Roger leaned over the big kettle and sniffed.
"Is that what I think it is?"
The company had waged an exhausting battle against nature across the brutal hills. Whatever paths had once existed had been erased over the years, and they were forced to create new ones. Driving a way through the choking undergrowth for the big pack beasts would have been bad enough under any circumstances, but the hills' vicious carnivores had made it nightmarish.
They had lost Sergeant Koberda to the carnivore Cord called an atul and the company just called a damnbeast. It was low, fast, and hungry. About two hundred kilos, it had a triangular head filled with sharklike teeth, and a rubbery, mucus-covered skin similar to that of the Mardukans.
A burst of bead fire had torn the beast apart, but not before it had savaged the sergeant. The tough old NCO had held on for a day, riding on one of the flar-ta, but he'd finally succumbed. Even the nanites and Doc Dobrescu's Magic Black Bag hadn't been able to heal all the damage, so they'd bagged the popular squad leader and fired him up. Captain Pahner had said a few words, and they'd moved on. Marching upcountry.
Along the way, they'd become accustomed to the constant danger. Roger saw it all around him, and even in himself. Everyone was getting better at reading the jungle, at anticipating the dangers. The Marines on the perimeter now made a game of spotting the killerpillars in the trees, and the ones that were on the path were harvested. The fangs of the horrible worms contained two poisons, both of which were considered valuable by the Mardukans.
The whole company was changing, getting a little wilder, a little wilier. They were learning about "waste not, want not," and that if something is attacking you, it's probably edible itself. Which brought Roger back to the stewpot.
Matsugae smiled, stirred, and shrugged.
"Damnbeast, Your Highness. The one you killed. Clean shot as well, which I appreciated. Not too torn up but well bled by the time I got it."
"I can't believe we're having damnbeast for supper," Roger said, and brushed a recalcitrant strand of hair out of his eyes.
"Well, the troops are having damnbeast stew," Matsugae said with another grin. "Just wait until you see what the officers are having."
"I still can't believe that was damnbeast," Roger said, leaning back and setting down his fork.
Matsugae had somehow secured not only a large quantity of a really good wine, but a variety of local spices. The troops had seen him at various times throughout Q'Nkok, talking to restaurant and tavern owners, and when the company started out on its journey, he had immediately established himself as a cross between chief cook and caravan-master.
The result was a smoothly functioning caravan. D'Len Pah's mahouts had experience of this sort of thing, and Matsugae hadn't hesitated to pick their brains. It was the mahouts who'd suggested unloading one beast and letting it break trail, for instance, thus lightening the load on the Marines. It was also the mahouts who'd pointed out that it was silly to waste good protein just because it was trying to eat you. And that there was nothing wrong with shooting for the pot.
That last point had nearly caused Pahner to go ballistic. Hunting on the move went against every bit of his training. Modern ground warfare required that troops move through the woods as if they weren't even there, since anything that could be seen could be killed. That a unit was "made out of mist" was a high compliment, and shooting at everything that moved and looked vaguely edible was noisy anathema to his dearest principles.
But in the end he'd been forced to concede that their situation was . . . unusual. After looking at their consumption rates and how far they'd traveled, he'd agreed—not without one last, severe tussle with his military professionalism—that they needed the supplement. Once he'd conceded the point, however, he'd implemented it with his customary thoroughness, and thereafter a member of the company who was a superior marksman was routinely put up front with the point specifically to look for game.
More often than not, and over Pahner's fuming protests, Roger could be found in the same area for the same reason. He usually rode the unencumbered flar-ta, like some latter-day raja on an extraterrestrial elephant. It should have been faintly ludicrous, but the elevation and the fact that the pack beast wasn't recognized as a threat by the local wildlife often gave him shots well before the "official" company hunter. And he rarely missed.
This day, the only thing he'd seen on the route hadn't been, to him, food game. The crouching damnbeast would have been invisible to the point until she reached attack distance. Given their increased awareness, and the guns pushed to the front of the formation, the point might have survived the encounter. And, then again, maybe not. The question was moot, however, for Roger had shot the beast while the lance corporal was still seventy meters distant.
Now he picked at a bit of the lightly spiced meat and shook his head.
"This was good! The last time you tried it, it was . . . well . . ."
"Rubbery," Matsugae said with a laugh. "Right?"
"Yes," O'Casey said. The academic was coming to her own terms with this world. She still resented the heat, the humidity, and the bugs, but they all did that, and at least she no longer had to slip and slide in the mud. Instead, she got to ride on one of the great pack beasts, and she thought she might live, after all. She'd felt bad about being "pampered" for a while, but one of the Marines had finally remarked that O'Casey had never volunteered for this, and she'd decided not to worry about it.
