The implications chilled him. “Little bastards want prisoners to interrogate, that’s why!” He grabbed the com-link to DT-2. “Milwaukee, they’re after prisoners! Do you copy? They want prisoners to interrogate. Over.”
Through the static came a faint reply. “. . . copy.”
A series of bolts hit the screen in rapid succession. Icicle yelled and jumped backwards. His suit sleeve had brushed the screen. The fabric melted around his skin. Icicle kept screaming until Gunny managed to inject a pain killer. Icicle still whimpered; but the pain dropped to bearable levels. Eagle Talon had switched tactics, overriding automatic controls to turn the infinite repeaters on the mass of infantry boiling up toward them.
Gotta get us outta this deathtrap before those hairy little bastards swarm all over us. . . .
Another series of energy bolts slammed into the screen. Gunny saw the screen buckle and begin to go—
“EAGLE! JUMP! CLEAR THE SCREEN!”
The AmerInd made it. Icicle was slower to respond. Gunny dragged him. The buckling screen settled like melting wax, collapsing from the center toward the edges. Icicle’s shoulders and head were still under it—
A corner of the mesh dropped across his faceplate. Icicle screamed in reflex and clawed at the glowing strands. Most of them came clear, burning his hands to the bone. One strand got through. Icicle screamed again, a sound infinitely more terrible than his earlier cry. Gunny jerked his helmet completely off, but the damage was done. Icicle was blind, burned terribly across the face. He was still screaming. This time, Gunny dumped enough painkiller into him to put a horse under.
It was barely enough to deaden the pain.
Icicle curled onto his side, whimpering like a child, unable to see the Enemy’s guns trained on them. Gunny snatched his rifle off his shoulder and fired at the Yavac Scout in a red rage. The Yavac returned fire: energy bolts that hit in a precise arc, driving them back toward the ruins of their grid screen, denying them an escape route.
Down in that broad northern valley, the infantry was closer, moving at a dead run across broken ground. Gunny turned his fire on them, bringing down dozens of multilegged, hairy horrors. Eagle Talon fired into the massed infantry with good result.
The nearest Yavac Scout began to climb the ridge.
I have placed my makeshift weapons in three banks of six along the backside of the ridge, facing them in slightly different directions. I extend my main sensor array into the clear above the shoulder of the ridge for a tactical update.
“Doug, our boys are in trouble. Their grid screens are overheating. They won’t take much more before reaching meltdown point. We must assist them now.”
“Can’t expose you, Red, you’re not built to handle a Deng armored scout.”
“I will take precautionary measures, Doug. I will expose only my gun, long enough to fire. I see three Yavac Scouts, one barely visible around the edge of that farthest ridge. It sits at the head of the valley Gunny has been reconnoitering. If I move west, all three Yavac Scouts would be in range. When I touch off the diversion, distracting them, I could land crippling blows very quickly by popping my infinite repeater up over the shoulder of the ridge.”
Before my Commander can answer, DT-1’s grid screen takes multiple direct hits in rapid succession. The grid melts and collapses. One of our boys is partially trapped under it. My video input magnifies the sight as the grid melts through Icicle’s faceplate. My audio sensors pick up the screams. The Yavac nearest my position begins to climb the lower slope of the ridge.
“Do it!” My Commander’s voice is ragged with stress.
I move 300 meters farther west and turn my guns on the ranked pipes, igniting the petrochemicals in sequence with short blasts from my infinite repeater. A quarter of the makeshift mortars detonate without launching their projectiles. Three-quarters fire as planned. It is enough. I move rapidly away from my position as all three Enemy Yavac units turn toward the arcing ore slugs and open fire on my former position and the airborne slugs.
Gunny hugged the stony ground, putting himself between Icicle and the climbing Deng scout. All he could do was lie there, panting in horror while firing at it with no result. The monstrous, misshapen thing just kept coming. Muffled explosions beyond the ridge where Red had concealed herself startled him. The rumbling BOOMs startled the damned Yavacs, too; all three turned and fired at some sort of incoming projectiles.
“GET ‘EM RED!” he yelled.
