The Mongrel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 1) Page 7

  “When you said that we were going to use this to hide from the bots when we boarded, I thought you were crazy. I thought to myself, ‘Who would be stupid enough to believe a blanket was going to hide us from advanced war machines?’ But then, whoa! How intense are these Chameleon Ponchos?”

  “Glad you're having fun.” Lasher flashed a half grin. “Careful of that.”

  Kel shifted his attention and fell onto the deck. He was staring at what looked like a demonic jaguar. Long sensor suites, forming into ears, dominated a head that looked like it was meant to send the dead for judgment. It was attached to a body that appeared every bit as dangerous. Resicarbon plating covered the majority of the beast. Where the armor ended, cyber-strand and myo-fiber sinew-wrapped joints were ready to spring into automated death dealing.

  Kel lay on the deck looking at the thing with a hand over his mouth to prevent from screaming. “What. Is. That?”

  “RIM-IV. Old Doom Cat model. Don't see many of them anymore. There was a problem with their AI. Several of them turned on their handlers, so they were recalled.”

  A breath of calming air escaped Kel's lips. He stood and grabbed his camo-tarp from the deck. “I wouldn't want to meet that in a dark alley, or anywhere else.”

  Lasher popped the buckle on one of the ratchet straps and slid it from the crate. He set the top crate onto the deck and opened the second. Pulling out a set of body armor, he went about adjusting the straps to fit his frame. Although not made for him, he could get it close enough to fit. The plates in the front wouldn't cover all of his core, but it could be made to cover the important parts.

  He walked over to another section and tried for a pistol. It required a code to open the locking bar, securing it to the wall.

  A disembodied voice echoed into the cargo hold, freezing both men in their tracks. “That is locked into the rack so that only those authorized may take it. Not only did you sneak onto the ship, but I don't recognize you. Please identify yourself so I don't have to take extreme measures to secure you until Marshal Hylaeus arrives.”

  Lasher continued fastening the chest piece of the armor together, adding mag pouches to the exterior. “Lashra. Marshal ID Dracova 117843. Confirm.”

  The voice was calm, polite, male. It had an educated air to it that spoke of high society. The standard voice programmed into AI enabled ships. The commander had probably never personalized it. “Confirmed Deputy Marshal Orin Lashra. Recent events indicate you are wanted for the questioning of a mass kill event. I am informing the Marshal Commander of your presence.”

  “Belay that action.”

  Kel's felt like a spectator at a volley-bash match. His head moved from where he could hear the ship's voice, to Lasher as he responded, and back again. The mention of the Marshal Commander intensified the sense of dread building in Kel's stomach. Absently, he slowly unfolded the camo-poncho, just in case he was at the wrong end of any unwanted attention.

  “Under Athalon directive Selwin eight-eight-seven Delray, you are ordered to stand down. I am on a covert mission to continue orders given to Marshal Seladriel Ferrand. This mission is known to Marshal Commander Hylaeus and he has taken steps to authenticate deniability of these orders for the sake of operational security.” Lasher said, flexing authority learned from years under marshal tutelage.

  There was a long pause in the cargo hold of the assault shuttle. Kel slowly worked the poncho up to his chin as though he were a child about to hide from monsters in the closet. The only sound was the background hum of the ship's passive power keeping certain systems active beside the ripping and clipping noises of armor being adjusted.

  “Confirm.” Lasher demanded.

  The ship's response was frustrated. “The directive is valid, Deputy Marshal. We have not been able to get a Hyper-Net update to my system files due to flare activity in the sector. I cannot confirm if the code is still active.”

  Lasher set down the armor. “If it is valid, then you have no reason to dispute it. I am ordering an immediate system reset with a purge of the system logs. Please confirm.”

  “Confirmed, Deputy Marshal. Good hunting. And may the stars light your way.”

  The hum of the passive power system died, leaving the ship cold and silent. Lasher swung the armor around his frame to lock it in place. He rifled through another crate and fished out some fully charged energy magazines. He walked over to the wall where the weapons were stored and pulled out a pistol.

