Orphan Brigade (24 page)

“Sure, except they won't be shooting straight ahead. If you raise the barrels, you can send plunging fire up and over any intervening high ground.” Dassa jabbed his handheld, making several enemy personnel symbols appear around one of the depressions behind Dak's position. “If you throw up some dragonflies, they'll show you the heat signatures of any Sammies who have gotten behind you. Your ­people are all hugging the edge here, so if you take fire from the rear, you can work the machine gun rounds right onto the target without too big a chance of hitting friendlies. The dragonflies will show you the heat from the slugs, and you can adjust right onto the enemy.”

“That's brilliant.”

“Yeah, but you've got to establish sectors of fire for every gun and set those in stone. Gunner gets excited, Sam jumping all over the place, it's just too easy to overshoot into a friendly unit. Talk to your platoon sergeant and see what he thinks.”

A dark thought. “How come Captain Noonan didn't come up with this?”

“Oh, I don't think too many other guys have actually had to do this. I had to make it up on the spot because Sam got in some low ground behind us, and we were almost out of chonk ammunition.” Dassa paused, then went ahead. “Noonan's all right, but I heard he comes from an outfit that went by the book too much. Some guys, if they're not allowed to show initiative in their first assignment, they never learn how.” His attention returned to the handheld. “Now I'll show you how to set up those sectors of fire.”

 

CHAPTER NINE

I
t was late afternoon, and Ayliss had found Dr. Kletterman alone in his office. Concerned about appearing to be merely waiting out the two days until she could leave, Ayliss had immersed herself in the outpost's work. The entire day had been spent moving from console to console and from lab to lab, asking questions, hearing the answers, asking more questions, and the whole time maintaining a veneer of friendly interest.

Not that the topics, or the ­people studying them, were dull. She'd found the researchers highly engaged in their work and refreshingly open about it. Many of them were close to her in age, and Ayliss couldn't help but compare their sincerity and eagerness to the machinations and shallowness of so many of her contemporaries back home. Python had explained this as a function of the isolation and secrecy the small group of scientists had been enduring, but she'd felt that was only half the answer.

Much of the staff found the Sim subjects deeply intriguing, and the remainder considered their involvement with the Ant Farm as a patriotic duty to the human race. Even those ­people expressed little hostility toward the Sims, and their naïveté caused Ayliss no small amount of guilt. If her plan succeeded, most of the researchers would be ruined professionally by what would no doubt be an intentionally prolonged exposure to the public, the courts, and perhaps even the prisons.

“Doctor. I was hoping to sit with you for a few minutes if you're not too busy.” Ayliss wore a bright face as she stood in the doorway.

“Oh, by all means come in!” Kletterman stood up and lifted a stack of readouts from the only other chair. “I'm just catching up on some internal correspondence. You wouldn't think we were all living together in essentially one building, the way some of these ­people send me messages.”

“I've found that was a good way to create a record as I went along, so perhaps that's what they had in mind.”

“A politician who wants to create a record of what they've done? You jest.” The bushy eyebrows rose and fell, once.

They shared a laugh, even though Ayliss felt slightly ruffled by the comment.

“Politician? You've got me confused with my father.”

“I doubt it would be the first time that has happened. I've never met the chairman, but a man in my field can tell a lot from footage on the Bounce broadcasts. Your physical resemblance is striking, even for father and daughter, but I couldn't help noticing the shared mannerisms. In the terms of my field, you and your father are practically identical.”

“I wasn't aware I had similar mannerisms with my father.” The incessant hunt for intelligent questions kicked in, saving her. “And his duties kept him away from me for much of my childhood, so I doubt I picked them up in imitation.”

“I doubt it as well.” Kletterman leaned back, his bulk making the high-­backed chair squeal. “Someday we will fully understand how gestures, facial expressions, and other idiosyncrasies are sometimes passed down across generations. Sadly, that is one of the many areas of my work where we are certain the behavior arises from genetic coding, but still have practically no idea how that can be.”

“This would seem to be an area of study that would be of value regarding your subjects, I would think.” A day's interaction with Kletterman's ­people had almost removed the word “Sim” from her vocabulary.

“Certainly.” Kletterman straightened in his chair. “I'm pleased you brought that up. While I'm thoroughly enjoying the observation of our guests, and honestly could happily devote a lifetime to that alone, I have been wondering when the second phase of this project would begin.”

