Cold War 2395, page 11
Keeping my distance so I don’t get any fuel splattered on me, I shimmy over a little until I’m between my post and Grimm’s, a good angle for me to pop off a few rounds at the two pack leaders. Splitting them right down the head, I get back to my spot just in time for Grimm to whirl around, reloaded and ready for action. As quickly as we almost lost our defensive grip, we regain it, and while the bad guys are busy jostling each other, I get my chance to pop in a new mag. The transfer takes two blinks of an eye before I’m back in the business of kicking ass and taking names. Shit’s moving quickly—not just for me, but for the fight as a whole. I might be going through bots like hotcakes, but I’m also starting to run low on mags.
My personal tally is up to about twenty of these bastards destroyed, but Jesus, they just keep coming. For every one we pick off, two more file in, and it doesn’t look like the trend’s going to stop any time soon. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll hammer these things down all day long for fun; the issue is ammo. My reserves are drying up, and it’s obvious the guys we took these belts from weren’t planning on holding off an army. Cap’s got Wesley’s belt slung over his shoulder, so he’s rocking twice the munitions now. Double portions of a small serving still isn’t a whole lot, though.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Another three down. We nearly have a pyramid of the busters’ corpses formed, which allows us to score clean shots on new enemies’ heads just because they’re getting held up trying to climb over their fallen buddies. That makes things easier, and we’ve already got the best position in the house, but I’m not feeling too hot about taking on many more of these things. My belt’s seriously light, and when I finger each pouch looking for a magazine, only one crops up near the last slot. That ain’t good. And getting up close and personal with these fellas isn’t on today’s menu either, given that they’re spitting something nasty. Wes gave us his firsthand review of that shit, and now he’s only left with a second.
Then it happens. Metal stops falling down the shell pyramid, and the last bot sitting on top of it eats a big one right in the center of its eye. Beecher keeps his stance like the rest of us, waiting to see if it’s a confirmed kill or if we’re gonna have another creepy crawly try to give one of us a hug. After a few more seconds and no movement, it looks like we’re finally clear.
“That better be the last of them,” Beecher grunts.
“Fat chance. Ammo count?” Grimm says. He’s probably right. The station was swarming with them; who knows how many are on their way right now. And if more weren’t already on their way, then the ruckus we’ve caused will undoubtedly attract additional unwelcome visitors.
“Just one mag left,” I say. My little lead farm has whittled down its harvest.
“Got three,” Beecher reports.
“Here.” Cap beckons us over, then hands us each two from Wesley’s pouches.
Beecher gives me one of his so we’re even. Nice guy.
I look over at Wes, who has only one eye open. The poor dude’s clinging to consciousness like a toddler clings to his favorite blanket. The mask I put around his arm is completely soaked through and there’s still fresh blood dripping onto a thickening crimson puddle on the floor. Looks like Cap’s seeing the same thing I am.
“Hang in there, trooper,” Cap says, patting Wes gently on the shoulder that’s still linked to a full arm.
Beecher and I give him a little salute, reminding him of our promise that we have been doing, and will continue to do, whatever we can to get him home. At the moment, that doesn’t mean a whole lot. Our guns aren’t raised and at the ready. Having abandoned formation to restock on ammo might have been the last straw needed to take us out of the zone. We’ve disbanded our triangle of determination—it doesn’t feel like we’re in fighting mode anymore.
“You think we got a chance at holding off another set?” I want to hear Beecher deliver a wisecrack or something, anything to lighten up the mood. I don’t dig the shitty gritty vibe our situation is giving off, and if there’s one guy who can fix that problem in a flash, it’s Beech.
All he does is shake his ammo belt a little and shrug. Well, shit. Captain reads the mood and decides to put it out there, the thought on all of our minds.
“Men.”
Beecher and I look at him.
“Reinforcements are on their way, both ours and theirs. And if ours don’t get here first and we’re left to stand our ground with what we’ve got,” he says, tapping his dual ammo belt getup, “we’ll take every last one of them to hell with us.”