She wiped at her brow and drew a breath. The tent was hot and close, but it kept out the bugs and the yaden. The latter never seemed to attack when people were up and about, but better safe than sorry. And since the troops had taken to zipping their one-man tents closed at night, they hadn't lost anyone else, even if it did make for hot, fetid sleeping environments.
"But this is actually quite nice," she continued, taking another bite. "It reminds me of a light-tasting beef." Fortunately, it was also leaner than beef. A heavy meal in this climate would be devastating.
"Emu," Lieutenant Jasco said, taking another helping of barleyrice and meat. "It tastes a lot like emu."
"Emu?" Cord repeated. "I don't know what that is." The shaman rolled a ball of barleyrice and popped it into his mouth. He had pulled it from the communal bowl, as was his people's custom. Not for him these bizarre human notions of forks and such!
"Flightless bird," Roger said offhandedly. He pulled a bit of his portion of damnbeast off his plate and fed it to Dogzard, who'd been patiently waiting by his chair. "Originally from the South American pampas. It's distributed all over now. Fairly easy to raise."
"We raised 'em on Larsen," Jasco said nostalgically. "Almost tastes like home. Now, if you'd just chop up the leftovers and put them in a hotdish, I'd have to marry you," he told the valet with a grin, and Matsugae laughed with the others as he poured Roger another glass of wine.
"Sorry, Lieutenant. I already had one spouse. Once was enough."
"How'd you get it so tender?" Kosutic asked. She took a sip of wine and picked up one of the barbecued vegetables. The squashlike plant had been christened yuckini because, unlike zucchini, it had a bitter taste in its uncooked state. However, a combination of one of Matsugae's marinades and cooking over a slow fire resulted in a surprisingly delectable vegetable course. The cooking, or perhaps the marinade, left the slices with a sugary coating somewhat like a honey glaze.
"Ah," Matsugae said with another smile. "That's a chef's secret." He put his finger against his nose and smiled again, then, with a slight bow and a spatter of applause, he let himself out of the tent.
"All right," Pahner said. "I want to make sure everyone is clear on tomorrow's march. Gulyas wants to have a word."
"I've been talking with Cord and his nephews," the lieutenant said, swallowing a bite of barleyrice and clearing his throat with a sip of wine. The vintage was fairly heavy for the conditions, almost like a sherry. But wine was wine. "As everyone knows," he went on, "we're in Kranolta territory. So why haven't we been hit?"
"Yeah." Jasco nodded. "We must have passed right by that group that was waiting to attack Q'Nkok."
"They couldn't have stayed in one place for too long," Cord said. "The strip of flatland along the river is too narrow for good hunting. That's why The People have never taken it for their own."
"Apparently," Gulyas nodded at the shaman, "hunting parties go over there when game is sparse on their side of the river. The Kranolta hunt there also, but only occasionally. For the raiding party to stay there, they had to be broken up."
"Foraging." Kosutic nodded tugging at an earlobe. "Of course."
"So we might have brushed some of them," Gulyas said. "And, conceivably, they could be on our back trail, catching up fast."
"Do you rate that as likely?" Pahner asked. He and Gulyas had already discussed this, but he wanted the entire group to hear the whole story.
"No, Sir," the lieutenant answered. "At least, not quickly. They'd still be waiting for word from the conspirators in the city. Even if a messenger preceded us, they'd have to assemble before taking us on. Even the Kranolta are going to recognize that we're a serious military threat."
"However," Cord said, scratching at the tent floor with his knife, "that was a raiding party outside its traditional territory. They wouldn't attack unless they had all the warriors necessary to destroy us. Once we enter the home territory of the tribes, they'll attack at every turn. The deeper we enter, the bolder they will become, and the more they will attack."
"So," Pahner said, "we need to begin being extra alert. The tribes don't hunt the hills we just passed through, but they do hunt the lowlands. Whether there's a big force on our back trail or not, we now face the probability of regular attacks. And we haven't the time to teach them the price of an Earthman slain."
"The troops are going to have a problem with that," Kosutic admitted. "I'm worried that they're getting sloppy. We told them to expect regular attacks through the last two weeks in the hills, and no Kranolta materialized: just big nasties. We'll need more than the Lieutenant's read on it for them to take it seriously."
Pahner nodded.
"Get with the chain of command," he told the lieutenants. "Make sure that they, at least, are aware of the likelihood. We need to make sure the troops are as alert as possible. These aren't half made recruits. Remind them of that."
