Glory Main (12 page)

“I know. So you're thinking there might be friendlies in the area and we could link up?”

“Aren't you?”

“Sure. That would be great. Except for one thing. We haven't heard any shooting or any explosions the entire time we've been here. Those guards we nailed were colony militia at best, but they didn't act like they were in any danger.”

“What are you saying?”

“If there was a fight here, I think we've missed it.” Cranther raised his head a little further, straining to see. “And it looks like our side lost.”

M
ortas stayed on guard when Cranther slipped back down into the ravine to fix Gorman's feet. It was warm up there in the sun, and he could feel strength returning as his body rapidly processed the nutrients he'd just consumed. His stomach still wanted more, but he found it comforting that the rest of him seemed to know it had been fed. He listened to Cranther's gentle criticism of Trent's attempt to bandage Gorman's blisters.

“For a distance runner you don't know much about this.” The scout whispered evenly. “See what I'm doing? You cut a piece that will cover the blister and a small area around it, then you cut out the center of that piece so that it leaves the blister exposed to the air. The bandage keeps the boot from rubbing against it, but the air will help it heal faster.”

Mortas glanced down in time to see Cranther peel off the backing and stick the first bandage onto Gorman's outstretched foot. The blistering didn't look too bad from that distance, but the pale, wrinkled flesh spoke volumes. The synthetic material of Gorman's shipboard boots had trapped the moisture from his feet, and so he'd developed his own little case of immersion foot in the middle of what amounted to a desert.

Trent had already removed the dead man's boots and socks, and Cranther took them before turning to Gorman. “You're not gonna refuse these, are you?”

“No.” The chartist's thinning face showed the relief he'd already gleaned from the small amount of food and the medical attention. “If the roles were reversed, I'd want him to take mine.”

“Imagine that—­something about the Holy Whisper that I can understand.”

“It's not possible to understand all of it, Corporal. That's why they call it faith.” Gorman looked at the corpse. “Can we bury him?”

“We'll be holing up nearby for the rest of the day, so I can't see why not.”

“I can.” Mortas called in a startled grunt. “Get up here.”

Cranther hopped up onto the ledge next to him and followed his pointed finger out onto the plain. At the base of the next ridge, in the direction from which they'd come, four massive machines had rumbled into view. Brown or black, belching exhaust from stacks, they moved in a lurching motion side by side. Though it was impossible to gauge the distance, they were clearly enormous and still far away.

“What are they?” the lieutenant asked.

“Sim mobile excavators. See that diagonal bar sticking off the back? It's a conveyor belt. They can shift it in a bunch of different directions, depending on the job. Taking down a hillside, digging a ditch, whatever.”

“So what are they doing?” Mortas could now make out the shapes of movers like the one they'd seen at the bridge, tiny against the mechanical mammoths, bumping across the plain. More birds appeared, fluttering up from the brush as the machines approached and flying off in haste.

“They're working in pairs. See?” Cranther pointed again. “Two of 'em just diverged from the others. They're . . .”

“They're filling in the ravines.”

The scout's face twisted in thought, his mouth open. “I think you're right. All that weight, rolling along so close on either side, would collapse the walls.”

“Why would they be doing that? Gotta be thousands of miles of these things.”

“Maybe they're not worried about every mile, just the ones closest to where they live.” Cranther's words came faster. “The colony's gotta be on the other side of this ridge . . . and if they're filling in the ravines, it means somebody's been using them to cause trouble.”

“They after us? Because of what we did at the bridge?”

“Nah. Even if they figured out that wasn't an accident, it's just two guards. For them to put in this kind of effort means somebody's been scooting down these ravines to hit them and then using them to run away.”

“Survivors from that fight.”

“Gotta be. And for them to be working this hard on a low-­speed avenue of approach means something's happened to their air.”

“Maybe it got taken out in the attack.”

“Maybe.” Cranther looked in the opposite direction and then up at the ridge that held the antenna. “But that colony has to have real troops with it, a battalion at least. All we've seen is that squad of militia.”

