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CHAPTER 21




Noah moved through jungle. He kept the contrast on his visor high to spot trip wires. Mason was a few steps away and Felix behind them. The squad’s two Cataphracts followed along a few dozen yards behind them.

“What the hell are we looking for?” Noah asked.

“Some other way to the Fort,” Mason said. “Major wants us to infiltrate in if we can. Keep the Flags from damaging the port before we can use it.”

“The TEU are worth a lot just for power plants,” Felix said. “Capturing the place was probably a cash grab more than anything else. They don’t want to destroy it, not when they’ll need it. Doubt any deliveries are coming in from off world anytime soon.”

“Don’t they keep that stuff in vaults under the tarmac? How’re they even going to get it without the right codes?” Noah asked.

“I’ve never met a safe that was immune to an angle grinder,” Boyle said over the radio.

“Stop jaw-jacking and pay attention,” Corre chided them all. “Bad enough we’re out here with no overhead recon drones after the major recalled them all.”

“Just some face-first recon by Flankers,” Felix said. “My last commander did the same.”

Noah stepped through a bush and his boot crunched down on tall reeds. The smell of sap carried through his helmet. He looked up the hillside and found a trail of ground-up foliage. He looked down and did a double take.

“Whoa, got something here.” Noah turned left and followed the bulldozed path to an embankment. A Wolverine tank had come to a stop with the rear sunk into a muddy stream. The front edge of the treads had sunk into the grassy edge of the dropoff, and the turret turned to one side, as if aiming at something upstream. The hull was undamaged, but all the hatches were open.

“Huh.” Mason joined Noah on the edge and looked up the way it had slid down. “So there was another tank. Looks like it slid off the road.”

“And the crew just left it there?” Noah asked. “That doesn’t make any—gah!”

Noah backed into his brother.

Hanging from trees were five men, all pale of skin. Their wrists were bound to branches with chains, their throats slit and heads scalped.

“Well, that’s what happened to the crew,” Mason said. “Maybe there’s something worth salvaging inside?”

“Wolverines carry six,” Felix said. “Might be another stray around here. Unless they ate him.”

“They do that too?” Noah backpedaled against Mason. Mason twisted around and let his brother fall on his backside.

“Mason, get in there and see if any of the drones are still in the launchers,” Corre said as he emerged from the jungle. “These are supposed to have a decent complement of Pigeons and Shrikes.”

“Roger, Sarge . . . Felix. Get in there.” Mason waved the other Flanker forward.

“But he told you—”

“I’m not dumping my exo to fit in there when you don’t even have yours. Move it, new guy.” Mason waved again.

“Why am I getting ‘new guy’d’ when as a newly minted corporal I—you know what, I’m not going to fight your logic.” Felix handed over his carbine and climbed onto the front of the tank. He slid down to the driver’s hatch on the front and looked inside.

“Huh, no driver’s seat, just power rod housings. All empty, of course. Weird.” Felix looked up at the growing twilight, then popped a small flashlight off his belt. He climbed onto the turret and gave the tank commander’s hatch a tug. He glanced inside.

“Hey, Sarge, if the Flags were smart enough to take the power rods, they probably got the drones too,” Felix said.

“Quit goldbricking and get in there.” Corre waved a heavy mitt at him.

“I’m just saying.” Felix put two fingers to his forehead and turned his palm up to the sky. He dropped into the turret and clicked on his flashlight.

The inside of the Wolverine was surprisingly spacious. The gunner’s seat was built into the turret next to the main gun’s breech; another seat with more optics and control handles for machine guns was on the other side.

In the main hull was enough room for a shorter man like Felix to stand up. Two control stations with holo emitters built into the metal sides were powered off; a fifth place next to sliding ammo lockers had trash and bloody bandages piled on it.

A matte-black hump ran along the bottom of the hull, gouges and dents all along the edges.

“This is fine,” Felix said to himself as he dropped down. “Tanks don’t get haunted. It’s fine.”

He kicked the bandages away, gagging at the heavy copper scent. He shined his light along the walls until he found three pneumatic tubes angled away from one of the control stations that ran up the inside of the hull and to the rear of the tank.