Her mind searched for a response that would not reveal her complete ignorance, but Ayliss soon gave up on that.

“I'm sorry to have to admit this, Doctor, but it appears this ‘second phase' was left out of my briefing. Perhaps my father believed it might bias my observations.”

“Marvelous!” Kletterman leaned back, smiling. “Encountering the scientific method in the political world. I wonder if it has always been there, or if perhaps the collaboration between our spheres caused by the war could be credited. A cross-­pollination, so to speak.”

“God knows we could use it.”

“Indeed. But at the risk of biasing you, the original intent of this facility was more directly linked to my specialty. Specifically, it was to continue the research into the genetic material of our opponents. Searching for the coding that makes them so formidable in battle, if such a thing exists, or what facilitates their forming into groups with such ease.”

“Are you planning to take samples from your subjects?”

“No. As I mentioned earlier, I was not consulted on the manner in which they were procured and delivered, and as a result that opportunity was missed. However, the Force has been collecting samples for almost the entire duration of the war, and so the procurement of more recent material won't be a major problem.”

“What are you hoping to learn, Doctor?”

“Obviously our opponents were manufactured for this conflict, a designer enemy if you will. Ongoing Force research has already revealed that the latest versions of our opponents are larger, stronger, and faster than the originals. It is undeniable that some entity is creating—­and modifying—­them.”

“Go on.”

“If such an entity went to that much trouble to oppose our progress across the stars, or does in fact intend to eradicate us, it stands to reason that this entity would not want to replace us with a larger, stronger, and more formidable version of our race.”

Kletterman stopped, an amused expression creeping onto his face. Ayliss recognized it from school, the teacher who wanted the student to find the answer with the available information. It didn't take long.

“You're looking for something in the Sims' makeup that would allow this entity to get rid of them once the war was over.”

“Exactly. What that scoundrel Python refers to as the ‘on-­off' switch.”

“T
hat's the last of them.”

Berland sat with his back to a large rock, tapping information into his handheld. Mortas sat next to him, tired from having physically visited every geographic rise and dip in the platoon's sector. Three Orphans in the nearby brush were guarding them while they finished plotting out Dassa's plan for the machine guns.

Mortas switched the view in his goggles so he could see the map of the platoon's area. The five observation posts curved southwest from Dak's squad near Lane One, through Mortas's position farther downhill, then to Testo's squad before heading west through Berland's position and Mecklinger's squad and ending at the start of Second Platoon's zone. Every piece of low or shielded ground was now identified, and they were waiting for Noonan's blessing of Dassa's plan.

Despite the dust in the air, Mortas slid his lenses up on their frames so he could look at Berland. Instantaneous communication and the size of their sector had kept them separated since the start of the mission, and the lieutenant found it comforting to actually be in the seasoned NCO's presence.

“Enjoying yourself, Lieutenant?” Berland's smile creased his grimy face.

“I honestly didn't understand Captain Dassa's idea until we actually walked the ground. It's incredible.”

“Yeah, I gotta hand it to him. I would never have thought of this.”

Noonan came up on the radio, having studied the novel use of dragonflies to direct machine gun rounds fired up and over obstacles inside the platoon's sector in order to hit enemy soldiers seeking shelter in the low ground. He added several control features to the map, restricting the fire well short of friendly positions, but the plan was left intact.

“That is fantastic. We are going to kill anybody who comes at us from behind. Well done, First Platoon.” Noonan's voice almost dripped with anticipation, as if the company commander was hoping the enemy found a way to infiltrate that far south. Noonan switched over to Second and Third Platoons, directing them to begin working up similar fire plans.

Mortas made sure his radio wasn't transmitting, and whispered to Berland, “I think the CO likes killing Sims almost as much as Daederus does.”

“Oh, I could have told you that, sir. That last mission, hunting the Sims in that mountain chain, Captain Noonan was practically losing his mind because he wasn't in on the action. We had patrols and ambushes all over the place, and he had to manage all of that instead of actually being out there.

“After a few days, he started moving the command group a lot. Kept saying he was having trouble communicating with everybody. The company ASSL told me that Noonan basically turned the command group into a tiny patrol, hoping to run into Sam.

“I think the CO spent his platoon leader time in one of those outfits where the whole company was always together in one place. Probably had a boss who didn't let him do too much, so when the shooting started he got to join in. From what I saw on that last mission, I think he developed a taste for it.”

