And the next time they gave him a grenade, he just froze.
The result was no Line, no armor, just spare parts and supply runs. Pure, boring grunt work.
The cab of the scout consisted of the two command chairs forward, behind a wide belt of thick, armored ferroglass, both seats surrounded by consoles for movement, armament, and the many sensors. Immediately behind them, a small section of the decking had an engineering panel on one side and a fold-down jumpseat on the other, into which the outer hatch swung when it opened.
Aft of that, where Defoe stood, was the combination bunkroom-kitchen-commode-dining hall—this entire section would fit into his locker back at Danforth. Defoe had never liked this arrangement, where the commode acted as the base of the fold-down dining table. It would all be stripped out when—and if—the tank received a new engine sometime in the future.
The two operators spent a five-day tour in this box, never leaving it until relieved by the next crew.
Defoe flipped down the jumpseat and entered his clearance code on the engineering panel opposite. After the readouts lit up, he started a basic diagnostic of the sensor systems. One module lit up as requiring replacement and he powered down the sensor system, the consoles in the fore-cabin going blank.
Defoe confirmed the power-down on the engineering panel and popped open the indicated cabinet, revealing rows of components. He fingered the labels until he found the indicated component and pulled it from the slot. He tossed it on top of his cart and opened the front of the lower box, pulling a new unit from its slot. He placed it into the guides where the old component had been and jammed it tightly into the backplane. He swung the access panel back into place.
“Re-powering the sensor system,” he called, receiving not even a grunt. Hutchins appeared to be reading some sort of book on one of his consoles. The initialization diagnostic started automatically, just as it was supposed to and Defoe stood up. “I’ll go get your supply box while the diag is running.”
He stood and tapped the hatch control and the hatch swung inward, Defoe stepping back to let it by.
He lifted his foot to step over the threshold when the consoles in front of the command chair lit up and klaxons blared in the confines of the tiny cabin.
Startled, the hatch swung shut for the emergency lockdown and bashed him full in the chest, flinging him back into the commode and on top of his handcart of spares.
Hutchins was shouting, “What the hell did you do, rook?” while Benny slapped at his consoles, shutting down alarms and starting the data dump to Regiment.
Benny smacked Hutchins with one hand, said, “Shut up.” Then he shifted to the calm communication voice expected when talking to Regiment. “HQ, this is Burn 3. Showing ten, eleven, twelve targets—repeat, twelve targets—descending Placecard Six. Altitude scattered from 50K to 65K, hot descent. Data stream is active and remoted.”
Hutchins turned in his seat. He waved a hand vaguely toward the aft end of the cabin and said, “Crawl into the bunk. Grab onto anything you can. If we get a near miss, everything will shake and rattle and I don’t want you landing on my head.”
Defoe stumbled backward and almost fell over his cart. He stepped clumsily around it and fell onto the bunk, pulling his cart toward him and setting its feeble little wheel brake. Forward of him, he could see Benny and Hutchins pulling their chair straps tight, Benny maintaining a running commentary on the targets shown on the console displays.
The earth trembled underneath him and Defoe saw, through the ferroglass windows, the plasma plumes of descending ’Mechs, out in the distance, before the world in front of him exploded into light, heat, and screeching metal.
• • •
It seemed like a long time that he floated in the darkness, with no sound to disturb him, until a high-pitched keening started, far away, but still annoying. He let himself drift toward it, to see what it was but it was just more annoying there and he tried to drift away again, but the smell of smoke burned at him and the keening grew ever louder.
He opened his eyes on hell.
The ferroglass had disappeared entirely on Benny’s side of the Pegasus, with chunks still hanging in the edges on Hutchins’ side. The upper half of Benny’s command chair was gone and blood pooled underneath it. A smaller pool collected beneath Hutchins. The keening was coming from there.
The forward view was empty of ’Mechs, and a fresh shower of rain obscured visibility into the valley. Still, Defoe could think of nothing but getting out. He didn’t seem to hurt anywhere so he pushed his legs over the handcart and almost dropped into the hole where the commode used to be, along with half of the communications panel in the floor.
He reached for the far side of the hole with his toe and then pushed himself upright, teetering for a moment astride the hole before he got his balance again. He slapped the hatch access pad. He heard the bolts release and saw the hatch start to swing inward, but it jammed, with just barely enough space to squeeze through.
He had put his shoulder into the crack when he heard Hutchins’ keening turn into a howling speechlike sound, nothing that a human being should be able to make.
“ROOK! You crap! You Clan-hump. You don’t leave me here. You come get me. You shit, you come get me.”
Defoe froze. Hutchins. Hutchins was dead. The ’Mechs wouldn’t ignore the Pegasus forever. In fact, the ’Mech that had blasted the Pegasus might be out securing the factory at the far end of the valley, but it would be back to make sure of its first shot on the scout. If he didn’t get himself out, they were both dead. He moved again, trying to push his chest through the tight opening.
The