“Bingo.” Felix sat in the chair and felt something moist seep into his pants. He flipped a hatch on one of the tubes up. Empty. The next one had a red and white striped cylinder inside of it.

“What’s this?” He pulled it out and another sprang into its place from a magazine beneath his chair. He adjusted the light on the cylinder but couldn’t read the text. He flipped it over and angled the cylinder away, attempting to read the rainbow-hued font that refused to stay lit.

“Watch this be one of those poison gas canisters the Flags always claim we use. Wouldn’t that be just my luck—”

Thunk.

The bulge down the center of the hull spun slowly with a guttural rattle of gears. The edge came over the top, revealing a ghastly white figure.

Felix let out a screech and sprang up. His head struck the low hull and stars shot across his eyes. He dropped the cylinder, arms flailing in front of him as the flashlight spun around and around on the deck.

A ghost rose up from the tomb. He got glimpses of it coming for him as the light moved like a beacon. Its head was bulbous with a long, hollow tongue.

“Mommy!” Felix swiped at it as blood ran down his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” a young woman asked. The light stopped spinning as the ghost took up the flashlight and shined it at Felix’s face. “Name. Unit. Answer before I designate you as a hostile combatant.”

“F-F-Felix!” He held his arms up in front of his face. “Private firs-corporal? Corporal! Unit is . . . umm, Bretton. The Bretton something-th. Don’t eat my soul, please!”

“Your answers are inadequate.” There was the sound of a pistol being racked.

“Hey!” Mason called out from the turret hatch. Fresh light shined into the hull. “Felix, who the hell is that?”

“Ghost. Ghost!” Felix pressed himself into the corner and slapped a hand against the cut on his head.

“I am no imaginary creature. Identify yourselves!” she shouted.

“How about you point that pea shooter somewhere safe before we talk,” Mason responded.

Felix lowered his other hand. The “ghost” was a woman in an eggshell-colored body glove. A helmet with attached air mask was on the deck next to her. Her skin was the color of ivory, her eyes a glacial blue. Platinum blonde hair matted with sweat came down to her jawline. She wasn’t the curviest woman he’d ever seen, but she was proportioned nicely. Small gold tattoos on her cheek and neck reflected the light.

“Coriaria 14, Sibirica gene line. Aleph Troop, Argent Squadron, Hegemony Cavalry. Designate yourself!” she yelled back.

“Bretton Eleventh Infantry . . . we’re all on the same side. Let’s calm down,” Mason said. “You’re a Skien?”

“I will not repeat myself nor use slurs,” she said. “Are you in contact with my squadron? I require wrecker support to get out of this position.”

“Do you have a med pack?” Felix asked. “The bleeding won’t stop. Good thing I’ve still got some Senomis in my system or I’d be right out . . . still hurts.”

“Left side of the Droner chair. Next to the calf area,” she said. She rubbed the neckline of her bodysuit. “My hydration levels are unsat.”

She smacked dry lips.

“Hold on, I’m coming down there,” Mason said.


“. . . lost sufficient power . . .” The woman chomped down on a bit of tong jerky and kept talking as she chewed. “. . . for me to move again. Hostiles arrived while the rest of the men were outside attempting to cut down trees for traction.”

Noah and Mason sat across from her as she ate and gulped down water through a tube from the hydration blister that had been on Mason’s back. Noah pressed a bandage against Felix’s wound and there was a smell of cooking flesh as the sutures took hold.

“Ow ow ow!” Felix smacked Noah’s hands away.

“I went back to my chamber.” She stomped a boot against the open cylinder in the floor. “The enemy lacked the correct tools to open it. They were unable to read the extraction instructions printed on the side.”

“How long ago was that?” Corre asked from the hatch. The Cataphract armor was far too big for him to fit into the Wolverine.

“I . . . do not know.” She took another bite and chewed with her mouth open. “The chamber has a number of pharmaceuticals that numb my biological systems. I was . . . generous with them. I did maintain a reserve should self-termination become necessary to prevent capture.”

“Not the worst idea,” Felix said.

“I need a shower.” She adjusted her bodysuit and scrunched her eyes shut. “My corporeal areas are . . . itchy.”

