With Your Shield Read online

  Vivant reached the hilltop, dropping low so he didn’t highlight himself as he flew over it, and his jaw dropped in shock. On the other side of the hill were at least two companies of Besquith, moving up toward him, and rockets launched at him from the enemy troopers. He dove to the side, but couldn’t escape the twin blasts, and his CASPer was thrown from the sky. He crashed to the ground with his right leg inop and several caution lights illuminated on his left leg.

  Corporal Ryan landed next to him, his shoulder-mounted heavy MAC blazing at its maximum rate of fire while he aimed a laser rifle in his hands at other targets. Several lasers hit Ryan at the same time, holing his suit. His icon went red on Vivant’s display as his CASPer collapsed backward.

  Vivant rolled, trying to get to his feet, only to bump into a Besquith soldier. The wolf-like alien already had his rifle pointed at Vivant, and he fired. The bolt drilled through the suit as well as Vivant’s chest. It must have cut his spine, as Vivant distantly realized he no longer had control of his legs.

  The Besquith moved the barrel of his rifle a fraction, just enough for Vivant to be looking straight into its muzzle. The last green icon on his monitor went red as light flashed from the rifle.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four

  Golden Horde HQ, Uzbekistan, Earth

  Nicolos woke with a start and sat upright in a cold sweat, eyes alert, straining to find what had woken him, then sighed and fell back onto the soaked sheets. The nightmare wouldn’t go away. He looked at the clock; he’d only been asleep for three hours. Nicolos knew sleep would not come back easily, and he refused to take anything to help him sleep. He looked over at his closet, knowing what today was, and closed his eyes again. He could still hear them telling him it wasn’t his fault—that his sensors hadn’t picked up the attackers because of the enemy’s new jamming equipment—but he still felt responsible and always would.

  He had personally visited the families of each of the squad members he’d lost that day, against the advice of his commanders. It was something he felt like he needed to do, just like he needed to stay checked out in his CASPer. Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, he decided to head over to the gym before his range time.

  A few minutes later, he was in the gym in his workout shorts. The morphogenic tattoo on his chest, which had cost him an entire mission bonus, shifted as he worked out, an ancient Greek warrior mirroring his movements. He knew most of the troopers in the gym, and they greeted him casually as they moved through their routines.

  To look at him, no one would have thought Spartan—as he was still called—was a tech. He looked every inch the CASPer driver. He saw a few new faces now and then, but he tried not to learn their names if he could help it. There was no need—he wasn’t going into combat again, at least not in a CASPer.

  After a few hours in the gym, he headed back to his quarters to shower. He always dreaded his annual proficiency sessions, but in a way, they were good for him—at least that’s what he had been told. Showered and dressed, he headed across the base to the hangar where his CASPer was housed.

  He stepped into a huge elevator, large enough for a squad of CASPers, hit the bottom button, and waited. From the outside, it looked like a simple building. What wasn’t obvious was that the Golden Horde’s maintenance bay was far underneath. After about 30 seconds of travel, the elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. He walked down the hallway and enabled the sound dampening in his ears before he punched the code into the keypad on the wall and entered the cavernous room.

  The pentagonal room on the other side had a 30-foot-high ceiling, and each wall was close to 30 yards long. Four of the walls were home to a company’s worth of CASPers in various states of repair. Some hung, ready for action, while others were being maintained. The fifth wall was Maintenance Control. Since the Horde customized their mechs so extensively, there was a huge amount of work done on each, and they handled all their own mods instead of sending them back to the manufacturer like most mercenary companies. There was always something going on in the monstrous cavern, and it was always loud.

  He furrowed his brows as he approached his CASPer as it sat waiting on its rack; someone he’d never seen before was leaning into the cockpit. He’d had the same maintenance crew working on his suit for months and hadn’t seen anything about them being swapped out. They knew he’d be using his mech today, so he’d expected to see them getting it ready…not whoever this was.

  “Okay, who the fuck are you, and what are you doing with my mech?” Markus asked, his arms crossed.

  The kid, who couldn’t have been more than 20, slammed his head into the canopy and cursed as he tried to stand up too quickly. Markus sighed and shook his head. Several other members of the company had stopped what they were doing and started watching. Before the kid could answer, another man about Markus’ age ran up, panting.

  “Sorry, Spartan,” the man said. “He’s new and in training. He’s going to be helping get you ready for the range today. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to be doing anything unless I was here to oversee him.”

  Markus glanced at Sergeant Harley ‘Hobo’ O’Borne, his lead maintenance tech, with a frown, then he looked back at the kid. “So, you got a name, or should I just call you, ‘kid?’”

  “I’m Jimmy. Sorry, sir. I just wanted to…”

  “Don’t call me that, kid,” Markus snapped, cutting him off. He rolled his neck, and a series of cracks came from it, loud enough to hear nearby. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Sorry, kid. Hobo, check everything over once, please. I don’t want a mechanical issue getting in the way. Especially today.”

  Hobo nodded, ushering Jimmy down the ladder and off to the side before scrambling up to check everything in the cockpit, while Markus waited nearby. Work resumed throughout the bay as it became clear Jimmy wouldn’t get his ass kicked after all.