I perk up a bit. That’s the fighting spirit. That’s why Grimm’s the man in charge. He gets that battle spark of ours back in check just in time, too. Rumbles vibrate beneath my boots. Round three’s coming, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
“Stations,” Grimm says, getting back into captain mode for what’s probably the last time.
Headlights appear somewhere down the tube, their white beams poking past the tin graveyard we have blocking the entrance.
“And men,” Grimm adds, keeping his eyes front and center, “it’s been an honor serving with you.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I mumble. Shit’s getting emotional and I can’t fight with the sad butterflies whirring around, damn it. C’mon, Lieutenant, straighten up. The next round’s the big one. Either beat the third strike or you’re out.
The lights get brighter, the screeching grows louder, and my heart beats faster. I’ve seen some stiff odds before, but right now is a whole ’nother level.
The shaking beneath my feet reaches its peak, and I know it’s that time. The front row of shuttles crash forward against the bumper yet again, the second row now adding to the slam as the pile of metal bodies shifts around on top. Then comes the sound of robots marching forward, their harsh stomps telling me we’re only a few seconds away from seeing wave three creep over that ridge. I give Beecher one last look, and he shoots me a thumbs-up. I give him one back, take a deep breath, and shift my attention toward the bottleneck. It’s now or never.
The pile of robot corpses begins to shake, and pieces fall from the top of the mound. At first, it’s just one or two bits, then a few more, until finally a wave of scraps comes down in an avalanche and the first steely hand grips the top of the garbage pile. The machine pulls its body over the edge of the graveyard barricade, rearing its ugly head just in time for Beecher’s first shot to pop it. One down, God knows how many to go.
From there, it’s a madhouse like the last two waves, the issue being that now we can’t keep a stream of gunfire going; we’re stuck having to choose our shots instead. More bots are able to stumble over the metal mound while we focus on knocking out eye sockets and shredding heads, rendering that damn body barricade of ours all but useless. One by one the machines fall, and two by two more march forward to fill their comrades’ places, moving with the kind of suicidal determination only a commie could program.
It’s not long before I’ve taken down a good few dozen of them with Beech and Cap and I’m on my last mag, popping that sucker in with the gusto of a guy who knows he’s fucked.
It’s been a long road, and I’ve learned a lot along the way. Between Grimm, the best captain I’ve ever met, and Beecher, the best friend I’ve ever had, I’d say I’ve lived in good company. Hell, I’d say I’ve lived a good life. One with meaning, at least. I did right by my country and it did right by me. And here in a goddamn rolling pin from hell, I did what I had to do and I’ll go the way I have to go, fighting a threat far bigger than the robots closing in on us right now. I’m sorry to my ma and lil’ sis that I can’t make one last call, but I know them, and I know they’ll be fine. Even though I’ll be gone, God will take good care of them. Hopefully he does the same for me when I come stampeding through his doorstep in the next few seconds.
I fold up my bipod, press the butt of my rifle up against my shoulder, and squint hard down the sights for my last few shots. Crack. Crack. Seven bullets left. Crack. Crack. Crack. Down to four now. Crack. Crack—
A deafening roar blasts through the station, one that completely erases the sound of gunfire. Right in front of me, roughly two dozen commie bots get vaporized as a wall smashes through the tram tube, speeding across my line of sight with no sign of stopping even after decimating the opposition. Sparks fly everywhere, and we hide behind what little cover we have as the goliath object eats the station alive, inching dangerously close to us as it burrows through the tube.
Beecher’s mouth moves, and though I can’t read it or hear him, it’s pretty clear he recognizes whatever the hell the thing is, which is great ’cause I sure as hell d—
Wait a minute.
Hold on.
It’s them. They made it! They fucking made it!
CHAPTER 12
Beecher
Those glorious sons of bitches sure know how to crash a party, all right. A few seconds after the cruiser makes its perfectly timed entrance, it slows and screeches to a halt. It completely fills in the shattered upper edge of the tube it’s just carved open, leaving only a sliver of a gap for the black glow of the station’s deflector shields to shine through as their energy fields protect us from the vacuum of space. Hopefully they don’t go offline now that the cavalry’s arrived to tear up the place. Our guys accounted for the shields before crashing the party with a maneuver that would’ve otherwise killed us, right?
