A chill twilight's breeze ruffled the near-fractal hem of my claustrophobic chameleon cape. I savoured the fresh tang of minerals and wood smoke for one long moment, continued my pains-taking crawl up the rocky slope. Five minutes took me from dark to dawn. The horizon opened before me. After five wary, weary hours, I'd reached the vertiginous brink of Avalon's Great North Scarp.

I eased the wire-scope from its pack-clips, snaked the probe to the cliff edge with mortal care. I turned the recessed pan and tilt controls, studied the shaky view it sent to my visor.

I sighed.

'LOBO at Way-Point 1.'  I told my right mastoid's silent mini-comm. 'Confirm Swinner incursion, Northridge copper mine.' I zoomed in, engaged the stabiliser. 'One Turbot-class medium cruiser, parked square on the Village Green. Looks even bigger and meaner than the simulator... Main ramp facing North. Two lines of prisoners transferring loot from assorted vehicles. Twenty guards in ground-combat armour. One, two, three semi-portable blasters and their gunners dug-in by the West Storm Drain's road bridge. No air-cover visible.'

'Turbot complement is four Tadpole-class armed flitters.' Kym's equally silent reply came ten kilometres to my pack as encrypted spread-spectrum, then a hand's-span by 'deaf aid' induction. 'Their location essential.'

'Working on it...' I scanned the rugged valley, the broad refinery roof, and the distant lip of the mine's immense open-cast workings, 'First Tadpole circling the pit's exit ramp. Multiple dust sources? Yes. It's pacing three out-bound trucks. Well, they've had seven hours to load ingots from the refinery store. Reckon that's the mine's diamond bits and explosives?'

'Probable.' Kym concurred, 'Civilian mining technology is also valuable.'

'Second Tadpole is 'cross-valley, over the tree line by the top logging road. Two wide blast marks in the trees near the base of a linear feature, possibly a ski-tow, suggest pursuit. One plot's burned to the fire-break. Maybe some folk got clear?'

'Maximum civilian assistance estimated as diversionary.'

'Then we'll keep this a private fight,' I assured Kym, who obviously abhorred amateurs. 'Nothing else East of town. Militia post is a crater. Mild collateral damage: three burned chalets, dozen more with damaged windows and roofs, several trashed run-abouts. Overlap angles of blast patterns suggest multiple Flitter weapons, not the Turbot's wing-turrets. One pattern runs out North, far into the windrow dunes. Ah. Located third Tadpole and the Militia Technical, both wrecked. Not bad for twin Blasters versus one Recoilless, Kym?'

'Turbot complement is four Tadpole armed flitters.'

'Working on it... Sorry, I can't locate the fourth. I expect it's guarding the pass.'

'That is optimum tactical disposition,' Kym agreed. 'Fresh KayTen imaging suggests a Tadpole is concealed in the pass.'

'Sure you can take that Turbot? It crippled two Patrol Corvettes on the way in...'

'Swinner momentum shield function is significantly impaired by ground-effect and atmosphere,' Kym advised., 'Effective penetration of layered ablative armour is conditional on multiple strikes, requiring precision Laser Offset Battery targetting.'

'Which is down to me,' I agreed. 'I'll go check the pass.'

I stowed the 'scope, backed up, began to crawl South along the scarp.

'LOBO, you are approaching a mine-field. Forward KayTens report 'Algol 81/6A' bi-functional devices.'

'Thanks, Kym... Hmm: Not like Swinners to bother with 'Jumping Jacks'. Could they be expecting us?'

'Negative.' Kym's scorn survived the mini-comm's data compression. 'Device emplacement density anticipates a Militia Technical raid before MainForce assault.'

'At dawn tomorrow.' I grinned. 'By which time, those Swinners would be packed and gone.'

'Correct. LOBO, you are now entering mine field. Remain on designated route.'

'Comply!' I couldn't hope to see those deadly discoids from my low angle. I didn't need to. The mini-robot CE'Dillos of Kym's KayTen Corps had blazed my route. I just wriggled between their unblinking, multi-facet eyes.

Slowly, I came to the ragged lip of the pass. This raw cutting had been gouged from a wind-gap by a giant 'Rock Grubber' on its way to break ground at the mine. By that brash standard, it was a tidy job.

