CHAPTER 4 - UNDER THE CRACK
Miles' machine waded slowly in the muck that streamed through the narrow tunnel. The Gibbon's servos and actuators whined and hissed softly despite being mired in a potent mixture of human waste and sewage run-off. The rookie counted himself lucky that he had drawn a relatively easy assignment - he, Menshik, and Oiguchi, the team's scout, were to locate the batch of immobile prawn mechs near the refugee camp.
The two rig teams broke into even smaller groups as they neared their objective. Cheng's team was to secure the juice packs needed to power One Echo's Void Cannon. Faraz's team was tasked to destroy tactical targets of opportunity, and to provide both distraction and security.
Rachid or Hasan had reported a large collection of alloy in a side cistern; from the size and cluster of blips, they appeared to be mechs. Faraz split his team in half - one half (which included Miles) would destroy the enemy machines before they could be manned while the other half (Faraz and his former mates) would seize the sleeping area and keep everyone they find there contained. Hopefully, that would be enough.
The camp itself was tucked away under the city, away from eyes human, Newcomer, and prawn, under a labyrinth of sewers. There, under a civilization that was being ravaged and slowly xenomorphed, the camp's survivors eked a near subsistence-level of existence.
Though they were probably not "refugees", Miles reminded himself. They may prove to be more sympathetic to the invading aliens than to their own species.
Hardly something to quibble over if they start protesting. Miles felt his mouth go dry at the thought. Would some even look human anymore? Or would they be something that resembled Specialist Lansford? A walking parody of the enemy, destined for a lifetime of painful genetic therapy and social shunning?
Miles thought back to Doyle's story about the crazy doctor and her poorly thought out attempt at forcing a peace - an unwanted and unsavory one - on her own people. Her own species.
The newbie surprised himself with this line of thought. Perhaps that's the same type of thoughts that made Menshik say what he said.
Miles glanced at his blister display and saw that Menshik still had his PIG out, despite the order to hold fire. If anyone had ammunition to expend, it was either he or Menshik, not that they needed to; a Gibbon was quite capable of destroying almost anything its size (or smaller) as long as it was not moving.
For a prawn mech, Miles could simply stake a piece of steel rebar - or more practically punch - through the alien machine's opened chest cavity to wreck the interface connections for its single crew.
As Faraz said in his broken English, "Easy job."
Yes, thought Miles. Easy job indeed.
Oiguchi was ahead of Miles and Menshik. The scout's rig was seared and cooked from several explosive misses, but it still moved fluidly and with little protest. What damage would have been to her rig's exterior cameras; however, Yuko Oiguchi was not only an experienced rig driver, ballet dancer, and aerial gymnast, but she was one observant bitch.
Miles remembered how she wagged her finger back and forth when she caught him drooling over her ample cleavage back at the submarine carrier. Or was it her partner Sudek's chest? Maybe he was staring at one of their athletic asses.
The rookie quickly snapped out of his pathetic daydreaming when Oiguchi's rig suddenly stopped and raised its left arm in a crude signal. Miles quickly froze. The scout's machine occupied most of the tunnel, and the rookie couldn't see what was going on.
"Take another six steps -" Gibbon sized steps, Miles translated internally as Oiguchi whispered "- and we drop right into their mech garage. Ready up. I'll head left, you two take center and right. Remember, no firing. That means you, Menshik."
"I'll put it down once we're in," the spunky Semite hissed back unkindly, "but I'm not putting it away."
Oiguchi only snorted and Miles saw her Gibbon dip slightly.
She's going to sprint in, he realized. Without waiting for us to tell her where -
"Menshik, go take the right," Miles spoke quickly as the scout's machine suddenly lurched forward in an awkward sort of run. "I'll head straight ahead."
He didn't wait for Menshik's response as he followed on Oiguchi's heels. The tunnel seemed to extend a bit further than what she had said; then Miles remembered that he may have been a step or two behind her. Sure enough, the scout's rig dropped as she exited the tunnel, then just as she did, Oiguchi instinctively fired up her thruster pack.
Bad mistake.
