Chương 12: Targets

Academy Hill, Vidako Imperium Stellarum September, 2847 Doctor Vogel clicked forward to her next slide, and the projection showed a divided image of the Spiked Terror on one side, a T-3 Tyro training mech on the other, and the silhouette of a human between them. A ruled line rose at the edges of the image, measuring height.

The Tyro, it turned out, was shorter, even at its highest point: a touch over sixteen meters where the top of its 'x' shaped chest armor reached above the head, where the sensor systems were mounted. The bright red dot of a laser, emerging from Vogel's clicker, circled around the image of the Spiked Terror.

"This animal is taller than your mech, masses more, and is adapted to the jungle of Vidako. It not only evolved here—under higher than standard Terran gravity—it also survived our mass-lifting operation and the limited terraforming we've undertaken. Do not underestimate it."

"I don't think there's much danger of that," Vee grumbled, and Arc couldn't help agreeing with her. He wasn't about to look down on any predator bigger than a mech. Milla Cieszyński raised her hand.

"I don't doubt it's very dangerous, ma'am," she said.

"Especially to infantry caught outside of vehicles. But no animal has mech-grade armor or ranged weapons. Even a Centauran Optics L-27 light laser should burn through its skull nine kilometers out—never mind something heavier."

"If you can get a clear shot nine kilometers out, certainly," Doctor Vogel admitted. She walked over to her table and yanked one of the sheets aside, revealing a scrap of metal that only registered to Arc's eyes as armor after a moment. It was so twisted, crushed and deformed that the original shape was impossible to determine.

"This is RSiNC light armor plating from the forearm of a Tyro," Vogel explained.

"It's rated to resist a 20-millimeter revolving autocannon, ultrasonic claws, and even that light laser Cadet Cieszyński was speaking about. You will notice that, given sufficient time, a Spiked Terror was able to thoroughly demolish this armor."

"The terror's jaws can exert more force than any predator known to exist over the entire history of Terra," the xenobiologist continued.

"It evolved under high gravity conditions, meaning that its bones and teeth are far denser, its muscles far more efficient, and its circulatory system hyper-efficient. We've reduced the gravity of this world by mass lifting, but there haven't been enough generations for natural selection to substantially alter the DNA of a creature like this.

The spiked terror—or terribilis cornibus, if you prefer the formal classification—is capable of exerting a force roughly equal to twenty-thousand psi, concentrated at the tip of a tooth." She pulled another sheet aside, and hefted, with both hands, a slightly curved tooth the size of her forearm, showing it to her audience.

"Even something like that would need time to do the damage that armor is showing," one of the technical students called down, without raising her hand first. Arc looked back to see that she was slouched in her seat, not bothering to take notes, with curly dark hair only half-tamed by a bun.

"It wouldn't be a problem if you didn't give el monstruo there a chance to use the mech as a chew toy." Cal Madine stirred.

"Which means it's a failure of command," he said.

"A proper camp, or convoy, with sentries and scouting patrols, would see something like that coming long before it became a problem."

"Not necessarily," Arc said, speaking before he'd even realized he was opening his mouth.

"Of course you don't want to get in close, but that's a predator evolved to hunt in these jungles. And most predators are ambush predators." He looked over to Doctor Vogel, and she gave him a nod.

"Well, the ambush has been a successful tactic throughout the entire history of warfare," Arc went on, all too aware of how many cadets were now focused on him.

"The means change with the terrain and the technology, but the basic idea hasn't, from Hannibal at Lake Trasimene, to the Tet Offensive, to the Singularity drones at Wolf 1069. Saying it can't happen, or that the solution is just 'don't get ambushed' doesn't really address the problem. A good commander needs to have a plan for when something does go wrong, even while doing everything they can to prevent it."

"And you'd know what makes a good commander?" Cal shot back, his tone positively acidic.

"He's right, though," Cassie said, before Arc could marshal his own response.

"Set your sentries, use your scouts, take the things out at range if you can, absolutely. But clearly they've got in close at least once before, or there wouldn't be a piece of crumpled armor on that table right now. Anyone who goes out into the jungle needs a plan for if that happens again." She sat back in her chair and shrugged.

"Personally, mine would be a plasma blade to the face, and enough fuel in my jets to dance circles around the thing."

"And you, Cadet Sandhurst?" Doctor Vogel asked.

"Squad based tactics," Arc said, without hesitation.

"It can only bite one mech at a time. That leaves it open to your support. I'm sure the academy can program those things into a sim, right?" Vogel nodded.

"So, we should train against them. If it gets its jaws on one mech, that pilot needs to keep its attention long enough that someone else can disable it. I'd start with those rear legs—take out even one, and it won't be able to move effectively."

"Ten merits to Sandhurst, five to Sabran-Solaris," Doctor Vogel declared.