  “Locks can't magnetically seal if there's no power.” He tossed a pistol onto Kel's poncho. “You can take that off now.”

  Lasher went to work on something he pulled out of one of the stolen packs. It looked similar to a cell-com. It was a clear piece of plastic about the same size, but lacked the trademark hard black border at the bottom. “You are going to take this and that poncho, and go into the cockpit. Place this on the central pilot's console. When the computer is finished rebooting, this will activate and slag the system. It will knock out any security and personal protocols that the commander put in place. Identify yourself to the system and run first startup protocol.”

  “What are you going to do?” Kel asked.

  “Cause trouble.”

  Eight

  44 hovered just outside of the wadi, facing in. On the opposite side, two of the other VIs faced into the cut. They were in deep scan mode, everyone looking for threats. The last of the deadly hover bots remained in a patrol pattern around the fort.

  44 extended its legs once again and began to crawl back into the cut. It approached a small collection of belongings that had tumbled out of two backpacks stuffed into a hole in the crevasse. Personal belongings and gear all had scattered into the sand as the packs fell. Whatever had caused the noise that drew the IVs had also caused the packs to roll free from the hole.

  The belongings were mundane: rations, spare uniforms, sleep systems, and first aid kits. The machines were hovering around the tossed articles, scanning for signs of mischief that might lead to their quarry.

  “What are they looking at?” Sergeant Bolaji asked.

  Shane was looking at the displays coming in from the VIs. “Something drew their attention. They went over and found a couple of the packs from the skiff. It's all basic field gear, boss. Any ammo or HWDs aren't there. No buried mines or anything… I wonder what made that noise.”

  Bolaji got a cold chill down the back of his neck. “Incoming!”

  Both men dropped flat to their bellies. The VIs followed in kind. Repulsors spat out a burst of energy that blasted a hole into the sand. The bots shot into the air a meter or more from the pulse wave. The machines immediately doused the tech, allowing gravity to have its way, depositing them into the small pits they created. 44 dropped into the wadi, completely shielded from view. On the roof, the other members of Third Squad hugged the adobe.

  Tense seconds passed with no negative effects. Bolaji and Shane were the first to rise out of the sand. Bolaji cycled through several viewing modes in his helmet. “Sorry about that, boys. Felt like we were being distracted. Anything pass by anyone?”

  Yao came over the com. “We had a spider-eye watching over the roof top while we ducked down, Sergeant. Nothing passed by us.”

  Bolaji scanned corner to corner of the fort and was given the all-clear by the rest of the squad.. “Maybe I am getting jumpy in my old age,” he said to Shane

  The VIs freeing themselves from their makeshift fighting positions caused quite a commotion, spewing dust around the area. The top of 44's scanning rig rose just above the wadi. It sharply focused its attention toward a length of the cut. It sent out a squad-wide alert to all members.

  Everyone turned in time to hear the high-pitched whine of a targeting reticle locking on to its intended victim. Lasher emerged from the cut holding a SAGA Missile Launcher above his shoulder. Holographic displays agreed with the excited tone that the target selected was caught in its electronic web.

  The missile roared from the launcher, producing a white plume of s
moke that reported its point of origin. The open end also coughed out a torrent of smoke and force that blew sand and rock in the opposite direction.

  Lasher jumped from the cut, rapidly closing the launcher into its carry configuration. The magna-lock secured the weapon in place just beside the rucksack he carried. The apprentice was in an all-out sprint even before the launcher cleared his shoulder.

  The missile found its target in the lead VI on the outside of the wadi. The machine detonated in spectacular fashion. The ammunition and energy cells followed suit, catching the second bot amid the destruction. The blast wave and searing heat ripped through armor and shielding, sending the second bot the way of the first. 44 was catapulted into the soft sand at the opposite side of the wadi, shielded from the blast that ended its comrades.

  Debris flew in all directions. The power of the Way kept Lasher safe from harm as he ran through the explosion. Bolaji and Shane were knocked from their feet. Privates on either side of the building ducked safely behind the portable defense screens. Yao and Juvari were blown back toward the center of the roof. Yao had a giant piece of shrapnel pierce his helmet, just below his eye.