“The regulars are probably out looking for whoever's been hurting them.”

“Could be. But they also might be waiting to see who runs away from these guys here.” He looked up at the ridge again. “We need to move.”

T
hey found a crack in the base of the canyon wall and forced the dead man's body into it, more to hide it than bury it. Not knowing if the oncoming machines were acting as beaters to drive any remaining humans toward a waiting Sim force, they'd briefly argued the merits of leaving the corpse where it might be found versus concealing it. Cranther felt it would be unwise to give the excavators an indication that enemy troops had even reached this area, and that decision gave Gorman a chance to say a few words.

Standing with his eyes shut, his head tilted skyward, and his palms up, the chartist intoned a prayer Mortas had never heard before.

“Father. Mother. Sister. Brother. Son. Daughter. All are one, from the beginning of time until its end.” He opened his eyes and looked at the hasty grave. “Thank you for helping us, dear brother. Find rest.”

And then they were moving. The gully walls were still tall enough to completely conceal them, so they moved at a fast trot behind Cranther. The scout stopped every so often, usually at a sharp bend, but he also periodically climbed the wall to scan the ridgeline that was now looming large. The ground was trembling slightly by then, an indication that the earth movers were closing the distance, and Mortas joined Cranther during one of his brief stops on the wall.

“Think somebody might be up there?”

“So far, I don't think so. If there is, they're well camouflaged and very patient.” He flashed the lieutenant a brief grin. “I don't think anybody's up there.”

Then they were moving again, sloshing water tubes bouncing on shoulders and the Sim weapon growing heavy in Mortas's hands. Soon the ravine began to shrink, the walls growing shorter and shorter until they were all hustling along in a crouch. Low brush provided some cover at ground level, but if anyone was indeed waiting up on the ridge Mortas had to believe that they would have been spotted by then.

The machine noises had steadily grown from a dull rumble to a mechanical roar, and the ground around them was visibly shaking. Runnels of dirt cascaded down the sides of the gully, and they felt the full vibration when Cranther finally threw himself flat and the others followed suit. They were only a few yards from a wide finger of rock which sloped down from the ridgeline, and the scout popped his head up over the nearest bush to determine the excavators' location.

“Okay, there's nothing else we can do here. We gotta move in the open. We'll go straight up this finger, on the side away from the Sims, and hope for the best. Don't stop until we get to the top; even if there's nobody up there, anybody on the other ridges is going to be able to see us as we move.

“We take fire, get back into the ravines. Run as fast as you can, and don't wait for the others. We'll meet up at . . .” He poked his head up again. “See that ridge over there? See that column of rock out just past it? That's our rally point.”

Mortas tried to keep the skepticism off his face. If they were spotted by Sim troops going up the slope, there was no way they'd live to reach that distant spire. His mind was racing along with his pulse, but the thoughts flashed by in perfect clarity. The enemy earthmovers were busily crushing the ravine walls, and the only explanation was that human troops were using them as movement channels. The farther the chasms went out into the flat, the more chaotic their patterns became. It was highly unlikely that the Sims had enough troops to ambush all of those canyons if they didn't even have enough to secure the approaches to the settlement. With no air support, even the tightest blocking cordon hidden in the ravines would leak like a sieve.

Something more: If they had enough troops for that human wall, they'd certainly have enough to provide flank security on the high ground as the excavators passed. Even without air support, it would be simple enough to get a patrol up there, and it would serve as an excellent set of eyes.

Air support. Where were their flying machines?

“Corporal!” He almost didn't get the word out in time. Cranther was rising from the ground with the intent of rushing up the ridge, but he dropped back down instantly. Mortas quickly crawled to him on his elbows, both Trent and Gorman doing the same. The excavators were still distant, but their engines were so loud that for the first time in days they were able to speak in normal voices. In fact, they had to shout.

“Listen: They got no air and not enough soldiers to secure the ravines closest to the settlement! They might have enough bodies to put someone up on this ridge, but there's no way they've got enough to cover all that!” He waved a hand at the flat. “That's where we gotta go!”