"Now, let's look at what those zombie flies can do to a human body. This corpse has been preserved by replacing the water and fatty materials in the cells with plastics, but it's a rather gruesome sight anyway. If you start to feel sick, there are lavatories in the corridor, and you may leave the lecture hall without asking for permission, in this particular instance." The xenobiologist tore another sheet away, and every cadet in the room flinched at once. 𝝮 Arc found it easiest to shoot while lying prone.

Unfortunately, there were three firing positions required to qualify with the BA-50, and that wasn't one. Instead, he had to shift between kneeling, standing behind a barricade, and standing without anything to rest the rifle against. It didn't help to watch people like Cal Madine, who'd clearly been handling a rifle since he was old enough to walk, and Milla Cieszyński, crush their way through the test.

Not only had both passed, Cal had earned a sharpshooter badge, while Milla was the only one yet who'd hit every single target, making her their class's first expert.

"Not nearly as hard as hunting mist-hawks with my grandfather," she'd remarked, tossing back an errant strand of blonde hair while the rest of the cadets applauded. Lieutenant Kekoa had been so pleased that he'd given her twenty merits. Fifteen shots in each position, Arc thought, as he watched Cassie finish up. They always ended up next to each other, because 'Sabran' came just before 'Sandhurst,' but he didn't mind. Twenty-five hits. That's all I need—twenty-five.

He counted along with his friend because it gave him something else to do besides get stuck in his own head while he waited his turn. When Cassie passed the minimum to qualify with the rifle, Arc did his best to be happy for her. At the thirty-third hit, when she made sharpshooter on a pop-up target shaped to look like a Singularity quad-drone, he actually smiled. She missed expert by a single shot but was still grinning when she finished. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"Congratulations," Arc said. Cassie bumped her fist into his shoulder and gave him a grin.

"You can do this." That was nice to hear, but Arc wasn't certain it was true. When he lifted his rifle to his shoulder and took a breath, he could smell the oiled metal and sweet scent of cleaning solvent. It was uncomfortably real. He'd whiled away more afternoons than he could count moving painted resin figures of imperial marines, armored personnel carriers, and mechs across terrain tables. It was how he'd won his way into the academy. But those miniature figures were very far away from the weapon in his hands.

This was not a tactical problem, a new edition of rules to analyze, or even the account of some ancient general's campaigns. It was a live weapon in his hands, and he needed to place twenty-five hits into twenty-five targets. He stood behind the barricade, the only position during which he would be able to brace his weapon on something solid. If he could manage fifteen hits right away, he'd only need five each kneeling or standing. That was his best chance of passing.

"Begin!" Lieutenant Kekoa shouted, and the first target popped up. Arc centered his sights on the target, which was shaped like a human soldier and set at a distance of twenty meters at the left side of the field. He took a breath in, held it, and squeezed his trigger. The flechette rifle kicked against his shoulder, and his shot hit the target just slightly off center. One, Arc counted silently and moved his barrel to the right when the next target rose. He didn't hit all fifteen from the first position.

At three hundred meters, he missed his shot. It sent a thrill of panic through him, because Arc was going to need to make that up in one of the next two positions, but he told himself it wouldn't be a problem. Fourteen hits was a good start.

"Change positions!" Kekoa commanded, and Arc stepped out from behind the barricade. Without anything to brace on, he had to keep the rifle steady entirely on his own, and his accuracy dropped. He only made five shots, bringing him to a total of nineteen, and it meant that he still needed to make up that missed shot from the first group on his last attempt. Arc's magazine was empty, and his fingers fumbled to eject it, even though he'd made those very same motions on dozens of occasions before.

He slammed the new magazine into place, dropped to one knee, and raised the rifle again. His heart was pounding, and he could see the barrel trembling. He took his first shot and knew it was a miss before he even looked at the target. If he had a moment to close his eyes and breathe, he might be able to calm down enough to actually finish. But there wouldn't be a pause or a break, and everyone was watching. He sucked in a breath and squeezed the trigger again. Hit. Twenty.

The worst part was that Arc knew everyone was watching. Cal Madine would sneer and say something biting, but it was even worse to think of Cassie seeing him fail. She'd try to cheer him up or comfort him, he was certain, as would Pika and Vee. Rain probably wouldn't say anything, but she'd at least be sympathetic. What if he was the only one of them who couldn't hack it? Arc squeezed off shot after shot, focusing on his breathing and trying to take his time.

But the targets kept popping up, one after another, and he couldn't stop until it was done. He was landing the closer shots, but everything over two hundred meters was a tossup, and over two hundred and fifty was a lost cause. Finally, with only two shots left, he was sitting at twenty-four hits. The target popped up at three-hundred meters, and Arc almost screamed from frustration. Why couldn't it have been one hundred, or seventy-five?