With a high decibel whine and blast similar to a jet turbine, a thruster pack was as loud as a PIG round's explosive reaction. Certainly, three rigs stumbling through an enclosed sewer was loud, but the dampeners on their footpads had significantly reduced their audio signatures (and they were moving slowly, to boot); furthermore, their machines could have crossed the distance in the cistern before the camp was alerted with loud noises this far inside their perimeter.
Miles saw Oiguchi realize her mistake as she suddenly cut her thrusters; this forced her machine to slam down into the basin's underlying cement with a heavier (and louder) than normal impact. However, it was too late. Miles could see activity in the various tunnels leading into the waste basin.
:: threat alert ::
Small arms fire sparked against his rig's outer frame and the occasional BOOM CRACK of a rocket exploding nearby, but Miles was most afraid of the running figures.
Rig drivers. Or in this case, individuals who appeared partially human. Miles could see the chitinous plates on their exposed skin, the enlarged inhuman looking eye, and the unmistakable bounding gait of someone with prawn legs.
So, that's how they'd interface with the prawn mechs, Miles shivered. His own machine sprinted forward as Oiguchi, realizing surprise was lost, quickly fired her thrusters, giving her a much-needed boost forward to a batch of parked machines on the basin's left. She reached them in record time and began smashing them apart with her rig's alloyed fists.
Miles soon got to his self-assigned section and only had a moment to admire the intricate details of the silent line of prawn mechs before he proceeded to break them apart.
'Punch t'rough the chest cavity while its open,' Cheng had instructed. 'You want to destroy the neural needles housed in the upper cavity so they can't start up.'
'And wrecking the cradle won't do the job if the neural needles still work.' Doyle added. 'They can still boot up and access weapons. Tear in and up towards the head. Rip it clean off.'
Miles took her words to heart and crudely punched into the opened chest cavity of each prawn mech. He then rotated his hand actuator, formed a claw, and wrenched his arm upwards. The result was the mech's shoulders and insect-like head would part from the rest of its frame.
After a few tries, Miles began to hurry; he simply brought a servo-powered first down on the head of a prawn mech. The result was just as effective - caving in the upper chest cavity such that it was nearly impossible for someone to get inside.
Clearly, these machines weren't meant to sustain such punishment. That thought gave Miles a reassuring feeling as he set upon the next batch of machines.
"I hear weapons-fire," Cheng's familiar rasp came over the general frequency. "Who the hell's violatin' orders?"
"Lasers if we don't miss, boss." It was Menshik. "I didn't miss."
"Cut that shit out," Cheng snapped back, "and get back t' work."
"Understood. Menshik out."
In the general whirlwind of destruction, Miles had forgotten about Menshik. As the rookie tipped over the last machine in his batch before crushing the torso underfoot, he looked around the cistern and saw that Menshik had opted to stay back, using his laser mitt to fry the camp's drivers from afar.
Fortunately, the angry Jew didn't miss his targets. Unfortunately, he was unable to hit one, who made it to his machine and booting it up as if his life depended on it.
"Done here!" It was Oiguchi. "Hey, Rook?! Where's Menshik?"
"Taking it easy," came the swarmy reply.
On his battle blister's display, Miles could see Menshik's confident smirk slowly turn to grim surprise as the little man realized that he had missed a target. Menshik was still at the tunnel entrance that dropped into the rectangular basin, and there was no way he could get to the enemy mech before it started up.
Miles released his grip on his weapons, letting it drop onto the pile of broken and mangled metal at his feet.
"Watch my gun!" the rookie shouted at her as he took to a sprint.
He reached the errant mech just as its hatch was about to close - the rookie had no other choice but to stop the enemy machine before it caused any trouble. The rookie jammed his rig's fingers into the closing cavity, and grimaced as he heard a sickening sound come through his external microphones.
Miles tuned out the mortal scream which was suddenly cut off when his machine's hand was palm deep in the enemy machine. The limbs of the prawn mech seemed to jerk to life, spasmed, then just as quickly went limp as its operator inside expired.
