we all met our ends. The coins held the engrams that would transfer to our next clone body. A brilliant concept, except when a battle focused Major, and his Porter liaison, were distracted by an excited A.I. and forgot to follow protocol.
“Sir, the Kumari ship is a MegaPod class and has the berthing capacity to evac a good portion of their ground force,” Neph said. “This is a serious misallocation of a valuable resource.”
“Not really. Rameses spotted it,” I replied. “Best guess is they’re coming for one or both of you. Get a visual on me and use the telemetry from the laser link com tracker to figure my course and velocity. Give me the optimum intercept course to take out those boarding parties.”
“Yes, sir,” Nefatari replied. “Board…? Major, you are correct, I have calculated a 99% probability they intend to board the Spike and either commandeer it, or attempt to acquire all, or a portion, of Rameses or myself. Now I must ask you to destroy the Spike immediately.”
“Wow, Neph, you skipped right over that Third Law,” I said. “And thanks for that vote of confidence in my abilities. I think they want a piece of you. Actually Rameses. You have too many complications and safeguards. He’s an open book. Got my closing course figured?”
“Course coming to you,” she replied, the simulated tone wavering. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t let them hurt him.”
“I won’t. Course laid in.” The shift was immediate. The Peregrine’s HUD was running at max mag, showing me the fuzzy outlines of the two Kumari assault ships. Definitely big enough to carry a couple of Pods worth of them and have room to spare for any hardware they could grab.
From where I was, the battle between the two starships was obscured by the half of our cruiser. More and more sections of lights flickered and went out. Our cruiser was losing. The captain might realize what was really happening at any moment and blow his ship, as well as the Spike. Or he might already be dead. It didn’t matter, I knew what I had to do.
Minutes passed. The Kumari transports reached the spike before I could intercept. Those crawlers had to be squished flat. Small ships don’t have Grav plating.
“Perimeter defenses have been breached,” Neph said over the link. “Internal communications are down. Our turrets can’t rotate down enough to target Kumari vessels. The internal airlocks are holding but will not stop them. Hub staff are armed and ready to put up resistance. May I tell them you are on your way?”
Tough call. Had to think about that for a second.
“No,” I said, knowing that it would mean of few of them might die in some heroic gesture, but they also wouldn’t be hunkering down awaiting my imminent arrival. I didn’t want to tip my hand and let the Kumari prep for that. They’d spot a holding action vs. desperation fighting.
I refocused my HUD display. “We’re gonna lose laser line-of-sight in a couple of seconds, get ready to release airlock A4 when I bang on it. I will mag grab. Coming in hot.”
The airlock markers were lined up as the braking thrusters fired. The cockpit seat harness held but I felt the compression in my lungs and gut. There was a small thump and click as the auto-locks grabbed. Down the connector tube and kicked on the panel. Servo screws whined and a noticeable pressure equalizing hiss greeted me. I dove in.
Close order combat was a resurrection soldier’s sweet spot. And the Kumari knew it. There was a firefight in the corridor as I entered. I had taken out two of them with null-rounds before they realized I had arrived. They had learned to distinguish us from a regular grunt.
They weren’t wearing battle armor. It would have slowed them down and they hadn’t planned on meeting much resistance. They formed up, looking like nightmarish bald chimps glued on top of a crabs, and returned fire from their plasma rifles, ignoring the handgun fire from the staff. I hadn’t been able to eat lobster, or any crustaceans, since my first encounter with them. I used to love seafood. That made me angry. I fired off more well-aimed rounds.
The charging time on their rifles was a real tactical disadvantage. My armor could take a few hits, so I moved fast. My main assault weapon carried null rounds, and could fire at a rate of ten rounds per second in one second bursts, with a 50-round mag capacity. Not that I fired at that rate…not with that many operational personnel in the area. I had spare mags as well.
I noticed one young woman egging on the other staff. The three stripes on her collar pin said she was not the most senior, but she was in charge.
“Miss, stay behind cover,” I barked. “Conserve ammo and get your position defensible.”
She turned and looked at me with a look I had seen before, framed by red hair and a flashing streak of white.
“Daphne?”
“Who?” she replied. “Wait, you know my Sister? Never mind, of course you do.”
I smiled and nodded. “Name?”
