That was a grim comment, the whole psychology of the Baldricks had changed since they had come under the lash of human artillery fire. As far as anybody could tell, they were more or less immortal unless somebody (or something) killed them. As a result, they hadn’t really feared death before but now, after seeing nine of every ten men in their units dying, the fact and fear of death was ingrained in their minds.
“All right, now, look to your front. The targets are set up at the two hundred yard mark. Two hundred yards is as far as you’re likely to see the enemies you are shooting at. Beyond that range, we use area fire and suppressive fire. Load one round, take your time, aim at your target and fire.”
Taloned hands drew a. 940 inch nitro-express round from their ammunition pouches. A quick pressure on the lever under the Martini-Henry rifle and the breech block dropped down. A quick pressure and the round was slid into the chamber, then the lever was lifted to seal the breech. The Martini-Henry was an old design, dating from a hundred and fifty years earlier, but it was uniquely suited to this application. It was immensely strong and could take the very powerful. 940 cartridge that exploited the Baldrick’s strength and size. The designers had corrected all the problems with the old version and had produced a weapon that was powerful, reliable and accurate. It was also single-shot so the automatic weapons carried by the humans still had the edge. Anyway, the human troops had artillery.
Each Baldrick in the line had lifted his hand, indicating his weapon was ready. “All right, in your own time, aim and fire.”
Even through Anderson’s ear protectors, the crash of the rifles was painful. The Baldricks didn’t seem to notice and their big bodies absorbed the brutal recoil without problems. That was one of the things that had made Anderson uneasy, at six foot five, he was a big man and he wasn’t used to looking up at people who towered over him. He lifted his binoculars and looked carefully at the targets. Of the nine Baldricks in the unit, eight had put their shots inside the six-ring, one had even put his in the black. A big, really big, improvement. One shot seemed to have missed the target completely.
“Hunkhalaphinarexes! You closed your eyes again!” A groan went along the line of Baldricks, unit cohesion was building up and the failure of this one Baldrick was taken by them all as a reflection on their own ability. “Try again. Load up.” Anderson walked over to him and squatted on the ground. “You must keep your eyes open when you fire. Otherwise you’ll wander off-target. Now try again.”
The Baldricks watching were keenly aware that, in the old days, a recruit who fouled up this badly when firing his trident would have suffered a gruesome few days of imaginatively brutal torture. Hunkhalaphinarexes took a deep breath, forced himself to freeze his eyes open, and squeezed the trigger in the approved manner. The shot ripped a hole in the target, three o’clock in the eight-ring.
“Not bad at all Hunky, not bad. We’ll make a soldier of you yet. All right, fire ten round at your target, in your own time. Try and get a good, tight group. Remember, doing things right is what we want, doing it fast comes later.”
Anderson walked over to the unit’s carrier and climbed in the back. It was a highly modified version of the old M-113 with an extra roadwheel each side and new hull that had an open crew compartment in the back. Crew of nine, commander, driver and gunner with six dismount infantry. The gunner had a. 50 caliber machine gun mounted on the forward edge of the fighting compartment. The forward compartment had space for the driver and commander, the latter having a radio. Anderson picked the speaker up and patched through to his platoon command.
“One-Delta-Alpha Actual here. We’re finishing up on the range now. We’re coming back in about thirty minutes. The boys will need feeding.”
“Copy that Alpha-Actual, we’ll butcher a food-beast for them. How are they doing?”
“As well as can be expected. For recruits with so much to unlearn.” Anderson sighed gently, it was only a few months before he’d been in a nursing home, remembering his years of military service while marking time, waiting to die. Then, there had been the day he hadn’t woken up in his room but in the recovery ward on the Phelan Plain and the interview with the placement officers who had been waiting for him. One mention of the fact he’d spent thirty years training recruits for Her Majesty’s Army and he’d been found this job. The odd thing was, he was rather enjoying it and the memories of his life on Earth were becoming remote. Not fading, if he made the effort they were as clear as they had ever been, but he just didn’t think of them so much. His life was here now. “Hey Mitch, do me a favor, pick out a good-looking food-beast for my boys right, they’ve worked hard today.”
Chapter Twelve
Outside CBS Studios, New York, NY, May 2009
“I see your show got renewed.” Colonel Paschal looked around the inside of the stretched Hummer limousine. It wasn’t often that one saw limousines like this anymore, not with gas and diesel fuel being rationed the way it was. But, he guessed, his companion was a television star so the studio had certainly made some special arrangements somehow. Anyway, she needed a larger-than-normal vehicle.
“I was not surprised, given my audience ratings over the first run.” Lugasharmanaska settled back in her seat and poured herself a goblet of champagne from the bar in the rear of her Hummer. Paschal caught her yellow eyes looking sideways at him and guessed that she was already trying to work out what he wanted with her and to turn it to her own advantage. He also wondered if the CBS management had been fully aware of how effective her pheromones could be in a confined space. DIMO(N) was still failing to find a counter to their effect, the best that could be done was for anybody dealing with a succubus to be fully aware of the dangers and be on their guard. It didn’t always work.
Still, it might be that he was being unkind to her, ‘Tonight With Luga’ was the country’s top-rated evening chat show. Most of the country remembered fondly how she had boxed Bernie Madoff into a corner and he’d tried to bluff his way out by claiming she would have done the same in his position. Her reply, “Of course, but I’m a daemon from Hell, I’m supposed to be the epitome of evil. What’s your excuse?” had even caused the camera operators and stage crew to break out into howls of laughter. Paschal caught another sideways glance from her eyes and reminded himself that she hadn’t changed. She’d got a veneer of sophistication and style now, and her clothing sense had improved dramatically but she was still the same succubus who’d tried to play everybody around her. And was still doing so.
“You’re on four months hiatus I believe? Going to take a trip back to Hell?”
Lugasharmanaska shook her head. “I didn’t make many friends back home when I sided with humans.”
“You know Deumos is dead? She died of her injuries during the assassination of Satan. Brain got squeezed inside out and the exhaust from the missiles fried her.”
“I know that.” Lugasharmanaska more than knew it, she was intimately involved in the power plays that were going on between the various factions that were maneuvering to replace the late and not at all lamented Deumos. Not as a candidate of course, she had far too enjoyable a position here on Earth and being on the side of the humans brought with it many benefits. One of them was that each of the factions that did want to provide the Succubae with their new queen believed that she had great influence over the humans and could swing their support to her desired candidate. That was why she didn’t wish to visit Hell, if she did, the fact that her possession of any such power was a delusion would become all too obvious. As it was, they were competing with each other to offer her the most tempting considerations and privileges. It was, she had decided, much more profitable and much safer to be a Queen-Maker than a Queen. Anyway, she had her audience to think of.