Blood of Heroes (The Ember War Saga Book 3) (8 page)

“Got some civvies,” Orozco said. He took a hand away from his cannon and pointed at the plot of bushes. A handful of Dotok stood between the rows of bushes, staring at the Marines. All were filthy, covered in dirt and grime.

Hale pointed to the shelter. “It’s safe now.”

“You’re…humans, I presume. From the
Breitenfeld?
” a middle-aged-looking female asked.

“That’s right. Where is the rest of your village?” Hale asked.

The speaker shook her head. “I think we’re all that’s left.”

“We can get everyone out in two Mules,” Orozco said. “Maybe one Destrier if the life support can hack it.”

“Right now we don’t even have one Mule.” Hale’s gaze crept up the cliff face, the top obscured by haze and smoke.

“How’d these civvies ever get to and from their capitol? I don’t see any landing pads or airstrips,” Orozco said.

“There is, or was, a tunnel, leading from each settlement to New Abhaile,” Hale said. “Cut right through the planet’s crust, forty-five-minute travel time. Decent alternative when a hyper loop isn’t an option. Briefing I got said the Dotok blew all the tunnels after the Xaros hit the ground. Dotok were shuttling settlements back to New Abhaile. Looks like they couldn’t get to them all.”

“Sucks to be that guy making those decisions, huh?” Standish said. “Who lives, who dies …guarantee there’s no right answer.”

“There is always a correct answer to any tactical question.” Steuben walked over with Yarrow at his side. The medic saw the Dotok as they gathered at the end of the field of berry bushes and looked at Hale expectantly.

Hale nodded toward the civilians and Yarrow broke off from Steuben.

“‘You save the most,’ isn’t that right, Steuben?” Hale asked.

“A worthy answer,” the Karigole said with a nod.

“Philosophy aside, how’re we getting out of here?” Bailey asked.

“We can squat and hold…or we send up a balloon.” Hale looked at Torni. “Sergeant Torni, we did bring an IR balloon, right?”

Torni stood up and brushed dirt from her knees. “The IR balloon is specialist equipment, and I assigned Corporal Bailey to carry it as part of her kit.”

Heads swung toward Bailey.

“I was trapped in my turret, remember? You think I had room for anything but me in there?” she said.

“So the balloon is a non-starter,” Hale looked back to the fire, on the other side of which was the wrecked Mule.

“You mean this kit?” Steuben said. He slung a pack from his shoulder and handed it to Bailey.

“Crickey! You saved Bloke!” Bailey unzipped the pack and took out the two halves of her sniper rifle. She hugged the weapon like a child with a favorite toy.

Torni reached into the pack and found a rectangular box. “We’re in business,” she said.

“With Bailey unable to extricate herself from the pod, and our rather abrupt descent, it seemed prudent to grab whatever I could,” Steuben said.

“Prudent?” Hale asked.

“Timely. Apropos. Inspired. Serendipitous,” Steuben said.

“I know what it means, Steuben. Good work,” Hale said.

“Sir, you want to come see this,”
Yarrow said to him over the IR.

Hale trotted over to Yarrow, who was wrapping a compression bandage on an elderly Dotok’s forearm.

“What is it?”

“Minor injuries, mostly. I can’t give them any drugs. Something as innocent to us as Motrin might send them into anaphylactic shock,” Yarrow said. He smoothed out the bandage and got a smile from the old Dotok.

“That’s not why you called me over here,” Hale said.

Yarrow touched his neck and switched off his translator. Hale did the same.

Yarrow held up a dirty swab with blood congealed against the tip. Gray blood. Hale’s mouth went dry as the implication became clear.

“I got that cleaning out a laceration,” Yarrow said. “I don’t have a DNA scanner, but I’d bet you a steak dinner that those banshees,” his voice lowered, “the banshees are Dotok.”

****

Torni entered a message onto her forearm screen and waited for it to upload to the communication balloon. A green light blinked twice, and she removed a wire that ran from her gauntlet to the balloon case.

“Ar’ri, Caas, come here,” she said to the two children who were doing a terrible job of hiding behind a wrecked cart. Caas led her brother over by the hand.