“Sergeant Delilah Houser, Major,” she responded, firing four rounds across and then down the bulkhead tunnel.
“Well, sergeant, you keep everyone here safe and let me do my thing, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “You’re gonna want to get to our console room, down a deck and 100 meters in. That’s the only place with a hatchway access to the A.I.’s. No way their getting through the plating anywhere else.”
A barrage of Kumari plasma rounds peppered the walls and my armor, then a disruptor grenade landed near me.
“Got it. Get Down. Time to make the donuts,” I said, kicking the grenade back to them and laying into the four Pod members I could see. The grenade went off and shattered everything organic within thirty feet. Goo. Nothing but goo. A quick glance at Daphne’s sister showed her disgust.
“Stay here,” I ordered. Looking over their handguns, Marubo 10 mm semi-autos, I pulled five magazines of my own 10mm. “Here, mags aren’t compatible, but rounds are. Use these to reload.”
I engaged the Kumari, using the suits servos to propel me down the hallway, 3 meters per step. Fire, step, dodge, fire, drop down stairway, fire on auto, reverse, cover rear, fire semi-auto, turn, leap, ricochet off walls, fire. It was a dance I knew and had mastered.
And they fell. Nearly an entire pod’s worth. Over a hundred of them. I reached the console center, where the staff interacted with Rameses and Nefatari directly. Dead people and living Kumari. The assault continued.
“Sir, they’ve breached Big R’s chamber,” a female voice said behind me. My helmet HUD opened a mini-window showing me the rear cam. It was Sgt. Delilah holding a security shield in front and firing around me as the opportunity presented itself.
“You’re insane,” I said.
“Maybe, but I know what happens if they get our A.I. tech,” she relied. “Nefatari is safe. You need to stop them, sir.”
“I will,” I said, reaching my left arm behind me. “See the coin in the slot? Take it out and hold onto it. Give it to the first Porter you run into.”
“Is this a …” she said, holding the coin that held every bit of what made me “me’ in her hand.
“Yes, so I’d appreciate it if you’d get back with your crew and keep that safe.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, as she turned away, reaching for a panel “You might want to use this.”
The panel slid away.
“Secondary systems maintenance hatch. Through there, turn left and you’re on a catwalk over Rameses P-cortex. Makes an excellent tactical high point. Also, please don’t hit anything with lights on it. Those would be the cells that make up Rameses’ brain.”
And she was gone. I followed her directions and she was correct. The catwalk was excellent high ground. I targeted and terminated any Kumari that was in Rameses main chamber, or that came into the hatchway. The little expedition was proving costly for them.
“Five rounds left,” my HUD flashed as I fired. Four. Tactics change needed.
Jumping down, I leapt toward the Kumari held hatchway, firing my last null rounds and pulling my Mol-swords. They activated at my grip. They vibrated and hummed. Each blade’s edge was sharpened to a single molecule, the sides ready to discharge plasma when triggered. It made for gruesome end.
“Time to make the Sushi,” I yelled as I plowed into the Kumari host. Limbs flew, bodies cleaved, Kumari screamed. But they kept coming. Filling the area between myself and a focused group working on Rameses hardware. They held up a glowing orb.
“Fuck,” I said as I pressed to reach them. The Kumari put up more resistance as the orb was spirited through the hatchway. The suit’s HUD radiation detector popped. A quick glance and I saw the package placed on the wall. Kumari didn’t have nukes, but they did have spoils of war and that looked like one of our MK-4KTNM nuclear mines. Big enough to vaporize a good portion of the Spike. Or any other ship. Timer running. Five minutes.
The remaining Kumari were intent on holding the hatch, so I went for the package, I cut it away from the panel, taking a piece with me and headed for my previous entry point, tossing grenades into the Kumari and over their heads into the hallway.
In the corridor, I kicked the leg servos on full and ran for my ship, passing the Sergeant, and the staff’s, defensive position.
“Looks like they’re leaving,” I yelled. “Secure the hatchways between here and the console room in case they vent to space. Close this one when I’m through.”
“What about…,” but I was already gone.
Leaping through the dock port hatchway twisting and grabbing handholds to arrive in my cockpit. “Protocol red, authorize Mirellius 7242. Go.”
There would be no response coming back from the system. Red protocol was automatic. Release docking clamps, spool up for full power, all armaments online, safeties removed.