'LOBO at Way-point 2.' The KayTens had found me a fair site. I snaked the wire-scope around a screening boulder, gauged my task. 'Kym, your KayTen imaging was correct. Fourth Tadpole is tucked close against the South face under excellent scrimmage nets. Two semi-portable Blasters flanking West end. A third is ten metres in, South side. All three weapon pits under nets, behind rubble berms in the deep drainage / rock-stop gulleys. I count six gunners, plus two, plus Half-Leader makes nine Swinners in ground-combat armour.'

'Expect two un-armoured Tadpole crew.' Kym sent back. 'Query tactical disposition?'

'Well dispersed. Deep shadow. Scrimmage nets. No sight line to third weapon or Tadpole from access road. Minimal over-fly window. However, my location provides plunging fire. Scratch plans A, B and C?'

'Comply. Suggest revised Plan D: Diversionary assault upon sighting my approach to Waypoint 5.'

'Query choice of wind-gap 2.5 km North? That route is rough.'

'Sub-optimal approach terrain is acceptable.'

'Okay, Kym.' I studied the concealed flitter. 'Tadpole has priority, but weapons, gun crews and Half-Leader remain Targets of Opportunity?'

'Correct. Your next priority is Laser Offset Battery targetting from Waypoint 1.'

'I'll need to run back... Tell my lane-marker KayTens to set OXO mini-charges on their Algols, then withdraw. I'll want those fired in two phases: furthest as pure diversion, the rest to clear my route. I'll call them as Waves One and Two.'

'Comply.'

'Thanks, Kym... Ah, could you stagger them to resemble mortar fire?'

'Comply: Query origin of novel tactic?'

'Later, Kym.' The Half-Leader was moving. I tracked with the wire-scope, disturbed a few grains of sand. That started a small dust-fall.

'Repeat: Query origin of novel tactic?'

'Not now, Kym.' No Swinner noticed, but I shivered.

'LOBO, you have no record of Advanced Tactical Training.'

'Kym, we do not have time for this.'

'LOBO, you are not the requested MainForce Operative. You have minimal Militia training. You are not a Patrol Commando. You lack the characteristic physique and mind-set of the Aero-Space Marine Corps.

'However, you are an a-typical Civilian. Your Range results are excellent. You react, learn, adapt, improvise and innovate faster than most MainForce Covert Combat Specialists. You display remarkable tactical insight. Query origin of novel tactic? Are you a Bureau of Extra-Terrestial Affairs Special Convener?'

'I'm not a 'Nova Ninja!' I shot back. 'I'm not even in the Militia! I'm just Pete Walker, the Inter-Planetary / Geographical Survey's token Speleologist. Happens Avalon's larger cave critters take some serious stopping...

'So, when MainForce needs some-one to crawl miles in the dark, think on their feet and use a Bi-Gun-- Bingo! I'm drafted! I get one hour in their Combat Simulator, shoot two-fifty rounds and five grenades on their Range, then I'm shoved in your cab for a night air-drop-

'Oh, and a Range Instructor mentioned the grenade / mortar trick.'

'Thank you, Peter. Your comments provide significant insight,' Kym mentioned. 'I considered your relentless questions and near-insolent familiarity most un-military. I must apologise for my inadequate briefing. I commend you on your efforts to prepare for combat.'

'Later, Kym...' I sighed. 'What about those mines? I only have four grenades.'

'Comply, Peter. Your tactic may provide additional diversion.'

'All adds to the fun, Kym.' I grinned. 'Arming up.'

I collapsed the clumsy but effective chameleon cape into its pack pouch. Now I could reach more than my nape-holstered knives and dart pistol. I eased my Bi-Gun from its 'racquet' hold. You could never call this weapon elegant or neat. I liked the bulky, ugly beast for its utility. The big stock's basic load was 5 fat scatter shells plus 20 slim 6-mm carbine rounds. Their cubit, side by side barrels were meant for point defence and in-fighting. They could take two long magazines, clipped underneath, but I'd other plans.

I slipped a massive, tungsten round from its loop, thumbed the 'Bear Stop' into the left breech. I lowered the Bi-Gun's bipod, checked the laser sight worked. 'LOBO ready, Kym. Start your run.'

'Take care, Peter. If you are disabled before targetting the Turbot, I must abort.'

'Comply.'

'Away... 9 km to Waypoint 5... 8 km... 7.5 km... Entering dust zone. Static emitters limiting plume: maintaining flank speed. 7 km... 6 km... 5 km...'