Julian leaned on his rucksack and listened to the quiet of the sleeping camp. The clouds often seemed to break for just a bit after sunset, and tonight was no exception. The smaller moon, Sharma, cast a faint, ruddy light over the scene. Dim as it was, it would have been more than sufficient for his light enhancers, but he'd switched them off. The jungle seemed placid tonight, with hardly any animals stirring. Even the roars and gurgles of the normal night were muted.
That was just as well. He had two more hours as sergeant of the guard, and then he could get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another long march through the jungle, and being stuck as sergeant of the guard meant damned little rest, but for the time being, he could chill out. All the posts were placed, and he'd done a walk-around a half hour ago. Everybody was staying awake and alert, per normal.
He leaned on the rucksack a little harder and sniffed. You could still smell the stew Kostas had cooked up, and Julian shook his head. Who would have thought that the fussy little valet could have become such a tower of strength? Or turn out to be such a good cook? The actual work was done by a couple of the scummy beast drivers, but Matsugae made sure it was done right and no one was about to complain about the result. The company definitely wasn't starving, although what might happen when they ran out of barleyrice and dried fruits and vegetables was another story. Hopefully, their supply would hold out to the next city-state—
He froze at the tiniest whisper of a scrape somewhere in front of him. The sound had been almost below the level of audibility, but the Marine had unusually sharp hearing. He considered turning on his helmet enhancers, but that scrape had sounded like it was right in front of him, and the helmet would take a second or to come fully online.
He reached up and flicked on the flash clipped to his combat harness.
The low-power red light blinked on instantly . . . and revealed five forms, crawling towards him. The creatures were shaped vaguely like moths, mostly black but with a spotted pattern that turned pale pink in the red light. A score of glittering red eyes gazed back at him, and ten poisoned fangs glistened. . . .
Roger was up, out of the tent, and halfway across the encampment before he realized he'd moved. He looked down, and discovered that he had his rifle in one hand, his bead pistol in the other, and nothing on but a singlet.
The discovery slowed him just long enough for Sergeant Angell to overtake and jerk him to a halt as his tent guards got in front of him.
"At least let us get there first, Sir," the NCO said with a laugh, and handed the prince his combat harness. "And always remember to grab ammo, too. It makes it easier on us."
Roger threw on the harness and resumed his progress more sedately, surrounded by his hovering bodyguards as he crossed to a cluster of troopers gathered in Third Platoon's area. Julian sat on the ground at the center of the small group, cradling a jug of the local wine and shaking his head.
" . . . low-crawling up on me," he said. The normally upbeat NCO was obviously shaken. "No wonder we lost Wilbur."
Roger looked at the shape on the ground while he pulled his hair up into a quick bun. It looked like a giant, six-winged moth, incongruously pinned down with a combat knife, and the area around it was torn up from its death throes.
Warrant Dobrescu ran a sensor over it and tapped the knife. The thing gave a few weak flaps of its wings, and the fangs quivered, but other than that it was quiescent. The warrant officer pulled the knife out and used it to expertly flip the thing over.
"Hmmm," he murmured and raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating."
"What happened, Julian?" Pahner asked. How long the big captain had been standing there nobody knew, but Julian shook his head again and capped the clay jug of wine.
"I was maintaining my post, Sir. I'd checked the posts a half-hour before, and I was just . . . sitting and listening. And I heard a scraping sound. So I turned on my flashlight, and—" He gulped and pointed the "moth" on the ground. "And five of those things were low-crawling up on me. Just like a fire team."
"I'd say that this is the species that got Wilbur the first night," Dobrescu confirmed. The warrant officer had a Marine shining a white-light flash over his shoulder and was examining the fangs of the still twitching moth with a field-scope. "These are clearly evolved for drawing liquids," he said, and looked up with a black chuckle. "I don't think these are nectar-drinkers, either."
"Okay," Pahner said. "We know the enemy now. Break it up and get back to sleep, people. We've got a long day ahead."
He watched the gaggle break up, the Marines heading back to their shelters and zipping them tight, and then turned to Julian.
"You gonna be okay?"
"Sure, Captain. I'll be fine. I was just shook. They're so . . ."
"Horrible," Dobrescu offered, and looked at Pahner. "What do you want me to do with the specimen?"
"Move it closer to the center of camp. We'll burn it with our garbage in the morning."
"Aye," the warrant officer said. "I wonder if this is a foretaste of things to come?"
Roger rocked with the movement of the pack beast, his eyes half-closed in the dim morning light. It had taken a while for the camp to get back to sleep, and everyone seemed quiet and subdued.
He watched the point chopping away a large liana. A multitool's monomolecular edge could cut through even the thickest vines like a laser through paper, but the company's point Marines usually tried to move through the brush without cutting. The pack beast immediately behind them would clear the way through most obstructions, so additional clearance would only have been extra effort. Even pack beasts had problems with some of the jungle's lianas, however, so the Marines generally cut a few heavy obstacles.