Mortas's earpieces pressed down just a bit, and an unfamiliar voice spoke to him.

“Engineer survey team to your west, heading toward you. Don't shoot us up.”

He flipped his radio back to transmission mode. “Come on.”

Berland was already facing outward, the handheld stowed and his Scorpion in his hands. Recognition signals were exchanged with the incoming patrol, first using the goggles and then the radio once the engineers were in sight. It was a three-­man team led by a tall lieutenant who was mapping out the next phase of the lane clearance.

The newcomers joined them in the concealed hollow, and Mortas greeted his fellow officer.

“I'm Jander Mortas. Can't tell you how happy I am to see you.”

“Lar Tottleman, good to meet you too.” The engineer shook hands with Mortas and Berland. “Try not to be too happy. I'm only this far up because I got tired of sitting around back there. We are
way
behind on the timetable, and it's getting worse.”

“What's the holdup?”

“Most of the mines we're encountering are really old, both ours and theirs. Command wants us to disarm every one of them without making any noise, but some of these devices are really unstable. Even when we're familiar with them, there's a good chance they'll go off while we're working. It's crazy.”

“But you're making progress, right?”

“Sure. And there are some open stretches, too, so we're not exactly crawling back there.” Tottleman slid his goggles up and wiped sweat from around his eyes with a rag. “This junk in the air doesn't help, either, but at least it's keeping any aerobots from finding us.”

Berland spoke up. “How many ­people you got back there? Shouldn't be enough to get Sam interested, especially if it's going so slow.”

“It isn't us. We've got only as many engineers in the lane as necessary, which may be part of the problem. Somebody on high is just raring to go, and we have to keep shooing the cavalry scouts away.”

“You're kidding me.”

“I wish I was. We'd been on the job for just a few hours when a whole platoon of them rattled up behind us. We chased them off, but that armored division is pretty lathered up to run the pass as soon as it's clear. They're spread out pretty well now, but for a while there they were stacked up like we were going to give them the go-­ahead at any second.”

Tottleman's head moved in a jerky fashion just then, as if he hadn't been aware Mortas and Berland were in front of him. Squinting, he leaned over to inspect the dust-­covered tiger striping on Mortas's fatigues.

“Now I
know
we're fucked. What jungle did they pull you guys out of?”

I
t was night, but the thickening cloud of dust had kept the platoon's positions in the dark for many hours before the sun set. Mortas was on his third filter mask and already beginning to calculate how long the platoon's supply would last. He was back on his stomach again, between Daederus and Smashy, and wondering if the pain in his chest was from lying prone for so many hours or a lung infection from the tainted air.

“Ah, that's no good.” The ASSL spoke to himself, but both Mortas and Smashy looked in his direction, knowing his radio gave him information that was denied to them. The fire support man finally whispered in explanation. “Orbital Command has lost contact with the southernmost brigade scout team.”

Mortas placed both palms on the dust-­covered stone and pushed himself onto his knees. He squinted inside the goggles, as if that would allow him to see through the darkness or the drifting soot that he couldn't keep off of his lenses no matter how many times he wiped them.

The plain in front of him got murky and then vanished long before the high ground miles across from them, where the brigade's scouts were on lookout. Only one team was out of contact according to that report, so it could be something as simple as malfunctioning equipment, but it was a bad sign that it was the scout team farthest to the south. If the Sims were trying to swing north around the giant hole that they'd created, the first scout team they would have encountered would be the one that was out of contact.

Mortas had personally taken a three-­man patrol through the platoon zone only a few hours earlier, and had come back convinced that the only presence on their part of the ridge was human. So far there had been no reports of infiltrators anywhere in the brigade sector, but the opportunity created by the reduced visibility could not be dismissed.

Sliding back down onto his chest between Daederus and Smashy, Mortas fought the odd combination of fatigue and apprehension. The entire platoon had been going on less and less sleep because of the heightened patrolling, and it was beginning to take its toll. At one point his mind felt sluggish and dull, and the next it was racing through all of the unpleasant possibilities suggested by their position and recent developments. No aerial support beyond orbital rockets. Natural depressions and a few old shell holes their only protection if they got hit with artillery or rockets. If they had to abandon their positions, their path to safety went uphill and then over ground that still hadn't been cleared of mines.