Read Online Alien Landscapes 2 by Kevin J. Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
Tags: Science-Fiction, adventure, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, High Tech, Hard Science Fiction, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages)
Ads: Link
unseen Enemy.
Then a laser-lance seared close to Barto’s helmet, blistering the top layer of semi-reflective silver. Static blasted across his eye visor, and he couldn’t see. He made one false sidestep and yelled. He could no longer find the grid display, could no longer even see the actual ground.
Just as his foot came down in the wrong place, Arviq grabbed his arm and yanked him aside, using their combined momentum. The sonic mine exploded, vomiting debris and shrapnel with pounding soundwaves that fractured the plates of Barto’s armor, pulverizing the bones in his leg. But he fell out of the mine’s focused kill radius and lay biting back the pain.
He propped himself up and ripped off his slagged helmet, blinking with naked eyes at the real sky. Arviq had saved his life—just as Barto would have done for his squad-mate had their situations been reversed.
Always trust your comrades. Your life is theirs. That was how it had always been.
And even if he did fall to Enemy attack, the bloodhounds would haul his body to HQ, and he would receive an appropriate military farewell before he returned to the earth—mission accomplished. A soldier’s duty was to fight, and Barto had been performing that duty for all of his conscious life.
As he activated his rescue transmitter and fumbled for the medpak, the rest of the soldiers charged forward, leaving him behind. Arviq didn’t even spare him a backward glance.
#
Some said the war had gone on forever—and since no one kept track of history anymore, the statement could not be proved false.
Barto knew only the military life. He had emerged from a tank in the soldiers’ crèche with the programming wired into his brain, fully aware, fully grown, and knowing his assignment. If ever he had any questions or doubts, the command voices in his helmet would answer them.
Barto knew primarily that he had to kill the Enemy. He knew that he had to protect his comrades, that the squad was the sum of his existence. No good soldier could rest until every last Enemy had been eradicated, down to their feline spies, down to the bloodhounds that dragged away Enemy KIAs.
Winning this war might well take an eternity, but Barto was willing to fight for that long. Every moment of his life had encompassed either fighting, or learning new techniques to kill and to survive, or resting so that he could fight again the next day.
There was no time for anything else. There was no need for anything else.
Barto remembered when he’d been younger, not long out of the tank. His muscles were wiry, his body flexible without the stiffness of constant abuse. His skin had been smooth, free of the intaglio of scars from a thousand close dances with death. Barto and his squad-mates—apprentices all—had fought hand-to-hand in the crèche gymnasium, occasionally breaking each other’s bones or knocking each other unconscious. None of them had yet earned their armor, their protection, or their weapons. They couldn’t even call themselves soldiers. . . .
Now consigned to the HQ infirmary and repair shop, as he drifted in a soup of pain and unconsciousness, Barto revisited the long-ago moment he had first grasped a specialized piece of equipment designed to maim and kill. The soldier trainees had learned early on in their drill that any object was a potential weapon—but this was a spear, a long rough bar of old steel with a sharpened point that gleamed white and silver in the unforgiving lights. A weapon, his own weapon.
He spun it around in his hand, feeling its weight—a deadly impaling device that could be used against the oncoming Enemy.
Later, his advanced training would of course include hand-to-hand combat against other soldiers, human opponents . . . but not at first. All trainees were expendable, but if the young men could be salvaged, then the military programming services would turn them into killers.
For months, Barto received somatic instruction and physical drilling by one of the
Then a laser-lance seared close to Barto’s helmet, blistering the top layer of semi-reflective silver. Static blasted across his eye visor, and he couldn’t see. He made one false sidestep and yelled. He could no longer find the grid display, could no longer even see the actual ground.
Just as his foot came down in the wrong place, Arviq grabbed his arm and yanked him aside, using their combined momentum. The sonic mine exploded, vomiting debris and shrapnel with pounding soundwaves that fractured the plates of Barto’s armor, pulverizing the bones in his leg. But he fell out of the mine’s focused kill radius and lay biting back the pain.
He propped himself up and ripped off his slagged helmet, blinking with naked eyes at the real sky. Arviq had saved his life—just as Barto would have done for his squad-mate had their situations been reversed.
Always trust your comrades. Your life is theirs. That was how it had always been.
And even if he did fall to Enemy attack, the bloodhounds would haul his body to HQ, and he would receive an appropriate military farewell before he returned to the earth—mission accomplished. A soldier’s duty was to fight, and Barto had been performing that duty for all of his conscious life.
As he activated his rescue transmitter and fumbled for the medpak, the rest of the soldiers charged forward, leaving him behind. Arviq didn’t even spare him a backward glance.
#
Some said the war had gone on forever—and since no one kept track of history anymore, the statement could not be proved false.
Barto knew only the military life. He had emerged from a tank in the soldiers’ crèche with the programming wired into his brain, fully aware, fully grown, and knowing his assignment. If ever he had any questions or doubts, the command voices in his helmet would answer them.
Barto knew primarily that he had to kill the Enemy. He knew that he had to protect his comrades, that the squad was the sum of his existence. No good soldier could rest until every last Enemy had been eradicated, down to their feline spies, down to the bloodhounds that dragged away Enemy KIAs.
Winning this war might well take an eternity, but Barto was willing to fight for that long. Every moment of his life had encompassed either fighting, or learning new techniques to kill and to survive, or resting so that he could fight again the next day.
There was no time for anything else. There was no need for anything else.
Barto remembered when he’d been younger, not long out of the tank. His muscles were wiry, his body flexible without the stiffness of constant abuse. His skin had been smooth, free of the intaglio of scars from a thousand close dances with death. Barto and his squad-mates—apprentices all—had fought hand-to-hand in the crèche gymnasium, occasionally breaking each other’s bones or knocking each other unconscious. None of them had yet earned their armor, their protection, or their weapons. They couldn’t even call themselves soldiers. . . .
Now consigned to the HQ infirmary and repair shop, as he drifted in a soup of pain and unconsciousness, Barto revisited the long-ago moment he had first grasped a specialized piece of equipment designed to maim and kill. The soldier trainees had learned early on in their drill that any object was a potential weapon—but this was a spear, a long rough bar of old steel with a sharpened point that gleamed white and silver in the unforgiving lights. A weapon, his own weapon.
He spun it around in his hand, feeling its weight—a deadly impaling device that could be used against the oncoming Enemy.
Later, his advanced training would of course include hand-to-hand combat against other soldiers, human opponents . . . but not at first. All trainees were expendable, but if the young men could be salvaged, then the military programming services would turn them into killers.
For months, Barto received somatic instruction and physical drilling by one of the
Similar Books
