“Yes, I suppose we do.” He still hesitated. Something vital was missing, the drive that usually carried him through the tough times. If they hit a tough spot without it, it might mean all their lives down the toilet. He hunted around for it, but the house in his soul where it lived seemed to be empty. That particular mask was in hiding.
“Michelle,” he said wearily, “download coordinates of all destruction points.
“Platoon, mission order.” O’Neal’s voice was an emotionless monotone. The team might have been taking their commands from a non-AID computer. “Consolidated platoon, second battalion three twenty-fifth infantry battalion will perform a covert insertion of the megascrapers Daltren, Arten, and Artal. The platoon will separate into designated two- and three-man teams. Each team has a series of points that they either will directly destroy or lay charges upon.
“Once all the charges are laid and all the primary points are destroyed, the unit will pull out of the buildings then destroy them.” As he spoke the troopers drew in around him. The action was tactically unsound: one lucky burst by a God King laser could have gotten them all. But the platoon was reacting to the deaths of their fellows much as Mike was and each of the soldiers felt a need to feel part of a group, a need for touch and feeling. The suits created a strong emotion of alienation through their control of every sense. Moments like this were a slice of humanity bitten on the run.
“Subject megascrapers should drop in an L shape leading from the ocean and curving around the trapped units. That will leave those units free to concentrate on pushing out of the encirclement towards the friendly lines. This is the good part, people: the major mass of Posleen on this whole damn continent is in the group trying to pry the Deuxième and the Lancers out of those buildings, so when we drop those buildings on them the war is half done.” He paused and there was a tired but heartfelt “Hoo-wah” to that. The clustering of the platoon was sounding a warning to him, but he was beyond caring. The flip side was that the same clustering was beginning to act upon him, beginning to bring him out of his fugue. Even with all his time in suits, he was as susceptible as the troopers to the sense of alienation.
“We are going to be operating in two-man teams. If you run into any Posleen you can’t handle, break contact and call for support. Headquarters will support third squad and the engineers in the ‘L’ building. The engineers will work on that building ’cause it needs a lighter touch. One team from each squad will stay in support and as the other teams get finished they will go into a support role and be tasked as needed.” He looked over at the gathered scouts and felt a stab of grief at the lack of a tall lanky suit in their midst.
“Scouts, your job is to emplace some charges, but mainly I want you to launch flicker-eyes across the unmined buildings. You should be above the line of fire but if the Posleen notice you you’ll be in for a hot time tonight. After the charges are all laid, head towards the ocean-side processing plants through the water lines.”
He paused in his flat monotone delivery and looked around, the slight twitches of his neck muscles swinging the viewpoint from side to side. The suits were featureless as always; the platoon might have been a set of poorly cast plasteel statues. A sudden question intruded upon his narrowed reality as he wondered how many would be alive on the morrow.
“Because of all the damage the lines are mostly empty; if yours isn’t, blow out the walls and drain it; according to my data, none of the water plants are functional in this area.
“We’re about to start moving over to our respective buildings. We don’t have time to dick around so we’re going down the outside on compensators. Your AIDs have the drop programs loaded. Fall fast then punch up the compensators and hit hard. It’ll be just like a jump except we’ll fall faster and won’t disperse. When we hit the ground, split up and do the mission.” He looked around the rooftop then back at the gathered platoon.
He was not sure what to say. It seemed a moment for a motivational speech but he was damned if there was one in him. “A quick prayer,” he said finally and bowed his head. He paused for a moment longer, running through the short list of prayers he could remember. None of them seemed appropriate. Then, suddenly, a fragment of verse from an unknown poem came to mind. He thought about it and found it highly appropriate. He took a deep breath.
“Sergeant Green!”
“Sir?”
“Move ’em out.”
“Yes, sir. Scouts, Second, First, Fourth, Third, Headquarters, Fifth. Move it!”
When they reached the first building to be mined, the squads broke up and moved to their buildings. Third squad, tasked to this building, waited lined along the roof with headquarters for the other squads to get into position. When the other squads were in position, the platoon stepped over the edge. The suits dropped under an artificially induced two positive gravities to within one hundred meters of the ground then began to slow. They hit the bottom still traveling at nearly six meters per second, but the suits absorbed this with bent knees. There were a few Posleen milling aimlessly on the boulevards.
“Squads, put a covering team behind you and head to the demolition points. Third, Sergeant Green and I will cover. Do it, people.” Mike hefted his grav-rifle and followed the red priority carets. Michelle could analyze all the Posleen in line of sight or range of sensors and determine the highest priorities of fire. Take out the ones with heavy weapons first, moving outward from nearest to farthest, unless ones farther out were targeting Mike and nearer ones were not. Mike followed the flashing carets listlessly; the moment of rage at Sergeant Wiznowski’s death had destroyed something important for him and he could feel depression lingering around the corner.
Posleen fell relentlessly, but Mike was becoming more distant. It felt as if he was watching the world through TV and the actions in the beyond were unreal shadows.
He and Sergeant Green covered the entry of Third squad and moved into the building.
“How are we gonna support from here?” asked Sergeant Green standing in one of the giant vehicle bays on the ground floor.
“Poorly. We’ll move toward the central shaft and down.” Mike and Sergeant Green headed inward, mopping up the occasional Posleen along the way. When they did not notice the Posleen, the Posleen nonetheless attacked them. Mike finally determined that most of the Posleen in the building were ones that had been released by the death of a God King. Mike considered the briefings he had, a million years ago back in The World.
Normal Posleen were barely sentient. Most of them were below moron level on a human scale. There were a few that were of slightly higher intelligence that the God Kings used as foremen or NCOs. But all of the normal Posleen “normals” and “superior normals” were bonded in a very real sense to an individual God King. They would not even flinch from death if the God King ordered them to die.
But if the God King died, their bonds were released. If this occurred with another God King around, the other God King could try to rebond them. Rebond them “in the heat” as it was called. However, if they were not rebonded in the short period after the death of their lord and master, they were impossible to bond for some time thereafter, up to two weeks. Then they would begin looking for another God King. He mentioned that to Sergeant Green.