“Analysis: small burrows with mammaloform local species inhabiting,” Shelly replied.
“Does that analysis include the presence of humans?” Mike asked. “Including humans with special combat training.”
“Negative. No humans beyond friendly on planet.”
“Modify for presence of humans on planet,” Mike said.
“Modified analysis. Sniper team hides. Possible leakage from spider holes. No metal or power sources detected from area. Threat level minimal to armored personnel.”
Between his position and the potential “threat” was a scrub and tree covered hillside. Now that he really looked at the surroundings it was clear that much of it was secondary growth. The area had been extensively if slowly forested. The trees between his position and the possible visitors were relatively low. But getting through them, quickly, would be difficult.
What bugged him was that they’d only landed twenty minutes before. How in the hell had someone gotten onto that ridge, which they’d overflown, that quickly. And into a hide?
“General,” Rawls said. “If there are snipers overlooking this position… ”
The last time Mike had been on Earth he’d spent a brief period as Inspector General of the ACS which had morphed into something very close to the German concept of Inspector General, rather than the American. Thus, that job title carried the “honorable” position of being in charge of all Terra based ACS units. Those were mostly training units but a few were kept on tap as a reaction force if something happened that standard units couldn’t handle.
Shortly before Mike’s tenure, the top Terran anti-terrorist and anti-Posleen combat unit, the US SOCOM Direct Action Group, had gone rogue. They were given orders to stop the penetration of a top-secret facility. Someone had overwelmed the local security and was well on their way to capturing some secret that Mike had never been authorized to know about. Had gotten their hands on it.
The DAG was sent in to stop the penetration and recover the secret at all costs. Instead, they had turned on the local security and conventional units reacting to the attack. Then, as far as anyone could tell, they’d disappeared off the face of the earth.
During Mike’s tenure they had surfaced, extracting a group of Indowy “rebels,” a concept that Mike had always found confusing. The ACS quick reaction unit had been sent in and Mike had gone with them, relishing a chance to work out his kinks even if it was fighting humans.
He’d damned near had his ass handed to him. The DAG were just fucking good, even without suits. They’d screened the Indowy all the way out, giving a fully armored and highly trained ACS unit one casualty for two. In Mike’s case, he’d detected a sniper, way too late. The guy had him dead to rights. And just didn’t fire.
Mike had, though. His reactions to something like that were as close to hard-wired as it was possible to find in a human neuro-system. But the encounter had shaken him. The guy had a heavy-duty plasma rifle pointed right at him. Mike should have been burned to a crisp. Instead, the guy held his fire.
They hadn’t been able to recover the body. The DAG had flash burned every member who was killed. There wasn’t even any trace DNA. To this day, Mike didn’t know who had bested him. But it had given him the willies about snipers ever since.
This situation, though…
“No metal signatures, Rawls,” Mike said, considering the slope. There was a low bluff at the top of the hill but ACS could jump that easily enough. The undergrowth wouldn’t be a problem even if he could swear he recognized some of it. Dodging around the trees. “No power signatures. I don’t care what they’ve got, they can’t scratch an ACS at range even if it’s monomolecule weapons. When we get close, though, we’ll have to be careful.”
“When we get close, sir?” Rawls said.
“Yep,” Mike replied. “I’m about done with mysteries. I want to see who’s up there.”
“They are not Pokree,” Urnhat said, quietly.
“They are intruders,” Polray replied. “Perhaps Charan.”
“Charan don’t wear metal suits as if they were Ran’ther’iad iron-heads,” Whiet said. The older warrior snorted. “The Pokree would find them soon enough if they did that. As they did the Ran’ther’iad, Streunten curse their souls.”
“Silence,” Swodrath said. The blocky-bodied Gamra was the huntleader of the Nor. Once he had been a soldier in service of the Duendtor before the coming of the Pokree. He still served the Duendtor Lerawum, even if in this much reduced capacity. He had risen high enough in the Service to be made a Gamra, the change to super-warrior. Now he used it to hunt the Pokree stupid enough to enter the valley of the Nor. “We observe. Nothing more. Those are not Ranthy suits. And the Ranthy do not fly like the Pokree. They must be allies of the Pokree.”
“The Pokree do not ally,” Polray said. “They eat.”
“Silence,” Swodrath growled.
“Okay, everybody got the plan?” Mike asked.
“Yes, sir,” Staff Sergeant Rawls replied. “And I formally protest.”
“Noted,” Mike said, grinning inside his suit. “On my mark… One, two, three… ”
“Skelight they’re fast!” Whiet said as the suits suddenly turned and began sprinting up the steep slope faster than a deer.
“OUT!” Swodrath shouted. “Urnhat, Polray, flee. Whiet and I will stand and fight them!”
“I would stay with you, Huntmaster,” Urnhat said, whipping off the leather cover and hefting her crossbow.
“And I ordered you to flee,” Swodrath said, sending a quarrel downrange. The bolt, backed by a Duendtor-steel bow and with a cap of hammer-flash hit one of the armored suits and disintegrated in a crack of fire. “Damn these things! Streunten be with me!” he shouted, hefting his club. He had a Pokree sword, taken from his first kill of those vile beasts, back in his cave. But the Pokree could detect any metal that was carried on a scout. So all he had was this stupid club.
“I think it’s a bit late for that,” Whiet pointed out as the suits launched themselves into the air and landed on the bluff. He, too, had pulled out one of the long clubs, its sides lined with a strange material they had captured from the Pokree. It would cut through rock itself and did not attract the Pokree. Maybe it would cut these things as well. “Streunten be with us all!”
Mike lifted his forearm and caught the expertly swung club on it, expecting it to rebound. But what looked like obsidian flakes lining it was something else, probably unprocessed monomolecule pieces. It sank into his armor and he could even feel a bite on his forearm.
“Damn,” he said, snatching the club and tossing it away. “Watch these things. They don’t half cut.”
“Got mine,” Corporal Green said, holding what looked one hell of a lot like a human up by the back of a very scruffy shirt. Green was holding the guy’s club in his off-hand as the local scrabbled for footing.
Mike grabbed the guy who’d hit him by the back of the head and tried not to squeeze too hard. You could juggle eggs in an ACS if you were careful enough. You could also bend steel bars. It was all a matter of training.
“Ow!” Garcia snapped as the club thunked into his head. He could, for a moment, see daylight through the hole. He snatched the club away and swung it into a tree to hold it. Too hard, as it turned out, the tree and the club disintegrated.