“He doesn’t think you’re ugly,” Caas said. “He’s sorry.”

“I’ve been called worse. You two want to do something fun?” Torni asked.

They nodded in unison.

“Here…put your finger on this button. When I count to three, push it. Ready? One…two…”

Ar’ri pushed the button and a balloon inflated from one end of the carry box. It expanded to nearly a yard in diameter and rose into the air. Ar’ri laughed and clapped his hands while Caas crossed her arms, brooding.

“Do you know what that was?” Torni asked. “It will float into the air and call for help. Our planes use special technology that…only we can use.” Ar’ri waved to the departing balloon while Caas kicked at the dirt.

Since the last banshee was killed, none of the other Dotok had come over to check on the two children. All the other survivors were children, women with babies, or the elderly.

“Caas, where are your parents?” Torni asked.

The girl pointed a finger toward the fire. “They sent us with teacher to the shelter, then the flying
noorla
used their lasers to start the fire. Can Mommy and Daddy run through the fire like you? They have the hard clothes too.”

Torni took the little girl’s hands in hers and squeezed her fingers.

“Oh, Caas…” Torni choked up, then forced her emotions away. She was a Marine and a non-commissioned officer; she wouldn’t look weak in front of anyone. “I…we’ll look for your parents when we get to New Abhaile, all right?” Caas’ pale green eyes looked on the verge of tears, but she nodded and looked up, watching as the balloon faded away into the haze.

Torni felt a tug on her shoulder. Ar’ri held a hand under her face.

“Hungry,” he said.

Torni reached into the cargo pouch on the small of her back and fished out a small box of chocolate-covered cracker sticks. They were her favorite, and possibly the last box in existence that had chocolate and almond sprinkles. She’d found it at the bottom of a sea bag when she moved into the barracks in Phoenix, and she didn’t have the heart to eat the very last of her pogey bait from before the Xaros invasion.

Torni tore open the box and made a presentation out of giving a single stick to Ar’ri. The little boy snatched it from her hand and devoured it. Torni tapped Caas on her elbow and gave one to her.

Caas sniffed at it and took a tentative bite. “What is it?”

“A Pocky stick, they were my favorite when I was your age,” Torni said.

Caas looked at the cracker like it was an ancient artifact, then gave it to her brother.

“Sarge, Yarrow said these are safe for us to eat.” Bailey walked over, carrying a handful of white berries. “And the others say they’re in season.” Bailey knelt down and held the berries while Caas and Ar’ri ate them one at a time.

“Let them eat. We’ve got ration paste,” Torni said.

“Umm, ration paste,” Bailey chuckled. “I’ve had vegemite that tastes better than that garbage.” The sniper smiled and tussled Ar’ri’s hair. “When was the last time you saw children, Sarge?”

“I saw a few in Phoenix.”

“You have kids? Before?”

“No. I had the Corps. You?”

Bailey’s mouth twisted. “Baby girl. Left her with my sister when I signed up for the Saturn mission. Plan was to send for her once we got settled, Titan station up and running.”

“What was her name?”

“Abigail.” Bailey sniffed and wiped a tear away. “She looked like her deadbeat father. Only thing that bludger ever left us were my Abbie’s eyes and her curls. Ah, look at me gettin’ all clucky.”

A high-pitched whine filled the air. Torni stood up and scanned the sky.

“Doesn’t sound like Xaros, does it?” Bailey asked.

The children latched onto Torni’s legs and whimpered.

“It’s OK. It’s OK.” Torni made out a Destrier heavy transport craft descending through the haze, the anti-grav thrusters whining like a bone saw. “They’re on our side.”

“Gall, this is Raider Six,”
Hale said through the IR.
“Thanks for getting here so quick.”

“We saw the wreck of Mule Eight and were looking for you on the wrong side of the fire,”
Durand said.
“Good thing you sent up a beacon. How many more transports do you need over there?”

“One Destrier is enough,”
Hale said.

“I thought there were…roger. Load up and we’ll get the civvies to New Abhaile,”
Durand said.

Torni hefted the children up in her arms and carried them to the waiting ship.