The wire-scope showed motion below. The Half-Leader stood, raised tri'nocs to the North-West.

'He's seen you,' I stated, slid forwards, settled the bipod. I clicked on the Bi-Gun's laser sight. I ran its guide dot down the cutting's South face to the hidden Tadpole's hull. 'First wave on my mark- Now!'

A dozen explosions rippled up the scarp. Their thunder echoed through the pass. The Half-Leader ducked.

I squeezed the right trigger. The carbine barrel screamed on full auto. The Tadpole's scrimmage net fountained ceramic shards and a cloud of dust.

I squeezed the left trigger. The cannon kicked like an angry mule. The Tadpole rocked on its skids. Aurora flared above the scrimmage net. A side-hatch flew open. Both crew tumbled clear, began to run. The ruptured power cell blew out. Tadpole, net and crew dissolved in golden flame.

I ducked debris, checked with the wire-scope. 'Pass Tadpole destroyed. Blow second wave on my mark- Now!'

A realistic barrage rolled across the scarp. Spent shrapnel, stones and gravel pelted my Kevlar, clattered into the pass. I pulled two lumpy grenades from pack pouches, primed them, threw for the pass entrance. One's sharp crash, bang would put heads down. The other fire-crackered vicious bomblets to promote caution. I tossed a smoke grenade after. It gushed a cloying orange fug to confuse matters.

I stowed the wire-scope, grabbed the Bi-gun and sprinted for the crest along the smoking crater line. 'On my way, Kym.'

'Go! Go! Go! 4.5 km. Go! Go! Go! 4.2 km. Go! Go! Go! 4 km.'

I glimpsed valley, went prone, advanced on rapid elbows, knees. 'Final approach.'

'3.8 km. 3.6 km.'

I reached the brink, grounded the bipod. A touch switched the laser sight to 'stealth'. I set the 'scope's cross-wires and its coded beam on the Turbot's dorsal bulge.

'3.5 km. 3.-'

'Fire Call!' I chanted. 'Target on! Penetrator! Sustained Rapid! Pull!' To myself, I counted one second, two, three, four-

Ablative armour panels shivered off the Turbot's stark white hull. Thunder rumbled from due North. More debris fountained from the Turbot's dorsal bulge. I kept my aim steady. The 'seeker' shells kept coming, second strikes knifing through the spent armour, exploding deep within the ship. Wing-turret gunners fired upwards, outwards, blindly. Their lidar predictors were meant for space combat or clear targets. They could not engage Kym's puny shells on such near-ballistic tracks.

The first impacts' violence now sounded from the East. More penetrator heads punched through the Turbot's weakened hull. Smoke, flames and Swinner crew spilled from the open ramp. Secondary explosions wracked the Turbot. A weakened hull section collapsed, opening a raging fire within to atmosphere. The exposed, pre-heated alloy frame ignited, burned white-hot, flared high. The breach re-doubled instantly. More of our rich Avalon air reached the Turbot's hot metal. The fires raged on, grew and grew, gutting the stricken ship. That roaring hell-pit ate the Turbot from within.

The wing-turrets fired wild salvoes with their last stored power, fell still. Escape hatches popped along the Turbot's flanks. The gunners tumbled out. As they fled, a thick, grey plume of dirty oxides rose from their disintegrating ship to spread weird, volcanic hues across the dawn.

'Turbot's trashed!' I reported, shakily. 'Cease fire! Cease fire!'

I shifted my aim slightly. Kym's first in-flight shell found a Half-Leader gathering the guards. Spattered with debris from that crater, the furious Wing-Leader waved a large side-arm at cowering prisoners. I set my aim between the left pair of double-jointed legs. Plumed helmet, gleaming side-arm, parade spats went different ways.

Beyond, the two Tadpoles had placed their foe. They came for revenge.

'Incoming!' I warned.

'Tracking,' Kym stated, then, 'engaging.'

A long roll of thunder rumbled from due North. The lead Tadpole swerved frantically, fired its twin Blasters at what seemed empty air. Flame and shrapnel flowered off its bow. It staggered from that near-miss, recovered briefly, blew. Debris tumbled.

