The air had become thicker, coagulating with the odors of sweat and fear and making breathing difficult. Someone behind him broke wind, the sulfuric odor almost causing him to gag. Someone else laughed — a chittering nervous sound. The lights dimmed. Either the weapons were discharging or they'd switched to reserves to avoid detection. He blinked, fear moving in his gut like a living thing. His own bowels begged to loosen. The lights had gone red— battery power. Did that mean they were falling? Powered out?
Emulating beautiful Gretta next to him, he closed his eyes
and concentrated on the fear-sweat beading under his helmet and trickling down his bony face. The soft muttered prayers of an Etarian disciple whispered somewhere across from him.
"Thirty seconds, people!" the wall speaker announced flatly.
A vague whistle of air became audible as the panels around him jiggled. G force sought to pull him sideways against the girl. The ceiling began to rain. Sinklar Fist counted, knowing only that it would help cover his fear.
The final deceleration sought to strain him through his combat armor. His neck muscles tensed to fight the heavy pull. G vanished suddeny, making him snap his head. The LC bumped, bucked, and settled. Hydraulics whined and air moved.
"All right, people, let's move!" Sergeant Hamlish sang out in his bullhorn voice. "A Group! Establish a perimeter! B Group, expand it! C, back them up. D, prepare a flanking defense right! E, flanking defense left! F, support the ordnance team!"
Men and women jumped up around Sinklar. Foolishly, he slapped the quick release on the crash harness and pulled himself to his feet. He barely got his assault rifle up as Gretta moved out at a trot. He slung the heavy rifle up expertly, slipping the support strap over the carry hook so the weight no longer rested on his arms alone.
A Group had already piled out the hatch, diving for the rocky soil, their battle armor changing color to match the reddish-tan soil. Sinklar trotted forward, just like in the exercises, and dropped to the ground another fifty yards out. He blinked into the blackness, aware of the rich smell of the raw earth inches from his nose. Something whirred by his head. Insect? Night bird?
A wailing behind him indicated the LC had cleared its load and was lifting its deadly bulk into the blackness. With a quick glance he noticed that no stars dotted the black sky. He swallowed hard, realizing for the first time just how dry his throat felt. The air carried a cool tang, fresh and clear in his nostrils.
Sergeant Hamlish's quiet voice in his ear made him jump.
"Idiot!" Sinklar berated himself, "It's only your ear comm!"
"Fist!" MacRuder's retort sounded loud in the system. "Shut your mike off! We aren't interested in evaluations of your intelligence."
Sinklar colored red, a horrible shame rising to throttle his heart. Did he do everything wrong?
Hamlish ordered, "Group B, you're on the outside. Pair off and advance. We should be just over the hill from Kaspa. Secure the ridge up there and signal when you have a defensive position."
Sinklar scrambled to his feet, remembering finally to drop his IR visor. Like a falling veil, darkness became light in an odd-hued landscape. He could see MacRuder waving him over.
"Come on, Fist," MacRuder called confidently. "You gonna be all night? There's honors for first blood on this trip." The corporal turned and started forward.
First blood? Sinklar winced. He'd never been meant to be a soldier. Far better to remain home on Rega away from bugs and mud and guns and probe the fascinating secrets of the library. The worst blow of all had been cutting short Ndimensional quantum geometry so soon after he'd gotten the text. Fascinating relationships between.
His lungs started to labor — panting too soon. The assault rifle itself weighed twenty pounds. On top of that, the pack had to be another thirty.
The ridge proved no obstacle other than that it left Sinklar gasping, delirious from thirst, and exhausted. Flopped on the ground, wishing he could vomit, he heard MacRuder calling over the comm system, "B Group reporting Sergeant. All's well."
"Okay, people, dig in," MacRuder ordered, scrambling like a bug in the dark. He bent down over Sinklar. "You all right?"
"Yeah, short of breath is all."
"Look, you seem like a nice kid. Just stick with me, huh? I'll make sure you don't get in any trouble."
"Sure." Picking up the assault rifle, he followed MacRuder over the edge of the ridge and crawled under a full-leafed bush to stare at the winking lights of Kaspa where they spread out below him. The city sat in the bottom of a ridge-bordered bowl. Through the IR vision, the place looked like a shanty town. The surrounding peaks consisted
of cracked and sundered bedrock covered with scabby vegetation and thick-branched conifers on the slopes. Land turned on end — hell of a place to fight a war.
Kid? MacRuder had called him a kid? Well, he sure didn't make much of a soldier — and, damned right, he'd stick with MacRuder. The corporal seemed to know what he was doing.
No one had fired a shot yet. Maybe taking rebel planets was a piece of cake like they'd said?
He lay there in the darkness and thoughtfully fingered his combat armor. Rubbing the stuff between his fingers, i felt like a tough synthetic with a slick surface. In actuality, the material consisted of hollow composite sheaths of graphite and ceramic that enclosed hydrocarbon polymers in some threads, and oxycatalyst in others. Any impact capable of rupturing the composite caused an instant chemical bonding that stiffened the material into hard ablative plate, thereby spreading and absorbing the energy of a projectile or blaster bolt. When coupled with a vacuum helmet, the tight weave served as a pressure suit for space work.
Let's just hope it'll keep me alive, Sinklar thought to himself.
"All right, people," Mac called. "Let's go. Spread out and keep sharp. We got a city to take."
Sinklar headed down the ridge with the rest of B Group. By the breaking of dawn, they'd infiltrated to the Section 3 Post Office and established an occupation headquarters on the outskirts of Kaspa.
The postal building didn't look like much from an aesthetic perspective, but to a military tactician, the thick stone walls and small windows gave the place all the virtues of a redoubt.
"Hell! I thought we'd have a fight," MacRuder growled as he pulled his pack around to cushion his back against the stone of the hallway wall. The other troops had stacked rifles and piled duffels here and there around the open lobby.
"They don't look dangerous," Sinklar said thoughtfully as he studied the few pedestrians who hurried past outside, eyes downcast. The skies remained clouded over, hints of thunder in the rumbling gray-black overhead.
"Naw, the regulars are here," MacRuder mumbled over a half a ration bar.
Sinklar studied him thoughtfully. MacRuder looked like a soldier: square-jawed and handsome with a lump in the middle of his nose. Challenging blue eyes
stared out of a high-cheeked face while wisps of blond hair escaped the confines of the helmet. The man's muscular shoulders swelled the supple fabric of his armor.
Gretta Artina sat beside him, one arm locked in the corporal's. Sinklar had to work to keep from staring at her perfect features. Was she falling for MacRuder? Against a man like that, what chance did the likes of Sinklar Fist have?
Think about Anatoia, idiot She's safely out of reach— and you can dream about her unti you get home — assuming you survive Targa. Then you don't have to be heartbroken until you find out she married one of her professors and has a kid on the way.
MacRuder's voice intruded. "They might have thought the garrison was soft, but they've got combat troops here now. We'll make them think twice." Mac made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Still, somebody should have taken a potshot. I don't get it. It's like they just let us walk in here."