“Can we get this tank moving again?” Corre asked. “Because if not, we’ve still got our own mission. You can come with us, beats waiting out here for the Flags to get you.”

“I cannot abandon my post,” she said flatly. “My power reserves are inadequate for motion. The enemy stole my motive power supply. I cannot move without a replacement.”

“Okay, that’s overcomplicated,” Mason said. “We can’t leave you here and no one has a ‘motive supply’ in an infantry unit. So how about you just climb out and—”

He reached for her arm. She slapped him away and inched towards the chamber.

“I cannot abandon my post,” she said firmly. “My gene-code forbids it. I will not be found wanting by the examiners.”

“We could use a tank, right?” Noah asked. “The ammo lockers are still sealed, so there’s plenty of rounds. Maybe we can jerry-rig this motive thing she’s talking about.”

“Sarge?” Mason looked up at Corre.

“I’m no tread head,” Corre said. “What’s this ‘motive’ supposed to do? Or even look like?”

The woman pointed to the power pack on Mason’s back.

“I need eleven power rods in the front casing,” she said. “That will re-fire the reactor and I can move again.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” Noah beamed. “We’ve got plenty of power rods. I left a pack full of them on the turret.”

“We’ve got six up here,” Corre said. “I’ll have to—what did you say your name was again?”

“Coriaria 14, Sibirica gene line. Aleph Troop, Argent Squadron, Hegemony Cavalry.” She took another bite of the spicy jerky.

“That’s a mouthful. What did your crew call you?” Corre asked.

“Pilot. We are our positions,” she said. “I cannot operate alone. I need the rest of the stations manned.”

Noah looked around the inside of the tank, then raised his hand.

“Can I shoot the big gun?”

“No!” Mason and Corre shouted at the same time.

“Pilot—no name, really—Pilot, I’m going to dismount my armor and use the power rods to get you going again,” Corre said. “Boyle will hook up the winch and line on the front of the tank to a big enough tree. Felix! Get in that seat you’ve already bled all over.”

Felix gave him a thumbs up.

“Mason, on the seat on the other side of Pilot’s box. Noah, ammo bitch. I’ll take the main gun. Boyle will take the other gunner slot. I’ve got to box up and lash my shit down. Move it!” Corre turned away from the hatch.

“Why do I have to be ammo bitch? Felix is the new guy!” Noah tossed his hands up and smacked a knuckle against the ceiling.

“That’s Corporal Felix to you.” Felix wagged a finger.

“Where do you go?” Mason asked the pilot. “The driver’s compartment doesn’t have controls or even a seat.”

“My chamber.” She slid into the cylinder and put the headset and mask on. “I see through cameras mounted all around me. Keep your current headgear as I can tap your comms and additional concussions will impact combat effectiveness.”

The cylinder rotated around, locking her into place.

“No way am I ever driving,” Felix said. “Nope. Never.”

“You lack the cerebral implants to interface with the drive systems,” she said through their helmets. “Take up positions and perform ready checks. There’s still enough ambient power from the main banks for the screens.”

“What . . . what am I doing here?” Felix’s hands hovered over the controls. A holo screen flickered to life. Drone counts flickered in a field and cameras arrayed around the tank piped in their feeds.

An electric shock zapped him through the seat.

“Ow! Thor’s balls, what was that?” Felix leaned forward and rubbed the seat of his pants.

“Replace the Hedgehog drone to its proper housing. Unauthorized storage is a violation of Standard Operation Manual chapter 16, section 9 subparagraph—”

“Did you shock me?” Felix sat back down slowly.

“Non-tissue-damaging corrective procedures are required as per SOM chapter 2. Previous Drone operators are aware of performance requirements,” she said through his helmet.

“I literally just sat down! Give me a minute to figure out where the buttons are before you do that again,” Felix said.

“Ow! What the hell?” Noah shouted.

“Your work area has an unacceptable amount of flammable material,” she said. “As per SOM chapter 8—”

“What is your problem?” Noah poked his chair. “Do you think we just magically know what we’re supposed to do? We’re Flankers. Grunts that run around, spot targets and eat bullets. We’re not tread heads.”