I flew the Peregrine, hugging the Spikes our circumference, accelerating toward where the Kumari had originally boarded. As I crested the apex, I saw both ships vectoring away from the Spike.
“Select Raptor. Target port vessel, 100 clicks MBD from Spike,” I said, rolling my attitude and watching the relative speed indicator exceed the maximum Peregrine class craft design limits.
“Optimize for my kinetic launch. Free fly for 20 seconds. Then visual,” I said as my incoming comm lit. “Neph, that you?”
“Yes, sir. How is Rameses?”
“He’s fine Neph,” I said. “But the Kumari grabbed a piece of him. Real small piece. Not sure which ship it’s on. Can you keep a guidance laser on the port ship? I’m launching a Raptor now.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. I launched and immediately banked toward the second craft. Three minutes showed on the mine’s timer.
“Neph, plot my intercept time to the second one,”
“Two minutes and forty seconds, it will reach the Kumari cruiser five seconds after that.”
Decision had already been made by fate. I got dosed heavy with radiation when the Raptor found the other ship, so close in I got singed and the screens melted. The explosion provided sensor cover as I plowed ahead. When the Kumari noticed me, they sent everything they could my way, but I was already terminal on the assault ship’s tail. My last thought, as I slammed into the Kamari transport, was of Daphne and that marvelously wild streak of white hair. Pure. Where God had touched her, prodding her into the light.
* * *
“Sir Mirellius, I need you to respond,” a voice said. I opened my eyes. A man I didn’t know, in a black robe, was waving a candle in my face.
“Wha—” I croaked. He brought a cup of liquid to my mouth, I took in the cool water and swallowed. It burned all the way down.
“We thought we’d lost you. Quite the battle. No worse for wear and it looks like that strike to your helm only knocked you unconscious. Muscles a little weak. Here, focus on this candle.”
My mind was fuzzy. Flashes of light and spider like creatures, but the candle’s flickering brought a sense of calm. My vision sharpened. The battle. With the armies of the Black Baron. My head cleared as I remembered the previous day’s events. When I’d been struck on the helm.
“There it is. I see your focus,” the healer said. “That means you’re on the way to recovery. I’ll leave you to rest and be back in the morning.”
There was a knock at the door. “Come,” the healer said.
A woman poked her head in. A pretty girl in a barmaid’s attire. Buxom.
“Doctor, I have an important visitor for Sir Mirellius. He comes under flag of truce.”
“As long as you let this brave knight rest, and don’t stay to long, have at it,” he replied stepping past her and out into the hallway. He gasped aloud, but hurried away.
I tried to sit up and reach for my sword as the monster came through the door. An Orc still holding a tattered white flag attached to a branch.
“Do I address Sir Mirellius?”
Nodding, I glanced around the room for my weapons. They were out of reach.
“My name is Grindlefal. I’m here under truce and bear no weapons. I beg only to speak for a moment, then return to my lines in peace.”
“He’s been vetted by your second,” the pretty girl said. I nodded but held up my hand when he came near.
“I bear a gift, I was bid by a thankful ally to the south, to bring it to thee,” he held forward his hand and opened it. In the palm was a gold amulet. I steadied my gaze and bade him bring it closer. It had what appeared to be a figure on it. A beetle made of turquoise and jade, with gold spine and legs, the light dancing off tiny inscriptions and glyphs.
“It’s Egyptian. Called a life scarab by the locals. I was told it was constructed by the Queen herself and meant only for thee. Supposedly, it allows you to talk to the Gods.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, Sir Mirellius. A gift for saving a loved one? A thank-you for some heroic deed? I have no other information, so I now depart.”
The Orc turned, leaving with an escort of my men. My men. Yes, from my brigade. More was coming back to me. The war with the Black Baron, his Orc allies, the need to end his rebellion.
The pretty girl in the bar-maid clothes turned to close the door and locked it. She spun about, meeting my gaze with a smile that struck me from brow to loin. She let her hair fall, a brilliant streak of white falling from her forehead.
“And now I get to thank thee, personally,” she said, undoing the uppermost button of her blouse.
“First, I would know thy name, fair maiden, and then the why of your favor?”
“My name is Daphne and not so long ago, you saved my sister.”
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