William Dietz - A fighting chance

The man in the front passenger seat was wearing a civilian bush hat. He stood, and thanks to the jungle buggy’s ground clearance, rose to the same level as Santana. The militiaman had a blocky build, black hair, and brown skin. His manner was friendly but guarded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Captain Motu Kimbo. The colonel sent me to collect you. I was going to offer you a ride-but it looks like you brought your own transportation.”

“You lead, and we’ll follow,” Santana replied. “Let’s meet on channel two.”

After a quick radio check, Kimbo’s driver started his engine, put the ATV in gear, and executed a tight turn. Joshi could run up to fifty miles per hour without difficulty, but as Santana eyed the slope ahead, it didn’t seem likely that the cyborg would need to go even half that fast. A two-lane heat-fused road switchbacked down toward a jumble of pastel-colored buildings below. Some of the structures were intact, but many showed signs of blast damage or sat next to rubble-strewn craters. It didn’t require a military genius to figure out that the bugs had been by more than once.

With nothing to do other than compensate for the back-and-forth motion of the ride, Santana took the opportunity to scan his surroundings. One of the first things he noticed was a twenty-foot-high fence that followed the curve of the bay and was made out of metal beams. They had been welded together into self-supporting X-shapes that were dug into the ground. The obstacles stood shoulder to shoulder as if to protect local residents from something big. Ramanthian tanks? Or native life-forms? Having read up on O-Chi 4, Santana knew that some of the local triturators stood around fifteen feet tall, weighed up to eight tons, and had nasty tempers. So they wouldn’t be welcome in town. Or anywhere else for that matter.

Another thing stood out as Joshi and Santana followed the ATV through town. That was the way Baynor’s Bay’s townspeople came out to greet them. And no wonder since most had been witness to the TACBASE’s rather noisy arrival, not to mention the landing on the hill.

But as the road curved and followed the beach toward the southwest, most of the gawkers waved cheerfully, and a few were armed with Confederate flags. So if these people were friendly-who had attempted to bring the TACBASE down? It was an interesting question but one that would have to wait.

The ATV slowed, passed between a couple of stone pillars, and entered a curved drive. It led to a sprawling one-story house. The home was not only larger than most of the places Santana had seen but was perched on the edge of the bay, with a glorious view of the water. As both vehicles came to a halt under a portico, two native O-Chies hurried out to meet them.

The locals were about five feet tall and looked like animated skeletons. Large light-gathering eyes were located on both sides of their oval heads. That meant they could look in two directions at once. A rather useful adaptation for sentients who had reason to fear large carnivores. And as Santana freed himself from the harness, he saw that the indigs had three chevron-shaped nostrils centered in the middle of their faces. Their slitlike mouths were very wide, and if they had teeth, there was no sign of them as the nearest O-Chi spoke. The native’s voice had a soft, raspy sound. “Welcome to Bay House. The colonel is waiting.”

Santana got the impression that Antov didn’t like to wait for things; he ordered Joshi to stand by and held up a pocket com for the T-2 to see. The cyborg’s armor was painted forest green dappled with random ribbons of yellow. Like most vets, rows of bug skulls had been stenciled onto his slablike chest. One for each confirmed kill.

The noncom nodded a huge head. His computer-generated voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Just say the word, sir, and I’ll join the party.”

Santana grinned at the thought. “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s very comforting.”

As Santana turned toward the front door and made his way toward Kimbo, he could see the militia officer’s frown. “You look troubled, Captain… Is something wrong?”

“No, sir… But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that you leave your weapons here. They will be kept under lock and key. The armor is up to you.”

Santana wasn’t pleased, but he understood. Trust had to be earned. So he slid the carbine off his shoulder and gave both it and his pistol to Kimbo, who placed them in a cabinet. The clamshell-style armor made a thump as it hit the floor. His helmet went on top. “Okay, Captain… At least I got to keep my pants. Please lead the way.”

The house had white walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and was furnished with beautiful O-Chi-made rattan furniture. But what immediately drew Santana’s eyes were the hundreds of animal trophies, both large and small, that glared down at him from every angle. Some had fur, and others were covered with scales. And because none of the creatures were familiar to him, Santana assumed all of them were native to O-Chi 4.

But, as Santana discovered when he was shown into a cavernous living area, the heads in the hallway were nothing compared to the beast that eyed him from the far end of the room. The reptile was about eight feet tall and equipped with four muscular legs. Yellow eyes were set into a bony head. And there were lots of sharp-looking teeth inside a yawning mouth. A meat eater for sure.

“It’s a velocipod,” a male voice said. “I took it down with a. 50-caliber Hawking. Anything smaller just pisses them off. The range was about a hundred feet. Closer than I would like-but that’s how it is with velocipods. They’re damned fast, so you only have seconds in which to fire.”

When Santana turned in the direction of the voice, he saw that a pair of easy chairs was positioned in front of a large window looking out onto the bay. One of them was occupied by a middle-aged man dressed in civilian khakis. He had a receding hairline with a prow-shaped nose and appeared to be in good shape except for the leg propped up in front of him. It was encased in a cast that produced a thumping sound when struck with a swagger stick. “I was gored,” the man explained. “A stupid mistake. But when another member of my party missed his shot-I went into a thicket of brush to finish the tusker off. It damned near went the other way!”

The last was said with a smile and obvious amusement. “Please have a seat. I’m Colonel Antov. And I assume that you are Major Santana.”

Santana confirmed that he was and took the chair next to Antov’s. They were separated by a side table that held a lamp, the swagger stick, and a pair of binoculars. “Can I interest you in a cup of O-Chi caf?” Antov inquired. “We produce the best beans in the Confederacy. Or did back before the bugs landed.”

“I would love a cup of O-Chi caf,” Santana replied. “It’s difficult to get a decent cup of coffee anymore.”

“Heedu!” Antov said loudly. “Fetch the major a cup of caf.”

The servant had been so quiet, and his slightly shimmery skin had blended so well with the wood paneling, that Santana didn’t know the O-Chi was present until he spoke. “Yes, Colonel. Right away, sir.” Then he was gone.

“So,” Antov said. “We gave you something of a warm welcome didn’t we? I was sitting right here when your TACBASE passed over the bay. It was quite a sight. My people knew the score. But it appears that Major Temo forgot to tell her troops about your arrival, so they mistook the TACBASE for a Ramanthian ship and opened fire. It was a regrettable mistake but an understandable one. Air superiority shifts back and forth all the time. And when the bugs are on top, they love to shoot the place up.”

Santana’s eyebrows rose as Heedu returned with a tray. “Major Temo?”