Cranther's face tensed as he turned it over in his head. He pushed himself up to get a look at the approaching enemy, and then came back down. A hand went up to the skull cap, swirled it around as if rubbing his scalp, and then stopped. Mortas saw the flesh whiten over the man's knuckles, and noticed for the first time just how dirty and scuffed Cranther's hands had become. He absently looked down and was shocked to see the same level of grime and the same number of tiny cuts and bruises on his own.

“Okay, Lieutenant!” Cranther turned to the others. His words vibrated with the ground, and he had to shout to be heard. “Stay right on my ass! We're gonna follow this gully away from here! They'll see us if we climb out, so we stay in this ravine unless it turns us all the way around! Remember the rally point if we get separated, and don't stop for anything!”

He began crawling back down the ravine, and Mortas waited until the others were gone before popping his head up once more. The excavators were still several hundred yards away, but their enormous size made them seem closer. The much smaller movers were sticking close to them, and he could make out individual Sim soldiers on foot. Many of them were carrying Maulers, but he did see some of the longer, skeletal rifles more commonly found with Sim infantry. Militia or regulars, they didn't seem eager to fan out.

They've taken a beating. They might have won the fight, but it cost them. They've learned to be careful.

More convinced than ever that his choice of the flat would now lead to their salvation, he began worming his way across the dirt after the others. This time, when the sand started working its way between his shirt and his belly, he didn't mind at all.

T
hey covered the ground quickly once the ravine got deep enough for them to stand, but even so it wasn't a pell-­mell run. At first Cranther took the lead while the others hung back a distance, but once the ground stopped shaking Mortas called a halt. A covert glimpse over the rim gave them a good reason to slow down, as the enemy machines had actually turned and gone in the opposite direction.

“Filled in one set of gullies. Now they're going back to start a new set.” Mortas was impressed by how easily he'd slipped back into whisper mode after all the shouting they'd just done, but Cranther merely nodded at him in answer. “I'll take over on point. Just in case they are out here waiting, make sure the others don't close up on me.”

The movement was fast, and the sun was only slightly past the midpoint when they approached a broad hump of dirt. Panting with exertion, Mortas stopped the movement so that they could rest a bit and take advantage of the comparatively high ground. Cranther passed him without being told to check it out. He wore an expression that Mortas normally would have associated with a bad smell, and so the lieutenant wasn't terribly surprised when the short man crawled up onto the hump and sniffed the air. The three of them joined him, hunkered down on their stomachs amid the bushes, waiting for an explanation. The vista was what they'd expected: More brush and rolling plain with the next ridge rising ahead of them and the excavators receding behind them.

“What is it?” Mortas kept his eyes moving as he spoke.

“It's faint, but it's there.” Cranther tilted his head backward and sniffed again, dog-­like. “Cofferdams. Had to be a lot of them, for that smell to still be here. A battalion at least.”

The term took Mortas back to the end of his pre-­deployment training. The final war game had been a full-­on dress rehearsal, launched from transports orbiting a conquered Hab planet. Each transport had created a transit tunnel hundreds of yards in diameter by generating energy beams that formed a cylinder running from the ship's hull through the planet's atmosphere all the way down to the surface. The tube was nearly invisible and reduced the effects of atmospheric friction, but it did have its drawbacks. The planet's gravity was lessened but not negated, and the pressure inside the cofferdam was extremely high to keep it from being crushed by the forces it was holding at bay.

Mortas had ridden in the back of a pressurized personnel carrier that had been dropped right into the cofferdam through one of many hatches in the belly of the ship. They'd glided down the miles to the surface, stabilized and decelerated by thrusters attached to the carrier for the journey, but still landing with a surprising amount of force. The cofferdam's walls had equalized with the planet's pressure at ground level by then, and they'd simply driven out of it. The initial assault element was always composed of armored carriers like that one, and so he'd been able to watch from a nearby hill as the second wave, composed of individual foot soldiers, was delivered.