Back into the fire, p.9
Back Into the Fire, page 9
“Look at that,” Cory said with a hush in her voice. “I think we crashed their party.”
“Good,” Jerry growled. Let them run. And don’t come back.
But he knew they would.
The icon of Wheeler’s transport blinked and the hologram showed a message prompt on a different, private channel. Frowning, he touched the icon to key it up. “Yeah?”
“It’s Josie,” came the reply, sounding a little winded, rattled even. A globular popped up, to accompany the audio. Wheeler sat in the cramped back seat of the Rynamax tub’s tiny bridge. She had her helmet on, but pushed back and slightly askew so that he could see blonde hair matted against her forehead. She wore aviator glasses that hid her eyes, but Jerry knew the blue behind them well. “I...that last one was close. Just wanted to say thanks.”
A cautious smile twitched Jerry’s lip. “You couldn’t say that over the tactical?”
“Maybe I didn’t want everyone listening in,” she replied with a mischievous smirk. “Maybe I wanted to tell you myself. Personal-like.”
“Well, you’re welcome,” he said, not quite squirming. “It’s my job.”
She pushed the aviators down on her nose so those baby blues glimmered over the top. “Just a job?”
Now Jerry did squirm, couldn’t help it. That Josie had interest was in no doubt. And she was fine, there was no doubt about that, either. So, what the hell, man?
But he knew the answer to that. Tina. He’d been a dead man since they’d lost her—since I left her. Cory, who’d become something of a surrogate child, had tried to fill the void. But it just made him feel more guilty. She was a kid and shouldn’t tether herself to an old wreck like him. But more, no one should, because he was a wreck and he’d drag anyone down under the surface with him if they got too close.
Jerry forced a smile for the globular of Wheeler. “You’re welcome,” he repeated lamely.
Her lips pinched into a thin line, betrayed a moment of what might be hurt. But the smirk returned and there was no dimming the sparkle of her stare. “You’re a lot of work, Rodann.”
He chortled. “You’re not the first to say it.”
“But I’m going to get that dance out of you,” she said, and the hologram cut out.
“OH, THIS IS A GODDAMN mess!” Tim snarled as he brought the Hellhound in.
Smoke cleared below him, revealed a pattern of landing strips webbing out from a cluster of domes. One glance confirmed the place had started off as a landing site for ore haulers supporting the nearby transuranic mines, but had been hastily and inexpertly expanded for the ravenous needs of the war. A perimeter of anti-orbital turrets tracked his approach. What looked like the remnants of an Alliance destroyer occupied the far side, mostly dismantled for construction materials, but its shield projectors intact and its weapons operational.
And there was no damned room on any of the strips, all of them crowded with transports and shuttles and starfighters.
“Jeanie,” Tim snarled, “do we have any word from Control? Can you find us a berth without them?”
“Simulacrum construct destabilized,” the AI droned in reply. “Backup persona en—”
“Oh, shut up!”
He slowed his descent with the maneuvering fields, felt the grav drives shudder and whine until he backed off them. He hadn’t had to land a Hellhound in a long time, usually just let Jeanie do most of the work, unless there was damage. But this time the damage was to Jeanie, and Tim would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to fretting. She—it—had been more a companion than almost any human being in years.
Got to talk to Cory. She’ll know what to do.
An almost nauseous surge went through him at the thought. His palate dried and he darted his hand to one of the globulars drifting to his side, the TOS list, including the roster. Finger paused and flesh slickened with a fresh and clammy sheen of sweat. He didn’t know if the kid was even around to know what to do for Jeanie. But that was always the way it was. He swallowed once and touched the hologram.
The icon of Rodann’s Hog blinked green. Tim let out a breath, but not completely. Cory wasn’t the only one out there—or maybe not out there.
“Jester pilot,” a voice crackled in his earbud. “Clear that approach! We’ve got another transport coming in!”
Tim keyed the channel savagely. “And just where the hell do you want to put me, Control? I didn’t exactly bring this thing in without a scratch!”