In this case, Roger's mount lent its strength to the female private who had point today, lifting away the upper section of the liana as the Marine cut through it closer to the ground. While she worked, Roger and the point-guard maintained an overwatch. It was when they stopped like this that Roger always felt the most vulnerable, whether they actually were or not.
Dogzard sat up and stretched from where she'd been sleeping, leaning on Roger's back. She sniffed the air, turned around, and lay back down. Nothing happening, no threats, time to sleep.
Patricia McCoy slung her bead rifle and stepped over the severed base of the liana. She could have cut it a little closer to the ground, but there was no need, since the flar-ta's broad, hard pads would pound the stump to splinters as they passed. Besides, she had other things to think about.
McCoy always felt vulnerable with only a mono-machete in her hand, but Pohm was right behind her, guarding her back. And, to give the devil his due, the Prince was pretty good backup, too.
She stepped through a circle of smaller vines and looked around. The ground was getting wetter, and the vegetation even lusher, if that was possible. It looked like they were moving into a marsh, but it was all light brush. The beasts could clear all of this without her assistance.
She took another step . . . and dropped in her tracks, choking on blood, as the javelin appeared in her neck.
Roger's eyes widened as the flight of javelins erupted out of the jungle, but he reacted automatically. He kicked one leg over the back of the pack beast, rolled off and away from the javelins' source, twisted in midair with a contortion fit to shame a cat, and landed on his feet. He didn't stay there. Instead, he dropped to his stomach as two-tons of flar-ta tail whistled over his head.
The beast's driver was dead, with a javelin through him, and her own sides had been abruptly and impolitely feathered with light, iron-headed spears. She was not, to put it mildly, pleased, and she turned on her tail, snapping at whatever was biting her. But there was no enemy in biting range, so she turned her attention in the direction from which the bites had come. The little creature which had been intermittently riding on her was already pounding in that direction, and she saw movement that shouldn't have been there.
It looked like she'd found her enemy.
Roger scanned the brush for targets as the flar-ta gave a roaring bugle. He stayed prone as it charged off in Dogzard's wake and was rewarded with the sight of a scummy, scrambling to get out of the beast's way. There was heavy firing off to his right, from the main body of the company, but he had his own sector to cover.
Another scummy erupted into sight with Dogzard firmly attached to his arm. Roger removed him from view and dispatched the friend who'd been coming to his aid, then checked fire as Marines rushed into view.
It was time to follow his dog.
Pahner took one look at the flight of spears and snapped: "Ambush. Close."
There were two kinds of ambushes in the Marines' lexicon—close and far—and deciding which was which was the responsibility of the unit commander. The ability to tell the difference was one way to separate the schoolbook soldier from the true field tactician.
The difference was crucial because the reactions to each were diametrically opposed. In the case of a long-range ambush, the drilled reaction was for the company to take cover and use fire and maneuver to assault the ambushing force. It was massively more chaotic than that, of course, but that was the overall plan.
In the case of a close-range ambush, however, the doctrine was simply to turn into the ambush and charge. Even with the inevitable mines and booby traps, there was no percentage in taking cover if the enemy had you dead to rights where you were.
Kosutic was already in the brush and accelerating towards the concealed foes. Her bead rifle was on "automatic," and she was firing regular bursts from the hip, laying down a path of destruction to her front, "plowing the road." Again, with no enemy in sight and only ephemeral ghosts on the helmet sensors, there was no point in trying for aimed fire. Laying down massive firepower in the general area of the enemy was the best bet, and the hypervelocity beads chewed through lianas and tree trunks in a spectacular spray of sap, chlorophyll, and muck.
She burst through a curtain of undergrowth and saw a scummy rear up to hurl a spear. One burst spread him across the vegetation, and she spun in place, checking her surroundings. Nothing else was in sight, but that didn't mean anything. She knew she was ahead of the mass of the company; her helmet visor had blue "friendly" icons all over it when she looked behind her, but there weren't any in front of her. They were coming, though. The rest would be here any moment, and the only question was whether to go on or wait for support.
She paused indecisively, then hit the ground as the area to her left erupted in plasma fire. Somebody wasn't checking her helmet sensors.
Nassina Bosum swore as she realized she'd almost torched the sergeant major. She'd paused to lay down covering fire for her team, and the blast had nearly converted the company's top NCO to charcoal. A corner of Bosum's mind told her that Kosutic would have a little something to say to her about that later, but there was no time to worry about that now.
She walked her fire away from the sergeant major, across the line of cover that had produced the javelins, and smiled as a flaming native tumbled into view and was cut down by the bead rifle of her team leader.
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."