As though on cue, Red’s turret-mounted articulated arm popped up over the shoulder of the ridge, exposing her infinite repeater. She fired in rapid sequence. The nearest Yavac’s main gun exploded; milliseconds after that she nailed the main guns on both other Yavacs, putting them out of commission. Gunny heard the ragged cheer from DT-2. The Yavacs returned fire from their smaller weapons systems. Gunny saw Red’s main sensor array go in a burst of light and debris.
Oh, God . . .
Without that array, her main control system for her own guns—not to mention her reconnaissance equipment—was blown. She could shoot; but she couldn’t aim or see nearly as well. The lightweight infinite repeater sank out of sight. Then, in a nightmarish moment that brought Gunny’s breath to a shuddering halt in his dust-filled lungs, Red backed out from behind that ridge, Chameleon screens engaged to imitate the configuration of a Yavac Scout. She fired wildly at her former position.
Milwaukee and his men tried running for it during the confusion. Yavac small-weapons fire drove them back mercilessly. Gunny’s heart sank. “Good try,” he whispered. “But ain’t no way you’re gonna pull this one off, Red. Three against one and you with your main array blasted to hell and gone . . . Been nice knowing you, little lady. . . .”
He wished he’d told her, after all, how he felt.
I reconfigure Chameleon screens to match the visual and electronic signature of a Deng Class C Yavac Scout. I have little armor on my hull. What I require is a shield. I use external armatures to pick up large stones, which I place in front of my hull, maximizing the rocky surface area. They will not withstand more than one direct hit; but it is the best I can do. The rocks—like my true appearance—are hidden behind the Chameleon screen.
I move into the open, transmitting on enemy frequencies and firing at my previous position. The Enemy swings toward me and hesitates. I hear an Enemy demand for identification. DT-2 attempts to break out and is driven back. I fire at the Enemy climbing the ridge toward DT-1, striking the same point multiple times in 0.92 seconds. The Enemy’s hull is breached. It explodes and burns. I have killed one Enemy.
The Enemy nearest me launches five mortar grenades. These do not arc toward me. They arc toward DT-2. I fire at the grenades midflight. I am unable to aim precisely enough to pinpoint each one so I fire sweeping bursts. Four grenades explode midair. The fifth detonates just above DT-2’s grid screen. The grid screen explodes.
“Milwaukee! Milwaukee, respond!” There is no answer. I am frantic.
Gunny calls on his line-of-sight suit-link. “Red! Red, tell Hart to get the hell out of here! We’re done for! There’s a mess of—”
His transmission is interrupted by another explosion between his position and mine. The nearest Yavac fires at me. I attempt to withdraw behind the shoulder of the ridge again. The Yavac follows. I move the stones I carry in an attempt to block projectile weapons fired at my hull. I fire back at the Enemy, aiming for vulnerable legs rather than the armored hull. Concentrated fire destroys four jointed legs on its near side. The Yavac topples, crippled. Its remaining gun systems discharge as it falls. I am hit directly in my turret. Internal diagnostics scream that I am crippled. My turret-mounted articulated extension-arm is unusable. My gun is severely damaged. I am defenseless.
The Yavac fires again from the ground before I can move out of range. One blast hits the rock in my starboard armature, obliterating my shield. The other hits my port armature. Internal sensors report extreme damage to the port armature. It is bent and useless. The starboard armature remains operational. I retreat from the limited sweep available to the Enemy’s guns. This places me between the crippled Enemy and my Dismount Teams. As I retreat between the two forks of the double ridgelines, it attempts to circle with me, but with its port-side legs gone, it only scrambles in place, unable to turn and fire on me.
“Red!” my Commander says, “we have to—”
The third Yavac Scout has emerged from behind the forked tip of the ridge where DT-1 is trapped. It is firing on me. I take direct hits to my hull. I am not designed to withstand this. I rock on my treads. Internal systems overload and spark. I cannot think properly for 23 nanoseconds. I am hit again. Hull breach! Radiation floods my Command Compartment from the power plant of the destroyed Yavac Scout nearby.