Lieutenant Sam Douglas woke up and stretched. The single sized bed mattress must have been made of springs and tissue paper, but Douglas couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well. Life at the Kilauea Rest and Relaxation station was a huge improvement over what he and his soldiers had in Phoenix. No constant calls for formation, head count, or being parceled out as labor to assist whatever civics project didn’t have enough robot workers that day. Still, even that was better than living aboard a space ship.

When their time came for a platoon R&R pass to Hawaii, morale picked up immediately. A transport ride across half the Pacific and their five day vacation began. Douglas took the first day to do nothing but sleep.

He swung his legs over the side of his bed and set his bare feet against the linoleum floors. The touch stung his feet like he’d stepped on a live wire. He jerked his feet up with a yelp and looked at the floor, half expecting to see broken glass. Nothing but an off-white tile. He pressed a hand against the bottom of his feet, they felt fine.

“Weird,” he tapped his feet against the floor with no ill effects. He stood up and stumbled forward, catching himself on the back of a chair. His legs felt like rubber, struggling to support his weight. He hadn’t felt this weak since his last twenty mile road march back at Fort Benning. A sudden headache pressed a vise against his temples.

He hadn’t been drinking. Food poisoning from the resorts robo-kitchens?

He picked up his Ubi from off a nightstand.

“Call Sergeant Black,” he said. Maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling like this. The call rang, but no answer.

“Call Sergeant Newell.” The Ubi slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Douglas flexed his fingers, unable to feel them. He looked down at the Ubi and saw drops of blood falling against its screen. He wiped blood away from his lips. Why couldn’t he taste it?

Douglas lurched over to the sink and let the blood drip down the drain. He wiped his hand across his mouth. Ribbons of flesh came away from his face. Douglas looked into the mirror and saw his cheeks drooping off his face.

He managed a ragged scream before collapsing to the ground.

****

Stacey watched the footage of Douglas’s final moments, her jaw slack.

“I
told
you,” Ibarra thrust a holographic finger at the probe. “Told you a six day grow was too fast for the proccies. Look at this mess,” his finger snapped to the screen.

Stacey turned away, unable to watch any more.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

“Thorsson, what’s the damage?” Ibarra asked.

The blond haired Icelander was on a screen, calling in from the procedural factory on Hawaii. He wore a hazmat suit, one that looked as if it had gotten a fair amount of use in the last few hours.

“96 percent loss on the batch,” Thorsson said. “The other four percent look to be stable—physically. Mentally, that’s a different discussion. Lab says their lysosome organelles are defective, which is why they…melted.”

Ibarra put his hands on his hips, “Can we fix that? If there’s an easy solution then we’re still in the game.”

“Jesus, grandpa,” Stacey said. “Men and women are dead. Can we take a break from the mad scientist bit for a second?”

“Time is the fire in which we burn, little one. I’ll put on a hair shirt for this later,” Ibarra said.

“It appears that nine days of gestation is our operating limit, for now,” the probe said. “Given the threat, it would be unwise to waste more resources until we can afford to fail in another experiment.”

“I never thought there’d be a day when producing fully grown and educated humans in two hundred and fourteen hours wouldn’t be fast enough,” Ibarra said.

“There is another option,” the probe said.

“No!” Ibarra shook his head. “Absolutely not. We’ve already discussed—”

Ibarra froze mid word, like his hologram was on pause. The screen with Thorsson went dark.

“I’ve been with Marc for almost a hundred years,” the probe said. “I’m beginning to lose patience with him.”

Stacey backed away from the probe. “What did you do?”

“I suspended his matrix. He isn’t aware of what’s happened or what we’re going to discuss,” the probe said.

“Why are you and I going to discuss anything?”

“You are humanity’s ambassador. Our next choice will be of interest and discussion to the Alliance. What I’m about to show you is anathema to many cultures,” the probe floated from the central dais, its silver light spilling across the deck. “Please come with me.” The Xaros doors opened, deconstructing as tiny grains of the basalt colored material skittered away from the center to allow passage.

Stacey waved a hand in front of Ibarra’s face. She snapped her fingers next to his ears.

“Stacey.”