“Circle again and we’ll have an assignment for you,” came the near-frantic reply. “But clear the way now!”
With a growl Control likely had cut out already, Tim sawed the stick to port and nosed the now near-hovering Hellhound away. Grudgingly, he started the fighter into a distant prowl in the sky around the choked aerodrome. No doubt, it was a traffic jam down there. The last of the Jester transports shuddering down out of the heavens wasn’t going to help, trailing smoke and looking a lot worse for the wear.
Gave him time to think, though. Not a good thing.
Tim couldn’t bring himself to reach out for the TOS hologram again, or even look at it. His heart thumped over on itself in his chest, sent a wince across his face. I promised her, he told himself. We promised each other. We wouldn’t let this get in the way. He’d chosen command of the second wave for that reason, so they’d be separated, would have only their own tasks in front of them in the fight. We wouldn’t let it affect our judgment.
The words sounded great, when he had Kelly right there, in his arms, earnest words side-by-side in her cot on Shangri-La.
Sounds like shit now.
“Computer,” he said hoarsely, “find Commander Harrison, please.”
The pause that followed stabbed through his sternum, pinned his quivering heart to the spine behind it. He didn’t breathe, didn’t think.
“Commander Harrison’s Hellhound is already landed and powered-down,” the AI replied. “Would you like me to ping her mandibular implant?”
Tim barely heard the computer’s last words over the explosive exhale from his lungs. Relief rushed like a warm breeze through him and sinews that he didn’t know he had unknotted. “No,” he said. “No, just...just needed to know where she was.”
“It appears someone else needs to know where you are,” AI said with what almost sounded like cheer, and Tim wondered if the default simulacrum was already adapting to him. The communicator was blinking. “Captain Red.”
Oh boy...Captain. “Put her on,” he said grudgingly.
A globular materialized to show Red on the ground, standing beside her Hellhound with her helmet off and characteristic mane unraveling into a breeze. “You managed to stay alive!”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
She chortled a little at that. There’d been more than a little tension between them, but she’d actually sounded relieved. “You have everyone down?”
“Everyone but me.” He paused. “We lost four and probably have two more Hellhounds that need to be scrapped for parts.”
She nodded slowly. “Could’ve been worse. We got lucky, this time. They were completely unprepared for us.” Skin tightened around her eyes. “That’s not going to last. I need you down here. The local commander wants to meet with us as quickly as possible.”
“Just waiting for my turn, lady,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re all right, Tim.” A momentary huskiness crept into her voice. “And I’ll see you at the aerodrome soon.”
“You too,” he replied as the globular flicked out. What the hell was that? Years of leading the Jesters had honed Red to a sharp, cold edge, cutting and unforgiving. But whatever that had been sounded more like—well, like a human. She getting soft, all of a sudden?
Control signaled his approach and he wove the Hellhound down out of the sky. They’d picked out a spot on the far edge of the field, more than two kilometers out from the domes of the complex, at the very edge of the crumbling tarmac. Grumbling, he shifted power to the maneuvering fields, felt the shiver of the spaceframe and the whine as he spooled down the grav drives. His course would bring him down at the end of a ragged line of Hellhounds. What looked like ground crews were already rushing amongst these.
Landing gears extended and flexed as he eased the Hellhound to the pavement. A groan went through the vessel as these sagged under the weight and the rest settled upon the fighter’s downward-scooped, forward-swept wings. In another moment, all was quiet, save the ping of cooling metal and the crackle of the babbling tactical network.
“Check the oil,” Tim quipped as he pulled off his helmet and keyed the canopy release.
“This craft does not operate with petrochemical-based lubricants,” the AI replied primly.
Tim rolled his eyes as canopy cracked and hissed with released pressure. God, I hope Cory can get Jeanie sorted out quick. This is ridiculous.