Only the sounds of falling water and the occasional thump of metal on stone returned to the area as Miles withdrew his mechanical limb. The small arms fire quickly stopped as the refugees saw their chance of resistance vanish in the blink of an eye. No sane person was going to attack a five meter tall war machine with an assault rifle and some primitive rocket bombs. Their only chance to survive was retreat, and hope no one would pursue them.
Oiguchi came up to Miles, holding her glitterstick in one hand and Miles' PIG in the other.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, just give me a minute." Miles rinsed the stains on his Gibbon's alloyed fingers in sewer run-off before he took his weapon.
"Oiguchi to Faraz. Enemy mechs neutralized."
"Faraz copy," the Arabic team leader yawned, then scowled. "Regroup on sergeant. He want to talk to us."
Probably about Menshik, Miles thought darkly.
The three rig drivers followed the virtual path Faraz transmitted to their blisters' displays. One of the tunnels on the basin's ground level led to a larger space, which seemed to be where the area's sewage collected before going to a treatment facility.
Once there, Miles saw the squad's machines standing near a large pile of hastily assembled equipment. What caught the rookie's attention, aside the rack of evil looking delta-shaped Drache drones, were a half dozen large energy cells, each the size of a shipping container. Quite impressive, considering the juicepacks for a Gibbon's laser mitt was about the size of a small sofa (minus the back and arm rests). That combination was enough to power a laser mitt for over a thousand 3 second bursts at an 80 Terajoule setting.
Those in the squad who carried glittersticks sported half a dozen cells to power their weapons, along with a handy number of spare juicepacks (chiefly used by the scouts). Miles was no engineer, but an energy cell the size of a shipping container could probably let a laser mitt continuously discharge for hours or even a whole day without interruption. That the space gun would require something that size to work was a testament to the power it devoured.
"Man, those are huge," Miles said as he came to a stop.
"Yes, they certainly are," Doyle nodded.
The rookie gave her a cheery grin and she gave him a toothy smile. Miles' grin thinned though, as he caught the sight of what he thought was something under Doyle's Bactrian. The long ugly knot of blonde hair and the shredded lab coat he could dismiss as fuzz on his display, but the bloody, mangled arm that was both prawn and human removed all doubt of what was crushed underfoot of the huge rig.
Doyle saw Miles' expression, and her smile relaxed a bit. Her mouth twitched and he saw her shrug; that told him more than any words would.
"All right, we got what we came for," Cheng rasped stonily. "Lansford's told me th' space gun needs two or three of these fully charged sum'bitches t' fire, but we're not takin' chances. We are goin' to use 'em all on that ship. Scrap that heap, you get me?"
"The question is how to carry them," Webster mused. "That Mastiff doesn't have enough back left to carry something that size, but we can drag it. And I can use the Draches to screen."
"Save 'em. B'sides, it's too noisy and slow," Cheng said. "No, we do it this way: Lansford, you stick with me, Ginny, and Teabgs. The rest of you, pair up an' each take up one end of these cells."
"You're not kidding, are you sarge?" Miles saw Menshik's jaw drop. "How are we going to defend ourselves?"
"One hand on a juicebox handle, the other on a PIG or laser mitt." Cheng's icy tone didn't do much to boost morale.
"But -!"
"We need to hurry. Get to that saucer ASAP, find a spot for Lansford to deploy. While Teabags helps set-up, Ginny's bots can do guard duty. The rest of us will spread out and screen One Echo until the job's done."
"Excuse me for speaking out of turn, sergeant," Menshik said angrily, "but I think that's a recipe for suicide."
"That depends on how on well things go; Lansford's first priority is t' down that ship. He'll do that by vaping th' control module."
"That doesn't help out situation on the ground," Menshik sounded confused.
"With the hopper saucer crippled, we can use it as cover once it crashes," Cheng explained. "We should have enough juice and ammo t' hold out using laser mitts an' glittersticks. The key is to down that ship on the first shot."
"And if we don't, sarge?" someone asked.
"Then you'd better start prayin' for a miracle," the sergeant said grimly, "'cause I got nothin' left."