  Pulling a slate from its position beside his CASPer, Markus reviewed his schedule. There would be a portion on the firing range, followed by a few hours of maneuvers with one of the existing squads.

  Hobo climbed down from the cockpit. “All set, Spartan,” he said. “All systems check out, and you’re ready to go. They’ll be waiting for you at the range.”

  “Copy that. Thanks, Hobo.” Markus climbed up into the cockpit and slid on his helmet, jacking in with practiced ease—connecting him directly to his CASPer—and started its motor. He felt one with his mech as he closed his eyes and looked through the cameras mounted on the exterior of his mech in a full, 360-degree view. With a flick of his wrist, the canopy closed, and the CASPer came to life. Tri-V displays sprang up around him, augmenting the information going straight into his brain, and he double-checked his status board. All the indications were green—ready to go. His ammo was fully loaded, and the suit was full of jump juice. With another easy motion, he disconnected from the rack that held his CASPer during maintenance and walked out of the hangar.

  * * *

  The live-fire portion of his qualification was broken into two parts—a static set of timed fire on the firing line, as well as a “move and shoot” portion that ran through an obstacle course-like set of trials. The first part was easy for anyone at all acquainted with CASPers, especially those operated by the Golden Horde. The trooper in front of him finished, vacated the position, and Spartan stepped forward to toe the line, looking out over a vast field.

  He took a second to scan the objects on the range—the range masters were always moving new targets onto the simulated battlefield and removing those that had been blasted to uselessness. There were several new APCs in the middle of the range, as well as a Zuul tank about five kilometers out.

  “Ready,” he said.

  “Qualification run for Staff Sergeant Markus Nicolos,” the range master said. “Arm your weapons.”

  With a thought, Spartan brought his weapons and targeting systems online. The targeting systems were all in the green, and his weapons—a missile launcher on his shoulder, an arm-mounted MAC, and a handheld laser
rifle—all showed armed and with full magazines. In the case of the missile launcher, it was stocked with three each of both anti-air heat-seeking missiles and laser-guided HEAT munitions.

  “Armed and ready, Range Master,” Spartan said.

  “Go!”

  Targets began illuminating across the range, and Spartan serviced them as quickly as he could. It wasn’t a matter of hitting the target—with pinplants and a targeting system slaved to the weapons, that was almost too easy—but also a matter of knowing which weapons to use. A Zuul popped up, and he threw the laser rifle reticle on its head and mentally squeezed the trigger. The target fell backward. The score in the upper right of Spartan’s monitor counted up. He noticed it peripherally, but it was a fool’s game to try to figure out your score while in the middle of qualification—it only made you go for the high-value shots, which caused you to miss and need even higher-point shots in a vicious cycle that led to you getting disqualled. He’d seen it happen too many times to fall for it.

  He ignored the score.

  Three Goka troopers popped up and scurried toward him. He let go of the rifle with his right hand and brought the MAC reticle in line with the first one as his right arm rose. He fired, shifted to the second, fired again, then fired for a third time, killing the last of them.

  Targets continued to pop up across the range, and he dealt with them, almost falling into a trance as he shifted his weapons back and forth. Here, a laser blast to take out a Flatar on the ground; there a MAC round to penetrate the smoke grenade cloud a Besquith had used to mask its position and help defeat its laser fire. An enemy drone jumped into the air. As it rose above the mountains behind it, the heat seeker on his shoulder acquired the target, and he fired. The missile roared across the sky to obliterate the drone.

  Movement caught his eye as the massive gun barrel of the Zuul tank began to track toward him. Two laser-guided HEAT missiles later, the tank was burning cheerily.

  Almost too soon, the cycle was over, and the range master called for him to safe his weapons. He complied and stepped back from the line as he unloaded, finally allowing himself to look at his score—he’d managed 947 out of 1,000 points. Not perfect, but very respectable. His best, when he was an active CASPer pilot, was a 999. He still argued the missed point with the range master who had overseen that run when he saw him; he’d sworn he’d hit the Flatar the range master said he’d missed.

  “Pretty good, Spartan,” the current range master said. “You sure you want to stay a nerd techie and not come back to piloting CASPers like you ought to be? You’ve obviously still got it.”

  “I’m good where I am, Master Sergeant,” Spartan replied. “But thanks.”

  Spartan went over to the entrance of “The Maze,” the movement course that complemented the static portion of the qualification. It was similar to the live fire round, in that it required you to make weapons decisions on the fly, based on targets you were given, but it also required you to move in three dimensions…while simulated enemies fired back at you. Standing around to get the “perfect shot” was contraindicated as it made you a target for any enemies who were “active” at the time. It had a time limit for completion, but like the static portion, Spartan had never worried about it—as long as he didn’t stop, which would be dumb, he didn’t have a problem finishing within the allotted time.

  He got in line and waited his turn as one of the active duty companies went through the course. Each trooper entered “The Maze” one minute apart, and it was permissible to pass others on the range; each of the suits had trackers that wouldn’t allow another CASPer to shoot in their direction.