“Coming. Coming. Could you teach me to do that to him?” She asked the probe as she caught up to it. They walked side by side down the almost featureless passageway. Stacey felt her pulse quicken as she remembered being chased by Xaros drones around these same corners.

“No. Tell me, have you encountered the Yuun-Tai species on Bastion?” the probe asked.

“I don’t believe so.”

“The Yuun-Tai evolutionary path was very different than yours. Almost a pure predator species, you would describe them as bipedal alligators, but with fur. They give birth to litters of live young. Once the babies are a few days old, the mother consumes the runt of the litter.”

“What? That’s horrible!”

“To you. You have standards and expectations when it comes to child care. The Yuun-Tai consume the runt to rebalance the mother’s hormonal balance to enable lactation. Without this, the other babies will starve and the Yuun-Tai will end. Humans and many other species find this abhorrent, yet it must be done for survival,” the probe said.

“I assume there’s a point to this story,” she said.

“What I’m about to show you is necessary for survival. Look at it that way,” a door opened ahead of the probe, leading to a large room. Inside was a large glass tube that could have held two or three people, the end caps whirred with internal machinery.

“My models show that the true born humans will likely accept the procedurally generated individuals. As for these, my math is inconclusive. Let’s begin,” the probe said.

Thin mechanical arms extended from the end caps of the cylinder. The tips sprayed dark red material that hung in the air. The arms worked so fast they almost blurred. Stacey watched as a human skeleton took shape within seconds. Organs came into being and Stacey had to look away.

“This disturbs you?”

“There’s a reason I studied astrophysics and not biology,” she said. “If we just failed to make a new person in six days, how can do the same thing in sixty seconds?”

“I’m not making a person. These constructs are approximations of human being. They are neither truly alive nor truly sentient. You can look now,” the probe said.

A fully grown man was in the tube, nearly seven feet tall and built like he could rip a drone apart with his bare hands. His lumpy face looked like it was already a veteran of a gladiator arena. His skin kept her attention, mottled patches of copper and dark green.

“They will all be male for the sake of waste elimination—but are incapable of breeding—and better societal acceptance of their purpose,” the probe said.

“Good call on the waste elimination. What is their purpose?”

“I believe the term is ‘cannon fodder’. They are much less intelligent than the procedurals, only capable of limited problem solving. But they will know how to fight. They will be loyal to humanity and they will be legion.”

“They’re clones?”

“They are purpose built biological machines. Variance in their appearance is a byproduct of their construction.”

“The proccies, they’ll be the officers, the bridge crew and the pilots,” Stacey said, gleaning the probe’s plan. “These will be the…the poor bloody infantry.”

“Will they be accepted?”

“They’ll be slaves. That’s what you’re creating,” Stacey said. “Slave soldiers with no sense of agency, no choice in if they fight. Why stop at creating soldiers? Make laborers. House hold servants. You will open a Pandora’s Box showcasing the worst humans have to offer if there’s something we can abuse. Something we can label as ‘not really human’.

“You disagree with their production?”

“No,” Stacey shook her head and sighed. “I see their value.” She put her hand on the glass and looked up at the soldier’s face. “I see how they can save us. They can carry a gun big enough to destroy a drone with a single shot. We’ll need them, because there won’t be enough of us when the time comes. Do it. Make as many as you can. I’ll consign millions to death on the battlefield for the sake of us all.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“I am not!” the soldier stirred at the sound of Stacey’s shout. “Look at what we’ve become. We’re mass producing…people. Like they’re animals on a factory farm. These-these doughboys will bleed. For what? For our own precious survival. I don’t know if humanity ever really had a shred of decency to it. But this…this means we have lost ourselves. When it’s all over I don’t know if we’ll be able to stand what we’ve become.”

Stacey pressed a hand against her face.

“I can sell this to the Alliance. I don’t know how grandpa will sell it to Phoenix if he’s not on board.”

“He’ll come around. He always does,” the probe said. “Full details of the program will be transferred with you to Bastion. Are you ready to leave?”

Stacey tapped on the glass.

“What will you call them?”

“Given military history and the particulars of their construction, I agree with your earlier moniker; doughboys.”

She turned away and made for the door.

“Just get me out of here.”