Read Online Alien Landscapes 2 by Kevin J. Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
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)
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Enemy no chance. He swung again with the staff, drawing a bright red line of blood and putting out one of the beast’s eyes. Crimson and yellow body fluids oozed through smashed skin on the boar’s snout. It leapt forward, driven by insanity and pain.
Now, Barto used the spear with finesse.
A great calm flowed through him, as if the rest of the world had slowed down, and he saw exactly what to do, exactly where to hold the spear. The sharpened point neatly plunged through the ribcage of the beast and skewered its lungs and heart. Showering a wet-iron smell in the air, the creature lay quivering, trembling . . . dying.
When Barto came back to his senses, he saw that his legs had been slashed open by the boar’s tusks. The deep gouges left him bleeding, but oddly without any sense of pain or injury. He looked down and studied the corpse of his opponent, the Enemy. Now he had killed. Barto had fresh blood on his hands, real blood from a vanquished opponent.
He liked the sensation.
He knew that this had been no simple exercise. He knew the boar could well have killed him, and that other trainees who had vanished from the barracks must have failed this part of their instruction.
But Barto had succeeded. He was a killer now, and he was one step closer to becoming a soldier.
#
Time didn’t matter. For a soldier, time never mattered. He awoke hours, or days, later back in the HQ infirmary and repair shop—patched up, drugged, but fully aware. A hairless chimpanzee tended him, leaning over in a cloud of disinfectant scents and bad breath. The chimp medical techs knew how to bandage and fix battlefield wounds. They could do no surgery that required finesse, but the soldiers required nothing that needed delicacy for cosmetic effect.
Once injured, if a soldier could be fixed, he would be sent back to the battlefield. If his wounds caused the chimp med-techs too much trouble, he would be eliminated. Every surviving member of the squad bore his share of scars, burns, scabs, and callouses. No one paid attention to these trophies of war; they were part of a soldier’s life, not a badge of honor or bravery.
Since Barto hadn’t been eliminated, he assumed he must have been fixed.
He sat up on the infirmary cot, and the hairless chimpanzees hurried over, uttering quiet reassurances, a few English words, a few soothing grunts. Triggered by his awakening, a signal was automatically sent back to his squad commander.
Barto listened to an assessment of his repaired leg, his stitched muscles and skin, and his bruises and contusions. Not too bad, he thought. He’d suffered worse, sometimes even in training with other soldiers (especially during the initial few months, when they’d first been given their own sets of armor).
He remembered that back then his comrade Arviq in particular had thought himself invincible. . . .
During downtime before the soldiers crawled into their assigned sleeping bins, the other squad members were required to file through the infirmary to see their injured comrades. Some came only because of orders to do so; most of them would rather have been sleeping.
But the invisible commanders planted instructions to go to the infirmary simply so that other soldiers could see the wounded, could see what could happen to them if they weren’t careful . . . but also so they could see that they just might survive.
Recovering, Barto sat up in the uncomfortable infirmary bed and watched the other soldiers come in. His pain went away with another automatic rush of endorphins to deaden his unpleasant sensations . . . or perhaps his own determination was enough to quell the nerve-fire of agony.
The fighters filed by. He recognized few of them, all strangers without armor and helmets, though he could have identified each one by the serial numbers displayed on their fatigues. These were soldiers, cogs in a fighting machine. They didn’t have time to be individuals.
When Arviq came up at the end of the line, he stood
Now, Barto used the spear with finesse.
A great calm flowed through him, as if the rest of the world had slowed down, and he saw exactly what to do, exactly where to hold the spear. The sharpened point neatly plunged through the ribcage of the beast and skewered its lungs and heart. Showering a wet-iron smell in the air, the creature lay quivering, trembling . . . dying.
When Barto came back to his senses, he saw that his legs had been slashed open by the boar’s tusks. The deep gouges left him bleeding, but oddly without any sense of pain or injury. He looked down and studied the corpse of his opponent, the Enemy. Now he had killed. Barto had fresh blood on his hands, real blood from a vanquished opponent.
He liked the sensation.
He knew that this had been no simple exercise. He knew the boar could well have killed him, and that other trainees who had vanished from the barracks must have failed this part of their instruction.
But Barto had succeeded. He was a killer now, and he was one step closer to becoming a soldier.
#
Time didn’t matter. For a soldier, time never mattered. He awoke hours, or days, later back in the HQ infirmary and repair shop—patched up, drugged, but fully aware. A hairless chimpanzee tended him, leaning over in a cloud of disinfectant scents and bad breath. The chimp medical techs knew how to bandage and fix battlefield wounds. They could do no surgery that required finesse, but the soldiers required nothing that needed delicacy for cosmetic effect.
Once injured, if a soldier could be fixed, he would be sent back to the battlefield. If his wounds caused the chimp med-techs too much trouble, he would be eliminated. Every surviving member of the squad bore his share of scars, burns, scabs, and callouses. No one paid attention to these trophies of war; they were part of a soldier’s life, not a badge of honor or bravery.
Since Barto hadn’t been eliminated, he assumed he must have been fixed.
He sat up on the infirmary cot, and the hairless chimpanzees hurried over, uttering quiet reassurances, a few English words, a few soothing grunts. Triggered by his awakening, a signal was automatically sent back to his squad commander.
Barto listened to an assessment of his repaired leg, his stitched muscles and skin, and his bruises and contusions. Not too bad, he thought. He’d suffered worse, sometimes even in training with other soldiers (especially during the initial few months, when they’d first been given their own sets of armor).
He remembered that back then his comrade Arviq in particular had thought himself invincible. . . .
During downtime before the soldiers crawled into their assigned sleeping bins, the other squad members were required to file through the infirmary to see their injured comrades. Some came only because of orders to do so; most of them would rather have been sleeping.
But the invisible commanders planted instructions to go to the infirmary simply so that other soldiers could see the wounded, could see what could happen to them if they weren’t careful . . . but also so they could see that they just might survive.
Recovering, Barto sat up in the uncomfortable infirmary bed and watched the other soldiers come in. His pain went away with another automatic rush of endorphins to deaden his unpleasant sensations . . . or perhaps his own determination was enough to quell the nerve-fire of agony.
The fighters filed by. He recognized few of them, all strangers without armor and helmets, though he could have identified each one by the serial numbers displayed on their fatigues. These were soldiers, cogs in a fighting machine. They didn’t have time to be individuals.
When Arviq came up at the end of the line, he stood
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