Rather than let himself dwell on his anger, Arc took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger, without a prayer of getting a hit. He'd just have to hope that the final shot was at a closer range. When Lieutenant Kekoa called the hit, instead of a miss, the word didn't make sense for a moment. The next target snapped up at one-hundred and seventy-five meters, and he shot before he could think about it, ending the course with twenty-six hits.

It wasn't until Cassie, Vee and Pika swooped in to hug him that he actually believed it. 𝝮 They began marching with full packs as the departure date for the expedition into the jungle approached. Carrying sixteen kilograms of supplies left Arc's lower back aching by the time he turned in for the night, but he was grateful for the chance to get used to the weight before heading out.

Lieutenant Kekoa taught them how to repack their supplies: fleet rations sealed in plastic, a bladder of clean water as well as chemical tabs to purify more, extra socks, a first aid kit, a plastic-encased map, utility knife, a hygiene kit and a cleaning kit for the BA-50 flechette rifle, two extra magazines, sleeping bag, rolled tarp and a compass.

"The same gear you'll find in your cockpit," the big Alu'kan explained.

"Minus the emergency flares and comm gear." Lectures with Doctor Vogel taught them what to look for in the event of a zombie fly bite, a fungal infection, or the rash brought on by contact with the thin purple vines which ran up so many native Vidakan trees. The corpsmen and upperclassmen who were minoring in field medicine taught them how to perform CPR, and what the symptoms of an infected cut looked like.

The human immune system wasn't suited to deal with the indigenous microbial life, and sterilizing any injury that broke the skin was particularly important. By the time they gathered at the south end of Academy Hill, on the morning of the second to last week of Hard Burn, Arc felt, if not fully prepared, at least not utterly at a loss. The pilot candidates—fifty-one of them, at this point—lined up in ranks, wearing field gear and boots, with their packs on their shoulders and a rifle loaded with live ammunition.

Behind them, the technical students formed their own lines and columns, flanked by four armored grav-transports which were loaded with, Chief Jastrow had claimed, 'enough spare parts to build a Tyro from scratch if we need to.' A squad of four mechs would make the trip out, piloted by older cadets, and those had lined up to either side of the pilot candidates. Only one was a Tyro, and Blake Van Camp sat, legs dangling off the edge of its open cockpit panel, helmet on his knee.

Arc had asked around and found out that the first-class cadet had chosen the zero-g operations track and normally used a Kestrel; he had apparently decided that whatever merits he could earn from guarding the younger cadets were worth going back to a Tyro for two weeks. It must have been a staggering number, Arc imagined, but it didn't make the man look any happier.

There was a Janissary pilot who Arc didn't recognize, leaning against the foot of his ride and looking for all the world as if he were bored; but there was something in the man's posture that made Arc think of those pictures Doctor Vogel had shown them of the tree cats. His features were distinct, though whether he actually came from the Asian continent, on Terra, or a colony world like Mikaboshi, Arc couldn't have said.

Cadet Ọlatẹru, who'd come with Van Camp to collect Arc and the rest of his group of cadets when they'd arrived, waited on the other side of the ranks, her enormous Culverin looming above, easily the largest of the four mechs which had been walked out of the hangars for this expedition. She was quietly speaking with Vijay Iyer, who'd once helped Arc to the infirmary, and who would be piloting the second Janissary.

Two front line mechs and one fire support, Arc thought, as they waited for Lieutenant Kekoa to give the order to move out. Van Camp's Tyro is the closest thing we have to a scout, just by its size, but it isn't really meant to function like that. He'd have been happier with an Outrider or two, to spot for that Culverin and make certain they knew a spiked terror was coming before it arrived—but he wasn't in charge.

"Cadets!" Lieutenant Kekoa shouted. The Alu'kan officer's voice echoed across the open tarmac, and though everyone had already been at attention, Arc knew he wasn't the only one who stiffened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ireti Ọlatẹru and Vijay Iyer scramble up the rope ladders into their cockpits.

"Our destination is sixty kilometers southwest," Kekoa declared.

"We will begin by following the access road off Academy Hill and out of the city, and then the first stretch will be through farmland. When we reach our first waypoint, you will make camp for the evening. Our techs will perform a diagnostic check and any required maintenance on our vehicles, while pilot cadets will be acting as sentries in shifts." He paused.

"It may occur to you, as you walk past fields of wheat and orchards of fruit trees, that this is the safe part of this mission. If you think that, you are wrong, and it may well get you killed. There is no one telling those giant lizards in the jungle that they should remain there. A thirty-ton predator goes wherever it wants to go, and the largest gets even bigger than that. Stay alert." Lieutenant Kekoa's eyes swept over the cadets one last time, and Arc thought they lingered on his for just a moment.

"Move out!"