  Spartan was queued up behind a private—one of the ubiquitous Private Enkhs—and he smiled. From past experience, he knew he’d probably be passing the newbie within the first two minutes. The newbie ran forward at his time, and a minute later Spartan got the green light. He charged into the entrance.

  The range was a system of tunnels which varied—once again, based on the discretion of the range masters—and the qualifying individual had to follow the directions being transmitted to their CASPer, like a trooper would have to while in battle. Periodically, the tunnel would open up with a view onto the range, with targets to be killed before they could kill you in turn. If the range system thought you’d been hit, it would simulate failures on your CASPer. If it determined you’d been killed, it would automatically safe your weapons and lock your hands up in the position of “Surrender,” and you had to exit the range in that manner…to the jeers of your squad or company mates.

  The private wasn’t as new as Spartan had guessed, and he didn’t pass the private’s CASPer until about halfway through. Spartan finally caught and passed him at the “MinSha Skeet Range”—a target system where a number of MinSha flew toward you, and you had to shoot them down. The private was using their laser, which—from previous experience—Spartan knew to be suboptimal. Spartan used his MAC and mowed the targets down. After a couple of shots, the private switched to his MAC and was right behind him as they finished off the last MinSha.

  Enkh stayed with him during the remainder of Spartan’s run through the qualification course, mimicking his weapon choices and maneuvers. While it wasn’t forbidden to do so—troopers would do so in combat, after all—it was somewhat frowned upon and would probably get the private docked a few points. Still, it would also probably get him through the course faster, which would give him additional points…so it was probably a wash.

  Spartan remembered doing the same thing once when he was a newbie; in fact, it was where he had learned a move where he somersaulted in midair to shoot an incoming alien—a tactic he still used to this day. Of course, he’d fallen on his face when he first tried it long ago, but he’d mastered it long since. Although the private didn’t accomplish the maneuver when he performed it, he didn’t fall on his face either, as Spartan had. Spartan mentally applauded the trooper’s panache in trying it, and his abilities in almost accomplishing it.

  They completed the last position and raced to the exit. Spartan won, but it was close.

  Spartan moved away from the exit then paused to catch his breath. Although he kept himself in good shape, the aerobic portion of the qualification course was fairly significant. While he stood there, Private Enkh came over and sent him a message via laser link.

  He accepted, and a window opened in the lower right corner of his display with the face of a Mongol female. He chuckled; it wasn’t a guy, after all. “Thanks for letting me tag along,” the woman said. “I learned a lot from you, although I will have to practice that flip some in order to do it as well as you do. I’m Private Erhi Enkh, by the way.”

  “Good to meet you,” Spartan said. “I’m Staff Sergeant Nicolos.”

  “Oh, you’re the techie guy I’ve heard about,” Enkh replied. “You—”

  She was cutoff as a high-priority communication came in. He would have recognized the face and voice, even if it hadn’t said, “First Sergeant Muunokhoi Enkh.” The first sergeant was the Golden Horde’s senior enlisted…and she was known by all members of the Horde, regardless of whether they were officers or enlisted. “Spartan,” she said without preamble, “your presence is required in the colonel’s office ASAP. Rack your CASPer and report immediately.” The comm window closed without giving him a chance to respond…as obviously a response was neither required nor desired.

  “Sorry, gotta go,” he said to the private. He gave her a wave and ran off the course toward the hangar, using his jumpjets to go over the obstacles in his way. He backed his CASPer into its rack, disengaged his leads, and jumped down from the cockpit as soon as it shut down. One did not treat a summons to the colonel’s office lightly. He knew she wouldn’t mind—probably—if he took time to shower, but since the summons was important enough to interrupt training, something told him he should be there as soon as possible.

  Two minutes later, thanks to the transport that was waiting for him, he walked into Colonel Sansar Enkh’s office. “Staff
Sergeant Nicolos reporting...”

  He was cut off with a sigh and a headshake. “Relax, Spartan. Take a seat. It seems you may have been onto something more than we thought.”

  Unabashed, he took a seat in front of the leader of the Golden Horde and leaned forward, attentive and waiting.

  “More importantly,” Sansar said, “your analysis and your guess were both right. What you saw was the loadout for Asbaran Solutions’ next contract. Thankfully, you caught it before they left, and they will be able to adjust accordingly.”

  Markus nodded. “I’m glad we caught it, but I’m sure there’s something more since you pulled me off the range.”

  “And you would be correct,” Sansar said. “I knew there was a reason we kept you around.” She smiled. “I want you to dedicate your time to transmissions on and off-planet for the foreseeable future, and I want you working on cracking the rest of that encryption. You can have your choice of support resources to focus on it as well, because I don’t want you working to the point of exhaustion.”

  As she finished speaking, Markus was already turning a large part of his mind toward doing exactly what she had ordered; he reached through the system and began allocating much of his mind’s processing power toward decrypting the enemy code.

  “Since I know you’ve already started,” Sansar continued, “you might as well head to your station after you clean up. You control your shifts from now until notified otherwise, but don’t burn yourself out, literally or figuratively. I’ve already let the rest of the staff know. Now get out of here and get me some results!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He left the office and broke into a jog as soon as he was outside.