A new sound met Tim’s ears as he hoisted himself out of the cockpit. He frowned, recognized the roar, but not understanding its source. He stood on the wing of his Hellhound, helm cradled under one arm, and looked out across the field. The next Hellhound over was surrounded by figures in fatigues—some in scuffed armor—all stained in various shades of the local red-brown filth. Li was on the wing of this one, the small, wiry man grinning as he looked down at them, waved hesitantly. His gaze rose and met Tim’s, even across the distance, and eyebrows arched incredulously.
Some of the crowd broke off from Li and washed over to Tim’s craft and the sound enveloped him in its raucous embrace. Cheering. They’re cheering us! The men and women below him looked like scarecrows in rags and battered plates. But their faces shined as they hooted and hollered and jumped in place, an almost frenzied explosion of emotion that nearly frightened Tim with its zeal. Well, this is a change.
The Hell’s Jesters had been met with distrust and disgust, seen as pawns or tools or criminals. Even on Loudon—his poor, hellishly-abused home world—where the Jesters really had saved the day, their arrival had been cloaked in tragedy and the horrors of a war that had spun completely out of control. But this...this was real. These filthy shadows—Union marines, he saw by the markings, some of whom had clearly abandoned posts to come see—were not just glad to see them, but ecstatic.
Tim grinned down at them, felt a reckless impulse. Gripping his helmet, he thrust it to the sky, held it there. The marines erupted in fresh cheers.
The Jesters were heroes for a change.
A STOCKY MARINE, HALF a head shorter than Kelly, led her into a dim room, lit by flickering holograms and loud with the snarl of many communicators. They were in the bunker complex deep below the aerodrome, probably an old blast shelter—proofed against orbital bombardment. She hadn’t had time to shed her sweat-tacky leathers, came to a halt beside the marine in the dusty dark, still stinking of her Hellhound.
But something else stank worse than her and she wrinkled her nose.
A chipped, abused-looking table housed a large hologram projector that filled the air with its abrasive glow, showing the full globe of Fury, rotating slowly. Icons lit across its surface and pointers brushed over these, bringing out sub-displays of notations and schematics. To one side of this, half-seated on the edge of the table, Red eyed the image with arms crossed and her features creased in thought.
To the other side, Kelly saw the source of the stench, standing in a cloud of it. Built like a barrel of sinew and scar tissue, the man would barely match Kelly’s height, but made up for it with an aura of menace as palpable as the smoke twining from the cigar in his teeth. Kelly tried not to wrinkle her nose as he puffed, filling the hot, cramped space with a burnt-shoe redolence. Watering-eyed subordinates standing around him similarly suppressed visible response, likely out of respect for the double stars winking from each stained collar.
Small, piercing green eyes darted towards Kelly and a gravelly voice asked through the smoke, “Who’s this?”
Red glanced her way. “One of my Wing Commanders, General Teller. The other is” she arched her eyebrows questioningly.
“On his way,” Kelly replied. And he was. She’d checked, even though she’d promised him—and herself—she wouldn’t.
The general glowered at her a moment longer before turning back to Red, plucking the cigar from his teeth and waving the smoldering stub before him as he spoke. “So, you see, Captain, it’s not that we’re not glad to see you; but you’re not what we expected.”
Red smiled back, matching the man’s frosty tone. “And what, precisely, were you expecting, sir?”
“More,” he grunted and touched a control on the holographic projector.
The image of the globe stopped rotating and zoomed in on the badly-fractured equatorial continent of Fury. Fresh icons winked into being across this, blue for Union, up in the mountainous northwest, yellow for the Alliance, sprawled across the south and southwest. White dots flashed to life to indicate settlements, far more numerous to the south, but scattered and smaller, fewer to the north but larger populations, industry, and better access to fresh water.
“It’s a lot of ground to cover,” Teller began, “but the easiest access to the northern plateau only runs through three valleys, and we have those covered—have since the Thirteenth landed here, six months ago. The Alliance has tried forcing each of these routes multiple times since then.” He inserted the cigar back into furiously-grinning teeth. “All attempts have failed.”