“It is my duty as Pilot to enforce discipline among the rest of my positions,” she said.

“She is a Skien.” Felix shook his head. “I didn’t think she was that sort of a Skien.”

“How do your officers maintain discipline without frequent applications of corporal punishment?” she asked.

“Training and leadership lead to discipline,” Mason said. “We’re men, not dogs you can ring a bell to train or cattle to prod. Stop with the shock treatment and tell us how we’re supposed to run this thing.”

The Pilot was silent.

“She still in there?” Noah asked as he gathered up bandages and trash.

“I am unfamiliar with disagreement from my stations. I do not know what to do,” she said finally.

Noah pushed the garbage out of the top hatch and got out of the way when Corre dropped a foot through. The sergeant was in his still-soiled body glove, his auxiliary pistol strapped to one thigh.

Felix sniffed at the air and crinkled his nose at Corre.

Corre double-tapped an earbud.

“Radio check . . . good.” He climbed into the main gunner’s seat, which was at a low angle, with his legs extended out into the front of the turret. He put on a headset and a holo activated on a visor across his eyes.

“Main gunner, the other positions are refusing corrective actions,” she said.

“She zapped my ass,” Felix said. “No good reason.”

“What? All of you stop whining and figure out your stations before you get my boot in your ass. You think we’re in here for fun?” Corre asked. “Pilot, the power rods are installed and my Cataphract gear is lashed down on the back of the tank. Can you get her going or did I get undressed for nothing?”

“There is a distinct lack of protest at the promise of footwear applied to rectal sphincters, yet a minor electric shock to teach compliance is unacceptable. I do not understand natties,” she said.

A thrum went through the tank and more holo screens came online. Felix replaced the drone into the launch tube. He turned dials within the holo screens, glancing over the different types still loaded up. He touched one field and dragged it to a box at the top of the screen.

The pneumatic tube next to him chugged.

“Oops.” Felix covered his mouth.

“Why did you dump a rusty?” Sergeant Boyle asked over the radio. “Now all my IR’s washed out.”

On Felix’s screens, a cloud of particles and thin smoke spread over the tank from above. A shock pinched the back of his thighs.

“Ow! Okay, okay I deserved that one,” Felix said. “Is there . . . a manual?”

“I am cross-trained in all positions,” Pilot said. “I will assume complete incompetence from you all and direct each of you without my goads. Is that acceptable?”

“Buttons aren’t toys, Felix!” Mason shouted.

“Should I open the ammo locker?” Noah asked.

“No!” everyone else in the tank shouted.

“Just keep telling us what to do,” Corre said. “Driving is the hardest part, I imagine, and you’ve got that covered.”

“I am waiting for the anti-personnel gunner to attach my winch line,” Pilot said. A vid feed of Boyle dragging a thick metal wire with a hook toward a massive tree appeared on all the holos.

“Power levels are optimal. Ammo, slide the closest door to you up and hold it in place until the mag locks engage. You can lose digits to an unsecured blast door,” Pilot said.

“Roger.” Noah grunted as he pressed the door up. There was a solid thunk and he took his hands away slowly. Inside the locker were dozens of strike faces for large caliber rounds, each the size of his palm.

“Remove the upper rightmost munition, blue-colored base, DPAT round,” she said.

Noah slid the round out and held it in the crook of his elbows. The warhead was smooth and brass-colored at the tip; the body widened into a matte black that was rough to the touch.

“Damn thing’s heavy,” he said. “Why didn’t the Flags take these?”

“They were unable to defeat the mag locks,” Pilot said. “Also, main gun rounds are known to spontaneously combust when exposed to shock or high temperatures. Do not drop it.”

Noah clutched it to his chest.

“Gunner, open the breech. Flip the red handle,” she said.

Corre pulled a handle back and a metal flap snapped down on the back of the main gun.

Noah shoved the round in, pushing it forward with the knuckles of his fist. He lifted his hand just before the breech snapped shut with enough speed to have severed a finger. Noah looked at Corre in shock and counted his fingertips.

“The breech lock is automated,” Pilot said. “Loader, familiarize yourself with the ammo types.”