The portion of the cruiser parked right in front of us sports a hatched airlock, which swings open to reveal a smug Aussie who knows R Company just saved the day. I swear I see a halo hovering over his head.
“Hey, fellas, I reckon we’re not interrupting anything, are we?” Sergeant Milo Toufexis calls out, hopping down onto the mosh pit of dead bots. He nearly falls over as he lands on the shaky metal scraps. “Oof, did you guys make the mess here?”
“Y’know, cruisers aren’t built for that docking shit you guys just pulled.” I let out an overwhelmed, overjoyed laugh. “Stop eating crayons on the job.”
“How’d you find us?” Gourd shouts, sliding over his platform’s chest-high cover and scrambling toward Milo to give him the hug of a lifetime.
“Hey, you’re welcome!” the sergeant says, straining to withstand the tight embrace. “Bet you’re glad we asked for those exothermic sigs way back when during recruitment, yeah?”
Jesus, I totally forgot we had those. Still, they only work at close range, meaning the reason our guys are in the Nebulus sector to begin with isn’t because of us . . . it’s because Faust’s plan was real.
“Besides, one of us was gonna have to breach here. Every attack cruiser from the Wisconsin unit to South Carolina’s fleet is breaking in right now. All major entry ports and critical channels are getting slammed by our guys as we speak.”
I can’t believe our president was telling the truth.
“Insane, man,” Gourd says, just as shocked as me. After a second of cooldown, the wave of amazement washes past us and we realize not everything’s hunky-dory yet.
“Wesley,” Gourd and I say in unison, turning our heads to see if the poor guy’s still hanging in there.
Captain’s way ahead of us. Already hauling Wes along, Cap charges forward with the injured Brit tucked safely under his shoulder. “We can talk inside,” he says. “Med bay first.”
After a dash to the bay, we lay Wes down on a bed and the medical officers get to work on stabilizing his condition.
“He’ll make it,” one tells us, giving our party the all-clear to leave, if we so choose.
I decline the offer. He hasn’t come so far just to lose an arm and be abandoned by his squad without a proper goodbye. I look at Gourd and see he feels the same way.
“Right, well, now that we’ve got that taken care of, I think an explanation on your side is in order. Let’s get you lot to command so you can spin a yarn or two,” Toufexis says, signaling we should step outside the room.
Shit. After all the stuff we lied about to get here, how the hell are we going to avoid an on-the-spot court-martial—
“I’ll take it from here,” Captain Grimm says, giving us both a nod and Wesley a salute before guiding the sergeant out the door. Looks like he’s planning on covering for all our asses, leaving Gourd and me to chill with the injured civilian.
I look at the tubes connected to Wesley’s stump, watching streams of liquid flow through them as vital fluids are pushed into and sucked out of his wound. The medics will no doubt get him suited up with a prosthetic arm soon enough, but for now we have no choice but to look at the remains of his severed limb.
“You awake, man?” I say, after an uncharacteristically shy Gourd makes it clear he doesn’t want to start the conversation. His apprehension makes sense; Wes might be a bit salty toward him, considering the big guy is the one who hacked off his forearm in the first place. Still, we’re all responsible for letting it get to that point.
Though Wesley’s eyes remain closed, his mouth moves a little. After a bit of struggling, he forms a word, overpowering the pain meds’ efforts to render him dormant.
“Yeah,” he responds weakly. His eyelids begin to part, and before I know it, he’s staring right at me. He’s not the scared, twenty-something business guy we rescued on that shuttle yesterday. No, that Wesley is gone.
In his eyes, I see a man who’s witnessed horrors, someone who’s been exposed to too much too fast. I know that feeling. Hell, I’ll probably have nightmares myself when everything’s over. But therein lies the upside.
“At least it’s over, yeah?” I say, trying to ease him into a goodbye. No simple way to do that, considering the guy is one limb worse for wear and will probably have serious PTSD for months, if not years, to come.