“Guess that’s why they call your Division ‘Lucky’,” Red replied.
“Luck has nothing to do with it!” he growled. “Guts and better ground are more like it.”
Teller touched the control again and more schematics appeared, highlighted ground emplacements and the radii of what looked like effective firing arches. “The Shinies can’t land reinforcements on this side of the globe. Our anti-orbitals would pick ‘em off. So, their reserves have to move a long way overland to get to the front. Fighters have been a nuisance, flying below the horizon, but our point-defenses usually get those. Long-range, heavy artillery is largely neutralized, too.” He folded his arms over his chest. “So, it’s a close-in fight when they decide to come at us. But they’ve always got more of everything. And you’re the first reinforcements we’ve received since we got here.”
“Hence your hope for more.”
“It’d be nice, at least, if Greer and his pretty starships made a showing,” Teller replied without bothering to hide his sneer. “The Alliance was dropping a task force on us when you arrived, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“And we tore them a new one,” Red answered with her chin up. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Some of Teller’s officers glanced at one another in response, a few shocked whispers darting back and forth. But the leather-skinned general chewed his cigar, almost seemed to smirk for a moment. “We saw,” he replied quietly, dangerously. “And we were watching them unload what looked like at least a fresh division, just over the horizon, before you got here to chase them off.”
“We destroyed several transports, crippled or destroyed two destroyers, and got a light carrier,” Red said, sliding off the table to stand fully, shoulders squared combatively.
“The rest will be back.” Teller plucked out the cigar again, exhaled a slow, stinking plume. “And how many did you bring with you?”
Red glanced at Kelly.
“Three wings,” she replied—and didn’t mention understrength. “I don’t have the final numbers after the landing, but seventy-five Hellhounds, a dozen other assorted attack craft.”
Teller fingered the cigar, turned those piggish green eyes back on Red. “Like I said, more would’ve been nice.”
“The Hell’s Jesters always punch above their weight, General,” Kelly proclaimed, couldn’t help it. Teller seemed a tough nut, for certain, but he couldn’t imagine the places the Jesters had been, the odds they’d faced.
“So do marines,” Teller rumbled. “And if scary names were enough to win battles, the Lucky Thirteenth would’ve already kicked the Shinies off Fury.”
“Well,” Red said with resignation, “we’re what you’ve got.”
Teller took a quick pull on his cigar, looked her up and down one more time, and shrugged. “And don’t take it as ingratitude, Captain. Just an old dog-face’s prerogative to bitch. We’ve got plenty of work for you, is all.”
Raised voices and a scuffle turned Kelly to the bunker entrance. A figure in flaking black leathers and stained khakis was trying to force his way past a guard. Relief at seeing him warred momentarily with alarm that Tim’s reckless entry—always the recklessness, God bless him—would get guns drawn.
“He’s one of ours,” Red called over the rising din. “One of ours!”
Teller smirked as the marine barring the way in gave Tim a last shake before releasing the grip he’d had on his sleeve. Tim tugged the jacket—perhaps the vilest, most disreputable-looking worn by any Jester—back into some semblance of order and scowled at the burly, armored man. “This is vintage, pal.”
“Tim, shut up and get in here!” Red snapped.
He threw the marine one last glower before coming up to stand alongside Kelly. “Sorry, it was a couple klicks, hoofing it.”
Teller looked down at the holographic controls, ignoring Tim’s words, muttering something about “more” under his breath as he worked them.
“Hey there,” Tim whispered with a wink at Kelly.
“Shut up,” she whispered back, but couldn’t help a smile.
It took work not to shake a little, with him standing there. It wasn’t some teenaged-kind of lovesick stupidity. She’d forced Tim Watkins as much from her mind as she would ignore a splinter under the flesh while working a shovel, knowing to pay it any mind would be distraction she couldn’t afford. But it—he—had still been there, almost as painful and in every movement, every thought. And now, with him here, alive at her side, all that self-control, that fear collapsed in an avalanche within her.
And she couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