“What else is automated?” Noah went back to the ammo locker.

“The blast door will fall automatically should the battery packs be damaged. There is a point-six-four second warning sound,” she said.

“This is not exactly how I thought I’d end the day.” Corre lifted the visor goggles up. “Anyone tell her what’s happening?”

“My orders are to evacuate this asset to Fort Triumph,” she said. “They have not been rescinded by a field grade or above officer.”

“Good news, that’s what we’re trying to do,” Corre said. “The finer details can wait. . . .  This tank have a name? Last armored unit I served with had names stenciled on the barrels.”

“What reason? My designation is embedded in all transmissions,” Pilot said.

“Luck,” Mason said. “It’s bad luck to go into battle in a ship or anything without a name.”

“This is true.” Felix wagged a finger close to his head. “We had one hell of a christening when my clan’s ship left the docks. Dozens of pigs, wine . . . so much wine. I don’t remember much after that.”

“My designation is Coriaria 14, Sibirica gene line. Aleph Troop, Argent Squadron, Hegemony Cavalry,” she said.

“That’s a mouthful.” Corre shook his head. “There’s already one ‘Corre’ here and I’m not giving it up. Noah . . . give her a name. You’ve been luckier than most of us so far.”

“Really,” Noah deadpanned. “Sure, Sarge . . .” He looked at Mason and mouthed a name. Mason shook his head ever so gently. “Then, let’s go with something from the old tongue. Ta’essa. The diminutive is normally used, though Sister Tricia hated when we used that at weekly seminary school. So she’d be Tessa.”

“Ta’essa before God, Tessa to everyone else,” Corre said. “Go with it.”

“Huh, not bad,” Boyle said over the radio. “Got Tessa hooked up.”

“I don’t need a name. I have my position,” she said.

“Well, we’re still a bunch of grunts and we don’t call each other by our position,” Corre said. “So we’re going to call you Tessa.”

“This is not in the manual,” Tessa said. “Winch engaged. Moving.”

The tank lurched forward, treads spinning. The winch whined as the Wolverine tipped forward. The treads bit into the ground and inched forward. More of the treads secured purchase and the entire tank chugged up the hillside.

“It feels good to move again,” Tessa said. “Ammo, balance out the torsion compensators before the number three axle overheats.”

Noah lifted a finger to a holo screen and moved it about like he was about to poke a fly.

“Is that . . . the blue—”

“Green! Open the green field and move the slider to the left!” Tessa shouted.

“Oh, that one. Do I long press it or double—ow! Again with the shocks?”


Noah rubbed an eye and went back to memorizing the types of main gun rounds. The DPAT (Duel Purpose Anti-Tank) round he’d loaded earlier was the most numerous. The white-colored 99-S were something called “sabots” that didn’t make sense to him but were on the other side of the locker from the DPATs. In between were shells with green baseplates, 99-Fs, for anti-personnel targets. There were three shells with neon baseplates that he was told not to touch.

The other locker had ammo canisters for the machine gun mounted on the turret that would be fired by Boyle. The Cataphract had dropped his armor for the other gunner’s seat and was snoozing in the reclined chair. Felix and Mason both had nestled into a corner and had also dozed off.

“Hey, Tessa?” Noah rapped a knuckle on her chamber.

“Don’t do that. I can hear you through your comms just fine,” she said.

“Sorry . . . don’t you sleep?” He pulled an ammo case from the second locker and found it was full of drone canisters. He rummaged through them, sorting them out by color.

“Not precisely. I can rest segments of my brain and body at will, which keeps me alert and ready to respond to sudden changes in battlefield conditions. I do not go completely offline like you natties.”

“Must be nice,” he said. “I’m so tired that I can’t sleep. That ever happened to you? Can it? My body might still be on shipboard time. It still thinks it’s the middle of the day. Maybe it’s the anti-concussion drug. My ears are still ringing a little bit.”

“You are blathering. There is no tactical or operational importance to your words,” she said.

“What? You tankers never just make idle conversation?” He sat on a chair that folded down from the inner hull.

“That is not our purpose,” she said.

“I’m not trying to be rude . . . but what . . . how’d you end up like this? Even the Hegemony High Guard aren’t so uptight all the time.”