“Ha, sure,” he says, regaining a bit of strength in his voice. “Not for you two though, I assume.”
“You got us there,” I say after a deep exhale, looking at Gourd’s weary eyes and knowing they’re nothing more than a reflection of my own.
My partner finally speaks up. “Wes, I’m so sorry, man. I had to. It was only gonna spread, and I didn’t want to wait and see . . .” The words cascade out of his mouth in a troubled ramble.
Wesley hushes him. “You were right. The fuel was spreading, and it would have eaten me alive if it wasn’t for you. I’m grateful you did what you did. And as for that stuff . . . God, it shouldn’t exist.”
His statement brings to mind the president’s dying order, a thought I try to block out of my head. “Think you’re gonna hold up okay?”
“Unlike you blokes, the stuff I do probably only requires one hand anyhow,” he jokes. The guy lost half an arm and he’s joking. Wow. He really has changed. Power to him, though. “Anywho, having a 360-degree rotating wrist should be interesting.”
Looking on the positive side of things, eh? The new Wesley seems like he’ll be a cool guy. Or maybe it’s just the pain meds making him a little more docile and chummier than usual.
Captain knocks on the glass door and gives us the one-minute notice to wrap it up. I guess it’s time for farewells, then.
“Well, Wes, it’s been a pleasure serving with you. Maybe we’ll cross paths at some point in the future. If we do, the beer’s on me,” I say.
“Yeah, Wes. You’re a good guy. Best of luck when you get back to work—if you go back to—like, if you choose—” Gourd stammers, completely fumbling his farewell.
Wes shrugs it off like a champ. “Ha-ha, thanks. I know what you mean, and yeah, my career might have to go on hiatus for a bit. I’ll figure something out. Regardless, best of luck up ahead.” He extends his remaining hand for a goodbye handshake.
Gourd meets it with the lightest grip I’ve ever seen him use, then does a little head bow and quickly exits the room so he doesn’t run the risk of looking any more awkward.
Now that it’s down to just Wes and me, I feel a bit of a social obligation to avoid dragging my exit out any longer than it needs to be.
“See ya down the line?” I ask him, extending my hand for a shake.
He meets it and responds confidently. “For sure. It’s been an honor to fight alongside you.” He’s eyeballing the door. Maybe he wants me gone too?
“The honor is all mine.” I take his cue and turn to leave.
“Beecher,” he blurts out, his voice filled with uncertainty.
“Yeah?”
“I overheard your chat with Gourd back in the shuttle the other day. I know you . . . well . . . you think for yourself,” he says, stalling every few words as he finds the right way to articulate whatever it is he’s trying to get across.
“I’d like to think I do.”
Then the conversation takes a turn.
“That fuel . . . the research. You know none of it should ever leave the station,” Wesley warns, his tone grim.
I really hoped he forgot that bit from Faust; God knows I’ve been trying to.
“Make the right call,” are his last words to me as I swing the door open to leave.
Not wanting to say anything, I give a subtle wave of acknowledgment before exiting the room to regroup with Gourd and Grimm at the end of the hallway. As I pass by the last glass-paneled wall of Wesley’s room, I feel his eyes following me.
“All set, Lieutenant?” Grimm asks.
“Um, yeah, good to go,” I respond, not entirely convinced that’s the truth.
“All right, then here’s the deal. I’ve secured the last two ACA suits aboard the cruiser for you two, so get suited up and meet me in the hangar. I’ll brief everyone there. Clock’s ticking, men.”
With that, he announces he’s leaving to suit up in his personalized armor’s duplicate unit, since the original is now floating in space somewhere. That leaves Gourd and me clear to head toward the back entrance of the hangar’s standard-issue ACA deployment area.
For the first few seconds, we’re totally silent. It’s been a rocky couple of hours. Hell, days even. We’ve seen so much shit that our minds haven’t had time to digest it all, let alone discuss it in small talk. So we walk in silence, until I find the nerve to ask Gourd a question.