The last Tadpole broke off, swung wide, tried a flank attack. Again, thunder rumbled, as Kym's Rarden quickfirer lofted more laser-guided shells from its aft turret. The Tadpole zig-zagged, blasted one 'seeker' shell, then a second. It took a glancing hit on its left stabiliser pod. It spun. Smoke poured. It tumbled, steadied near the ground, began a suicide run. Blue-white plasma geysered from the wind-gap. That single bolt from Kym's front, Blaster turret met, consumed the crippled craft. Few, flaming fragments fell.

'Nice shooting, Kym.'

'Thank you, Peter. Do you require fire support?'

'I'll check...' I swung the Bi-Gun's sights across the valley. A half-squad of gunners ran for the bridge with more Blasters. 'Yes, at the West Storm Drain crossing. Fire Call! Target on! Fragmentation! Four slow! Pull!'

To myself, I counted one second, two, three, four- Kym's first shell dropped in the front weapon pit. I shifted my aim. The second crew vanished in smoke and flame. The third crew fired blindly, briefly at the high scarp rim that hid their assailant. Their weapon blew to scrap. The fourth shell fell among reinforcements. Survivors dived for the road-side ditches. They stayed down.

'Bridge situation stabilised,' I reported. 'What about the half-squad in the pass?'

'I have identified their command frequencies,' Kym stated 'I have informed them that further resistance is useless and honourable surrender will be accepted. They do not reply. They call for support and orders to attack-'

'Smoke must be clearing... Can you locate them with KayTen sensors?'

'Triangulating...' I could almost hear Kym nod. 'Target on.'

'Fire Call, Kym! The Pass. Fragmentation! Three rounds! Pull!'

Three shells sang overhead, plunged into the narrow pass. I flinched as three confined explosions led Kym's gun's distant rumble.

'KayTen sensors indicate no survivors.'

I swallowed. 'How are you doing with the Valley Swinners' Comms?'

On the Green, the Swinners milled in confusion. Their planned 'in + out' had gone so terribly wrong. They'd lost their Home-Ship, Wing-Leader, air-cover and road-blocks to precise, withering fire from an unknown, un-seen foe. They'd gone from honey-sweet success to caustic debacle in such brief minutes...

Their hive-culture could cope with dire set-backs, but the few surviving Half-Leaders needed time to meet, to elect a Wing-Leader, to delegate and organise. They would not get that time, and they knew it. Real soon, the empowered wrath of Avalon's small Militia and MainForce would descend on them, if the Convention's irate Aero-Space Marines didn't beat us locals to the punch...

'I have identified their remaining command frequencies,' Kym stated. 'I have informed them that further resistance is useless and honourable surrender will be accepted. They- They have abandoned all communication protocols. I am unable to identify individual transmissions in the chaos. Peter, what can I do?'

'Fire call.' I decided. 'West of Village Green. Parachute flare. Single round. Pull.'

A new star burst into light above the valley. Some Swinners stared, most dived for cover. The small parachute slowly drifted down. Its swinging actinic light drew strange colours from the dark, swirling pall above the Turbot's pyre.

'Now try.' I suggested.

First one, then two, then a dozen, then entire groups of Swinners grounded their weapons, closed their fighting claws. The few Militia-Reserve mine-workers stood, took charge. One truck driver organised an armed crew, drove around collecting Swinners. Another driver mounted a semi-portable Blaster above his cab, took his improvised Technical on local patrol.

Under the grins and guns of their human guards, a crowd of Swinners slowly gathered up-wind of the smouldering wreck. Lone Swinners trailed in. A last, laden dump-truck arrived from the mine pit. The weapons aboard had changed sides along the way.

'Okay, Kym. Situation under control. Time for the marching band.'

'Peter, I do not think this is tactically sound...'

'The briefing said Swinners have excellent hearing and a keen sense of rhythm. Besides, you out-gun every-thing left in the valley. Play it, Kym.'

'Comply.'

A UniPower Wolverine 22, the largest 8 x 8 All Terrain Vehicle I'd ever seen, heaved itself out of the distant wind-gap. It rumbled slowly, securely down the steep scarp with both turrets aimed ahead. Not a 'tank', despite fair armour and serious fire-power. Not really an 'armoured car'. The hasty Mil-Spec make-over plus the borrowed Patton-class Military A-I had made Kym the biggest, meanest Technical ever.

'And they did give her a sense of humour!' I grinned, as the BeeGees' classic boomed from 'anti-noise' roof speakers, setting the Humans clapping to, 'You Win Again!'


(c) Nik

                  

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Here we go!