“Am I the first gene-perfect soldier you’ve ever met?” she asked.

“I’ve seen a couple . . . never talked to one before or had her zap me in the ass. That came out wrong. I mean—”

“We are purpose-bred to serve the Hegemony in whatever manner we are required. Some of us are more natty in our disposition. Supreme Marshal Telemachus was not raised in a crèche, he is of the Skien but he is most like you natties. I hope to one day fall under his glorious command.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty normal for a human being.” A half smile tugged against Noah’s face. “So, what did you do before you were assigned to all-those-words Cavalry? Where were you born?”

“There is no ‘before.’ The location of my crèche is irrelevant. I exist to pilot this tank with my other stations.”

“Sorry about them. Casualties have been pretty bad all over the place,” Noah said.

“Irrelevant. Stations have been replaced on seven different occasions due to system failure or casualties. The Ammo station was the sole survivor of a crew that participated in the Mekan Cleansing earlier this year. His pips extended from jaw to waistline. He was efficient at his station. Much more so than you.”

“Hey, I just got started. . . .  What was the ‘Mekan Cleansing’?”

“Marshal Van Wyck ordered the eradication of Mekan City following an anti-Hegemony protest and riot on Foundation Day. Skien units were selected for that mission as we do not have the biological or instinctive dampeners against eliminating other humans. Ammo received partial kill credit on several thousand targets, hence his envious pip count,” Tessa said.

“Wait. What? An entire city?” Noah sat up straighter.

“Complete eradication. I arrived dirtside months later. Skien employment elsewhere on the planet became problematic after Mekan as the Flags—any local citizen, actually—were incentivized to attack us. Less than optimal.”

“And you’re okay with that? Saint’s Bones, no wonder they hate us so much.”

“I do not render opinions on orders. That is not my purpose,” she said.

“We’re only supposed to follow lawful orders. That was an important class at Basic.”

“How can an order be ‘lawful’ or not? Orders are to be obeyed, not subjected to additional scrutiny,” she said. “This is an improvement bred into Skiens over natties like you. There is a reason we are the preferred soldiers of the Most High council.”

“That’s sort of confusing, with what Telemachus did and all.” Noah leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Do Naturals like you process orders differently? What matrix do you filter commands through?” she asked.

“I am way too tired for this, but I brought it on myself,” Noah said. “We swear to obey lawful orders. Orders that are allowed by the Interstellar Laws of Warfare that the Hegemony’s a part of . . . huh, wonder how that works now. But before I left home, my father and my Bishop got all us first-timers together and told us that wars end. Battles don’t last forever. We’re going to come home eventually and we have to do it with our heads held high. A man commits a crime to survive or because he thinks he can get away with it . . . there’s a reckoning. You darken your soul and that mark just festers over the years. The guilt will get worse and worse, and you can’t un-fire a gun, can’t bring someone back. Maybe you get through this life without consequences, but there’s judgment waiting for you in the next.”

“That is needlessly inefficient,” she said. “Considering every order against some sort of religious or ethical standard will reduce reaction time and put other stations in danger.”

“Getting told to toe the line and take a hill doesn’t take a lot of consideration, Tessa. But we get told to mow down a village full of civvies and that’s when we’ve got to make some harder choices. But Colonel Jematé’s not the kind—wasn’t the kind—to do that. Neither’s Major Perrin.”

“Curious,” she said after a few seconds.

“Not to me. Now everything’s one big shit show and we’ve got to watch every second of it.” Noah lowered the blast door as gently as he could and leaned his head against it. He closed his eyes as his legs and hands twitched of their own accord as he slowly drifted towards sleep.

The top hatch slammed open.

“On your feet, look alive!” Corre said as he dropped down. The rest of the tank groaned as they shifted out of sleep. Noah gave his squad leader the ugliest look he could without Corre noticing it.

Corre wore a fresh body glove and somehow had found the time to shave.

“Operations order for the attack on the void port is out.” Corre slid into the main gunner’s seat. He punched a button on the underside of the turret and the hatch hinged shut.

“We cross the line of departure in ten minutes . . . son of a bitch, can’t believe he did that to me,” Corre grumbled as he donned his headset.

