At one pause he peered long and carefully across the draw, toward where he'd come from. Spotted the outline of a helmet against an outcrop. Some folks had trouble getting it through their heads that the camouflage pattern on your uniform wasn't enough. A little brush, strategically attached, made a lot of difference. He'd mention it when this was over.
He still couldn't see the folks on this side. Some forty yards ahead, a rocky prominence hid them from view. It was a good place for a lookout, too, lying low beside a tree, watching for someone like himself. Esau didn't move again till he was satisfied with his surveillance. He couldn't afford carelessness. With backcountry like this, there'd be skilled hunters among the Burgers.
After seconds he moved on. The wet leaves on the ground made effectively no noise, and the dry leaves rustling in the treetops helped cover the occasional wet twig breaking. When he reached the outcrop he paused again, then slipped past it on his belly. He spotted his first "enemy" thirty yards away, and stopped. He couldn't see an armband, but if he…
What caused him to look aside just then, he would never know. What he saw was something he'd only heard about, but he knew what it was, and it was looking right at him. It gathered itself, and for just a moment Esau froze mentally.
Then the lion rushed him, and Esau's paralysis transformed into action. Not to turn his blaster and fire. That would have taken too long, for he was prone, and the lion was to his right. Instead he twisted onto his back, coiling, interposing the weapon between himself and the predator, while loosing a shout at the top of his lungs. Then the 300-pound feloid was on him, and Esau jammed his blaster sideways into its mouth. He felt the front claws not as pain but as deadly threat. For a moment it tried to reach him with its jaws, but the blaster was in the way, and the young man's powerful arms held it off. Then it tried to move around him, flank him, and he pivoted on his back in desperation.
He didn't hear the popping of blasters across the ravine, firing soft pulses at the "enemy"; 2nd Platoon had misconstrued his shouts. He could only fight. Salvation came as unexpectedly as the lion. Steel fingers, numbingly powerful, penetrated the ruff, gripped the hide beneath, hauled the predator back, then swung it, slamming it hard against a tree, so quickly and overwhelmingly, the lion didn't have time to twist and fight back. Swung it again, and again, till it lay broken on the ground, hissing coarse bloody hisses at its metal assailant. The warbot set its right-arm blaster on full, and fired a single pulse, putting the lion out of its pain.
Esau stared up at the cyborg. It looked back down at him. "Hello, Esau," it said quietly. "You took us by surprise."
The "enemy" turned out to be 1st Platoon, E Company. Its ensign radioed 2nd Platoon B, and the firing stopped. Meanwhile 1st Platoon E's medic cut off Esau's torn camos, poured antibiotic on his lacerations, bandaged him, gave him an injection, and wrapped him in a casualty blanket. Then Isaiah Vernon picked up his ex-squad leader and carried him down the slope to the meadowed glen as if Esau were a child. Within ten minutes an evac floater was there, and carried the injured man to the division hospital.
2nd Platoon was told that Esau's wounds weren't serious. Jael asked Sergeant Hawkins if she could go with her husband. He'd told her no, that she was a soldier, and this was part of war.
That evening Hawkins came to her while the platoon ate. The ensign had just gotten a message from Esau: he was fine, and expected to be back in two or three days.
The estimate was Esau's, not the doctor's. He rejoined the platoon and his wife five days later, when the regiment returned to camp. That was also the day Isaiah Vernon went to 2nd Battalion headquarters and asked to see the CO. He had the permission of Sergeant Henry Okinwobu, his squad leader, an ex-marine medically discharged for cascade syndrome.
The battalion sergeant major looked up at the towering metal-and-composites human standing in front of his desk. "What's this about, Vernon?"
"Sergeant Major, it's about my old platoon. I'd like a transfer to 1st Battalion, so I can work with it. I trained with it. I even jumped with it. My best friends… "
The sergeant major cut him off with a gesture. "Just a minute, Vernon," he said, and touched a key on his desk comm. "Major, a personnel matter has just come up, something not covered by policy. You might want to consider it." He listened to something Isaiah couldn't hear. "It's Corporal Vernon of the bot squad." Again he listened. "Yessir, that's him. He went through basic and part of advanced training with 2nd Platoon, B Company, before his chute malfunctioned. The guy he rescued from the lion is one of his old buds. Vernon would like to be swapped for one of 1st Battalion's bot squad… Yes, Major, that's the key to it. We're not likely to get a replacement with his level of infantry training, but… Yessir. Thank you, sir."
He jabbed the switch and looked back up at Isaiah. "Sit down, Private. I have another call to make."
Isaiah sat. In five minutes he had an answer. It wasn't all he'd hoped for, but it might work out. Technically, a warbot platoon was assigned to a regiment as a tactical reserve, which meant the regimental CO could use it any way he wanted. But Division had ordered them divvied out to the battalions. "So if you can find someone in 1st Battalion's bot squad willing to switch," the sergeant major said, "the major will take it up with the colonel." He paused. "But if you're going to do it, do it no later than tomorrow."
Isaiah got to his feet. "Yes, Sergeant," he said. "I'll get right on it."
Sergeant Major Pieter Fuentes Singh watched him leave. According to the grapevine, Captain Chatterjee, Division's technical specialist, had said that even bots weren't strong enough to swing 400-pound lions by the scruff, and beat them to death against trees. But this one did.
Fuentes shook his head. Apparently the adrenaline analog system built into them was more effective than the specialists had realized.
Meanwhile, Private Isaiah Vernon had laid to rest any reservations Fuentes might have harbored about the basic humanity of warbots. They felt the human bond. Certainly this one did.
Chapter 35
Hanging Around Sagenwerk
This was the third Sevenday in a row that Joseph Switzer had hung around the depot to watch soldiers on pass pile out of coach cars. If he'd gotten to Luneburger's World a few weeks earlier, he wouldn't be in this miserable village. He could have gotten his business done in North Fork.
On Terra, even a backwater like Sagenwerk would have a square with trees, planters, maybe a brass sundial on a granite pedestal. A good bookstore and a nice cafe with outdoor tables, bright awnings, a friendly waitress. And there wouldn't be a railroad reeking with soft-coal smoke and gritty soot.
The depot here had no amenities except a weedy path leading to an outdoor privy with back-to-back rooms, one for men, one for women. Until the soldiers had come to Camp Nafziger, passengers were few, and most trains had only a single coach, inserted at the head of a string of log cars, lumber cars, or boxcars.
Switzer dug his watch from a pocket and snapped the lid open. It was twelve minutes past time, but the train wasn't in sight or hearing. On Luneburger's World, schedules were casual.
Grunting, he rotated his shoulders. He'd gotten a job at the sawmill, stacking lumber, and was still a bit sore. In North Fork he'd found work as a free-lance engineer, but with eleven thousand inhabitants, North Fork was an important regional center. Sagenwerk's only excuse for existing was the sawmill that provided its name. Its population was said to be five hundred. Here a free-lance engineer would draw too much attention, and he'd make too little money to pay for the one-room shack he rented. The war had caused prices to rise.