12. Targets

Academy Hill, Vidako
Imperium Stellarum
September, 2847

Doctor Vogel clicked forward to her next slide, and the projection showed a divided image of the Spiked Terror on one side, a T-3 Tyro training mech on the other, and the silhouette of a human between them. A ruled line rose to both sides at the edges of the image, measuring height. The Tyro, it turned out, was definitely shorter, even at its highest point: a touch over sixteen meters where the top of its ‘x’ shaped chest armor reached above the head where the sensor systems were mounted.

The bright red dot of a laser, emerging from Vogel’s clicker, circled around the image of the Spiked Terror. “This animal is taller than your mech, masses more than your mech, and is adapted to the jungles of Vidako. It not only evolved here—under four percent higher than standard Terran gravity—it also survived our mass-lifting operation and the limited terraforming we’ve undertaken. Do not underestimate it.”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of that,” Vee grumbled, and Arc couldn’t help but agree with her. He wasn’t about to look down on any predator bigger than a mech.

Milla Cieszyński raised her hand. “I don’t doubt it’s very dangerous, sir,” she said. “Especially to infantry caught outside of vehicles. But no animal has mech-grade armor or ranged weapons. Even a Centauran Optics L-27 light laser should burn through its skull nine kilometers out—never mind something heavier.”

“If you can get a clear shot nine kilometers out, perhaps,” Doctor Vogel admitted. She walked over to her table and yanked one of the sheets aside, revealing a segment of metal that only registered to Arc’s eyes as armor after a moment. It was so twisted, crushed and deformed that the original shape was impossible to determine.

“This is RSiNC light armor plating from the forearm of a Tyro,” Vogel explained. “It’s rated to resist a 20 millimeter revolving autocannon, ultrasonic claws, and even that light laser Cadet Cieszyński was speaking about. You will notice that, given sufficient time, a Spiked Terror was able to thoroughly demolish that armor.”

“The terror’s jaws can exert more force than any predator ever known to exist over the entire history of Terra,” the xenobiologist continued. “It evolved under high gravity conditions, meaning that its bones and teeth are far more dense, its muscles far more efficient, and its circulatory system hyper-efficient. We’ve reduced the gravity of this world by mass lifting, but there haven’t been enough generations for natural selection to substantially alter the DNA of a creature like this. The Spiked Terror—or terribilis cornibus, if you prefer the formal classification—is capable of exerting a force roughly equal to twenty-thousand psi, concentrated at the tip of a tooth like this.”

She pulled another sheet aside, and hefted, with both hands, a slightly curved tooth the size of her forearm, showing it to the entire audience.

“Even something like that would need time to do the damage that armor is showing,” one of the technical students called down, without raising her hand first. Arc looked back to see that she was slouched in her seat, not bothering to take notes, with curly dark hair only half-tamed by a bun. “It wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t give el monstruo there a chance or two to use the mech as a chew toy.”

Cal Madine stirred. “Which means it’s a failure of command,” he said. “A proper camp, or convoy, with sentries and scouting patrols, would see something like that coming long before it became a problem.”

“Not necessarily,” Arc said, speaking up before he’d even realized he was opening his mouth. “Of course you don’t want to get in close, but that’s a predator which has evolved to hunt in these jungles. And most predators are ambush predators.” He looked over to Doctor Vogel, and she gave him a nod.

“Well, the ambush has been a tactic throughout the entire history of warfare,” Arc went on, all too aware of just how many cadets were now focused on him. “The means change with the terrain and the technology, but the basic tactic hasn’t, from Pearl Harbor, to the Tet Offensive, to the Singularity drones at Wolf 1069. Saying that it can’t happen, or that the solution is just ‘don’t get ambushed’ doesn’t really address the problem. A good commander needs to have a plan for when something does go wrong, even while doing everything they can to prevent it.”

“And you’d know what makes a good commander?” Cal shot back, his tone positively acidic.

“He’s right, though,” Cassie said, before Arc could marshall his own response. “Set your sentries, use your scouts, take the things out at range if you can, absolutely. But clearly they’ve got in close at least once before, or there wouldn’t be a piece of crumbled armor on that table right now. Anyone who goes out into the jungle needs a plan for if that happens again.” She sat back in her chair, and shrugged. “Personally, my plan would be a plasma blade to the face, and enough fuel in my jets to dance circles around the thing.”

“And you, Cadet Sandhurst?” Doctor Vogel asked.

“Squad based tactics,” Arc said, without hesitation. “It can only bite one mech at a time. That leaves it open to your wingmates. I’m sure the academy can program those things into a sim, right?” Vogel nodded. “So we should train against them. If it gets its jaws on one mech, that pilot needs to keep its attention long enough that someone else can disable it. I’d start with those rear legs—take out even one, and it won’t be able to move effectively.”

“Ten merits to Sandhurst, five to Sabran-Solaris,” Doctor Vogel declared. “Now, let’s take a look at what those zombie flies can do to a human body. This corpse has been preserved by means of replacing the water and fatty materials in the cells with plastics, but I’ll warn you that it’s a rather gruesome sight anyway. If you start to feel sick, there are lavatories in the corridor, and you may leave the lecture hall without asking for permission, in this particular instance.”

The xenobiologist tore another sheet away, and every cadet in the room flinched at once.

𝝮

Arc found it easiest to shoot while lying prone.

Unfortunately, there were three firing positions required to qualify with the BA-50, and that wasn’t one of them. Instead, he had to shift between kneeling, standing behind a barricade, and standing without anything to rest the rifle against. It didn’t help to watch people like Cal Madine, who’d clearly been handling a rifle since he was old enough to walk, and Milla Cieszyński, crush their way through the test. Not only had both passed, Cal had earned a sharpshooter badge, while Milla was the only one yet who’d hit every single target, making her their class’s first expert.

“Not nearly as hard as hunting mist-hawks with my grandfather,” she’d remarked, tossing back an errant strand of blonde hair while the rest of the cadets applauded. Lieutenant Kekoa had been so pleased that he’d given her twenty merits, right then and there.

Fifteen shots in each position, Arc thought to himself, as he watched Cassie finish up. They always ended up next to each other, because ‘Sabran’ came just before ‘Sandhurst,’ but he didn’t mind. Twenty-five hits. That’s all I need—twenty-five.

In fact, he counted along with his friend, because it gave him something else to do besides get stuck in his own head while he waited his turn. When Cassie passed the minimum to qualify with the rifle, Arc did his best to be happy for her. At the thirty-third hit, when she made sharpshooter on a pop-up target shaped to look like a Singularity quad-drone, he actually was able to smile. She missed expert by a single shot, but was still grinning when she finished.

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“Congratulations,” Arc said.

Cassie bumped her fist into his shoulder and gave him a grin. “You can do this.”