  Lasher rushed the front entrance in a blur. Bolaji and Shane had barely begun to stir when the apprentice jumped over them. He was almost to the door when a blaster bolt struck him in the chest.

  The bolt slammed him onto his back, very close to where the other two men were starting to rise. He could taste the burnt smell in the air from the hit. His senses struggled to gain focus to locate one of the privates aiming a rifle at him. He partially sat up, producing a hand gun. A devilish burp of violence left the barrel. The rounds slammed into the defense screen in a dizzying array of sparks and fury. One of the rounds clipped the private's helmet, knocking him over. Tit for tat, Lasher thought to himself. Grunting against the pain in his chest and side, he righted himself and catapulted through the doorway.

  “SITREP!” barked Lance Sergeant D'Marco.

  The Battle-net began to issue tiny fragments of information into D'Marco's tracker. Injury reports came in as armor systems engaged emergency medical systems to staunch bleeding, boost or block adrenal responses, and get the troopers back in the fight as fast as possible. D'Marco saw that Private Sugon had been shot in the head but was still green on the board. Other members of Third Squad were down but recovering. D'Marco breathed a sigh of relief.

  Damage reports to the VIs were extensive. 44 was still operational and was going through self-tests and system reboot cycles. The other two were total system losses. He reached up to his interface and re-tasked the remaining bot to cover the squad on the door.

  First Squad had finished their sweep of the building and were in the process of donning their armor. System tones that started with high-pitched pings could be heard through the hallway. D'Marco had already suited up and was running through the diagnostic when Commander Hylaeus walked from the cells. “Everyone good, Brian?”

  “Two of your bots are toast, sir.”

  “Toast?” the commander intoned. He had a smile on his face that showed he approved of the analogy but didn't understand it. “Like burnt toast?”

  “Ha. TOAtal System Termination, sir. Toast for short.” D'Marco said.

  Brand walked from around the bend in the hall. “Time to brush up on your combat short-talk, sir.”

  “Apparently,” Agreed the force commander

  “Lance Sergeant, once First Squad is kit-up, move out with me on Fortress Patrol. I can't sense Lasher's exact position, but Sergeant Bolaji just reported him entering the building.” Brand said.

  “Gentlemen.” Sergeant D'Marco shared a holographic screen with the marshals. The image was of Private Sugon shooting Lasher dead center in the armor he was wearing. A heartbeat later, Lasher sat up and unleashed a torrent of lead toward the private. “What is that he's shooting?”

  Brand and Hylaeus shared a knowing look between them. Brand came over the Battle-net. “Fourth Squad, this is Marshal Brand. Stand up and move to secure drop ship. Also, we need a set of eyes on the commander's assault shuttle. It may be compromised. Proceed with extreme caution.” The Battle-net spat back a hasty electronic response. Brand waved for D'Marco's attention. “That, Sergeant, is a Gorgon Industries X-9-A Chimera pulse pistol chambered for ten millimeter and loaded with hollow point ammunition. That is why Private Sugon's head is still attached. They are great against meat, not so good against armor or solids.”

  The lancer sergeant leveled a skeptical look at his commander. “Where did he get a slugger like that?”

  “He got it from me,” Commander Hylaeus answered sheepishly, rubbing his increasingly weary head. “Hopefully, he didn't find the other ammo that goes with it.”

  Tom looked up from the bot he had on the medical table. The grizzly looks he was getting from the three other occupants in the room were telling. They all verged between fascination and nausea.

  Tom had pulled the skin back from the back of the bot’s skull and flopped it over what remained of its face. Its upper skull housing was retracted, exposing what looked like a brain enclosure. Tom had inserted several wires into it. Hovering around him were holographic screens. One depicted a schematic for the model Tom assumed he was working on. The others were simulcasts from the control room so that he could follow the pursuit and direct any special orders from the marshals.

  Doc was working on Tai. “I'm not going to tell you what that smells like over here.”

