No Fear of Dying

By Terry Smith

“Oh, NO! Not Brute Force!”

Krieger’s mocking voice grated over our commpieces in a little-girl falsetto meant to convey apparent disdain. Krieger was a six-month convert with the Subversives. Even over such a short time, he was already battle-hardened, as the latticework of scars crisscrossing his face testified. He had even faced the Confederation’s elite task force on a previous occasion. Supposedly.

“Scoff all you want, Krieger,” replied Hanson, my patrol partner. His Confed LZR-23 gave a click-whine as he reset the weapon’s firing systems. “We’ll see how cocky you are soon enough if Confed’s bad boys show up.” His heavy breathing through his combat suit’s external speakers exuded barely-controlled fear as he frantically checked his grenades.

“Quiet, you two,” Krieger’s partner, Frost, hissed. The two were 50 meters off our right side, scanning the tall grasses and the streambed. “Hanson, stop provoking him. And, Krieger, where’s your sense of reality, man? We’re talking about Brute-friggin’-Force. On their way. Possibly to our position.” A long, shuddering breath hissed into my earpiece. “I hear they have a Feral warrior.”

Krieger chuckled. “Not no more,” he said. “Took ‘im out with a Sweeper on Sallus IV. Confed’s prob’ly still pickin’ up the pieces.”

Frost’s pickup carried the sound of him running through a mental checklist under his breath: “Case of frag grenades … case of rollers … ohgodohgodohgod where’s my extra magazines?”

I ignored him. The dusk was really starting to settle in. “What? Krieger, what are you telling us?” I demanded. “That you’ve killed a member of Brute Force? The Feral?” I dropped the organic sensor screen over my helmet’s visor and engaged the 2x magnification. A glowing representation of Hanson—his body heat—filled my view. He was 10 yards to my left, scanning the tree line below the ridge.

“Pierce has a point, Krieger,” Hanson said. He swept his rifle methodically through the trees, scanning for movement. “You telling us you took out Brute Force’s Feral all by your lonesome, man?”

“Naw, naw, naw.” Krieger drawled. “You need ta pay more attention, Hanson. There’s gonna be a test later.”

I turned my enhanced visor toward Krieger’s distant form. He was leaning against a boulder, messing with something on his armor. Frost was finally pulling himself together, getting a mag loaded into his heavy assault rifle as he trod warily along the far side of the streambed.

“I never said nothin’ ‘bout killin’ that thing by myself,” Krieger continued. I watched him as he tossed the stone that had been stuck in his armor into the mud. “Brute Force had been comin’ at us for several
minutes, as I recall. Didn’t matter what we threw at ‘em—bullets, plasma, lasers, rockets—they just kept comin’ an’ comin’.

“That Feral critter was the toughest, though. Guys kept pumpin’ him with ammo, and the danged thing just kept takin’ it, kept comin’ at my position.” Krieger snorted. “Course, by the time that monster got close enough for me to see those shinin’ red eyes o’ his, all it took was a near point-blank round from my baby here ta finish ‘im off.” I glanced back over to see him studying his Sweeper V. For a moment, he looked … disturbed by the memory. “Never forget how that monster glowed while it ran.”

Hanson was moving in and out at the edge of the treeline, using the trunks for cover. He laughed. “Point blank, eh, Krieger?” I could almost see his smile through his helmet. “Guess that explains your face … ”

A bolt of coherent light splintered a sapling two feet in front of Hanson. I jerked my head in Krieger’s direction. He lowered his smoking LZR-10. His voice was a rough, gravelly wheeze over the pickup:

“Never. Talk. About that.”

Hanson gave a short laugh. “Ooooo … nice shot,” he chuckled. “That tree’s never gonna … ”

The distant sound that interrupted my partner was unmistakable: The double-rush of air surrounded by a whining scream could only be the sound of a farcast point being activated. The entire group looked up at the ridge. To the sound’s source. To Brute Force’s arrival point. Somewhere close, a hawkbat’s shriek was registered by my helmet’s aural amps.

“They’re … they’re here,” Frost stammered.

The ridge above was instantly a distant war zone. The unmistakable sound of an RVG50 … no, two of them … roared in the coming night, counterpointed by smaller but no less deadly weaponry. Staccato explosions rocked the ridge above Hanson for 10 whole seconds.

Then the night was quiet again.

Everyone had sunk into a defensive crouch. Another 10 seconds passed in silence. Then 20. Hanson was in the woods, his back to a large tree. Across the river, Frost was gibbering into the radio, alerting the base, calling for reinforcements.

I looked across just in time to see the hole appear through his helmet. Then I heard the shot of the sniper that killed him.

Chaos. Krieger screamed obscenities, unloading on the ridge with a steady stream of rockets.

I yelled for Krieger to cease fire, to just wait until he sees something.

But Hanson told me to be quiet. He was peering into the trees.

Hanson jerked his rifle up. “I see something … I … whoa.” His rifle spat fire into the trees. Smoke and flame lit the night.

Krieger had emptied his Sweeper, was screaming.

“You’re dead!” he screamed. “You’re dead, I killed you, you’re DEAD!”

Some huge thing with glowing red eyes sent him soaring through the air more than 50 meters to crash next to me. His chestplate was crushed. I bent to check him, but the sight of Hanson’s helmet rolling to a stop against Krieger’s body stopped me … no … not just his helmet …

Ohmigod …

I turned to retreat, but was brought up short by the spectacle before me—a woman, badly wounded, leaning against a tree over Hanson’s body.

She was short of breath as she looked up into my rifle’s muzzle. She smiled. Then spoke:

“I’ll see you again … soon.”

My rifle flashed. She died. I ran.