“Who did what, Sarge?” Boyle asked from the other side of the main gun.

“God damn—I mean Major Perrin acquired my Cataphract armor for himself to lead the attack. Said I didn’t need it while I’m in Ta’essa here. His logic checks out, but you don’t do that to another infantryman,” Corre said.

“Activating all systems. Start checklists on all your screens,” Tessa said. “You all should have them memorized by now. Choosing to sleep instead of learning basic station skills would be a goad-able offense if you were Skien soldiers.”

“What? You weren’t sleeping in there?” Mason leaned over and rapped a knuckle on her chamber.

“Stop doing that! And sleep is for the weak,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it, Sarge,” Boyle said as the machine gun next to him rose out of the turret. Armor plating closed around the hydraulic cylinder as it spun and rose slowly, testing out the machine gun’s sweep and angle to cover targets around the tank. “I’ll maintain the squad’s honor in the Cataphract/Flanker team.”

“Perrin got one whiff of my suit and he took yours too,” Corre said.

“That son of a bitch!” Boyle kicked a pedal against his foot and the turret slowed to the left.

“We can whine about it later,” Corre said. “Mission’s pretty straightforward. Infantry advance to fix the defenders in the maintenance hangars and the control tower. Second company—what’s left of it—will set up a blocking position at the end of the runway and keep any Flags from rushing in to help at the village on the other side of the mesa. Major’s concerned they might have vehicles on alert there for a counterattack, which is where we come in. Soon as they’ve got the target facilities under control, we roll up and establish fire superiority over the airfield.”

“That is poor tactical employment,” Tessa said. “We should be the first element to make contact as we can bring the most firepower to bear. Further, our survivability has a higher survivability index over the crunchies.”

“The who?” Boyle looked over the side of his cradle at Tessa’s chamber.

“The infantry. Flags make the most amusing noises when run over by my treads. While they are rarely as well-protected as Cataphracts, I have speculated that the sound made by—”

“Good God,” Mason said. “Are all Skiens like her?”

“I think she’s one of the tamer ones,” Noah said.

“No, all tankers are like that, trust me,” Felix said. “Flags probably have hooptie-trucks in that village.”

He shared a map with a time track of five minutes from the village to void port with the other stations.

“The doctrinally correct term is ‘technical vehicle,’” Tessa said.

“The navigation menus aren’t that different from the Flanker UI,” he said. “At least something’s easy in this thing. Hey, Tessa, how do I launch the mortar drones again?”

“You long press the munitions selection screen, drag and drop the appropriate munition to the ready queue and either make a direction and distance fire mission with time-of-flight adjustment for an airburst or—”

“Figure it out on the way to the fight.” Corre cringed hard as he said that. “Discovery learning is not supposed to be happening on the way to contact. Let’s hope whoever’s supposed to crew the hoopties is too drunk from winning when the commander at the void port pushes the ‘oh shit oh fuck’ button.”

The tank rumbled forward.

“Power levels are dropping pretty fast,” Noah said, pointing to a holo. “I don’t think the power rods are going to keep us going for that long.”

“We have a max effective driving range of nineteen kilometers,” Tessa said. “I suggest using the manual turret slew gears to save power.”

“Oh, that’s what this little wheel thing is for.” Boyle tapped a ring next to his fire controls.

“Men, we’ve got one shot at this,” Corre said. “There’s no reason to hold back. We get aboard the Izmir or we die here. Heard?”

“Heard,” the rest of the former infantrymen said.

“I cannot abandon my post,” Tessa said.

“Then you’d better tell us how to work all this stuff well enough to kill our way home,” Corre said.

“Yeah, what’s this ‘extermination blossom’ field for?” Felix traced a circle on one of the holo screens. “It’s locked for some reason.”

“Buttons are not toys, Felix,” Mason shouted.

“I wasn’t going to press it . . . I’m just curious what it does,” Felix said.

“I want to know, too,” Noah craned his neck up.

“If any details of this action are transmitted back to my crèche, my gene line will be terminated,” Tessa sighed. “All of you shut up and listen to me . . .”





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Framed