  Tai didn't take his eyes off of the 3-D printed splint being applied to his arm. The break had been set. Nanotech first-aid bots were closing the reddish-hued skin, which had turned purple around the break. “I'll tell you. It smells like a Kard wolf took a massive...”

  “That's quite enough, Private Tai,” said Lieutenant Surran. He was working on one of the screens that had a schematic. The screen showed highlighted pathways that were systematically being shut off. “This bot has an amazing amount security still active for the level of EMP it just took. Some of them I shut down come right back up again a second later. I need all the concentration I can get, minus the Kard wolf scat.”

  “Scat?” asked Corporal LaGarron. He had been sitting in the corner absently rubbing the bandage on his forehead. “Is that another word for...”

  The trooper stopped mid-sentence as the door to the infirmary opened. Everyone in the room stopped breathing. Tom looked up to see everyone staring past him. He caught the smell of charred carbon and flesh in his nostrils. “Wow, you boys are right. That is bad. Even the menthol on my nose isn't keeping it out. What are you all staring at?”

  Tom turned into Lasher's waiting grip. He was taken around the neck and hoisted into the air. The other hand displayed the X-9-A, directed at the doc and his charges. “Don't.”

  Tom's feet struggled to gain purchase on anything as they hovered above the floor. He gripped on to Lasher's arm with one hand while trying to punch his shoulder with the other. Lasher put the man down and relaxed his grip.

  Doc moved forward and put his hands up. “Deputy! My name's Corpsman 1st Class Jordon. Got some sick people in here, whom you've met, and the lieutenant. Can we tone this down a notch? No one here is looking for trouble.”

  Lasher nodded. “Don't want none, won't be none?”

  “I see you've spent time with some of the local lancers. They love that one.” Jordon said.

  “None of you or your patients are on my list. You, however,” he motioned to Tom, who had the look of a man staring at an impending demise, “you are going to unplug my friend, reset and close. Then you can back up to the wall over there.”

  Straining against his grip, Tom croaked, “I can't. Anything left of its neural net would...” Tom's explanation was cut short by a tightening grip.

  Lasher tightened his grip. “I didn't ask. You do it or I'll do it. I hope you'll do it, as you would probably take more care in doing so.”

  Tom nodded his agreement through bulging eyes.

  Lasher turned to regard the lancers.
“Corporal LaGarron. I would rather not have another go around with you at the moment. But if you continue to reach for that rifle, we are definitely going for round two.”

  LaGarron straightened himself. He placed his hands, palm down, into his lap. “None here, sir.”

  “Thank you, Corporal.” Lasher nodded. He lowered the pistol to his side. “Lieutenant, if you please.”

  Tom went to work shutting down the control displays and removing the wires. “Just yanking things out like this is going to dead-line it.”

  “Her,” Lasher corrected. “Just do it, Tom.”

  Tom finished extracting the wires from the bot and replaced its tattered skin. As he did so, Lasher walked by the members of the Lancer Platoon, keeping his eyes on them the entire way. He holstered the pistol, reaching for a blanket from a stack of them on a table.

  Tom took advantage of the apprentice's back being turned to fire a blast from his pistol. The tone and flash of the bolt told everyone in the room that the weapon had been set to stun.

  Lasher ducked the bolt, giving it just enough room to scatter dust as it hit the wall. Using momentum from the duck, he snatched a kidney-shaped pan from another of the medical tables in the room. He flung it, striking Tom in the head with a resounding bwang. Tom flew back into the wall, rebounding into the table where the bot was, before falling onto the floor unconscious.

  Lasher looked over to Corporal LaGarron, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Still don't want none.”

  “Thank you, Corporal,” Lasher said.

  Lasher set down the blanket and then laid the bot gingerly on top of it. He folded a part of the blanket to cover it, and then lifted the bot from the table. He swung it to his back, using the blanket to tie it to himself. It gave the appearance of how the local tribes carried their children on the steppe.

  Without taking his attention from his prize, Lasher spoke over his shoulder, “Sorry about your tactical officer. He tried to shoot me.”