Chapter 302 (2/2)
A'armo'o waved at his subordinates to bring a pair of chairs and a table. He shuddered and inflated his crests before slowly letting them deflate in an approximation of a yawn.
”Tell your men to begin digging in,” A'armo'o said tiredly.
Trucker nodded and A'armo'o found himself jealous that the lemur was so energetic after three days of mobile combat. Trucker turned away, talking too quiet to hear, one hand pressed to the side of his implant.
A'armo'o settled gratefully in the chair and looked at the Terran tanks.
They looked like every armored being's nightmares. Where every other race used laser compressed ion slugs, plasma, or high wattage lasers, the Terrans used mission variable kinetic munitions with a variety of payloads and fuze types.
He'd seen a single Terran tank shoot through three Precursor tanks with a single shot, killing all three.
Worse, they were fast, could fire on the move, and even fire on the inside arc of a high speed turn.
And apparently the lemur and mantid crews could live in the tanks for days, weeks, months at a time.
A'armo'o could see where several tanks had crews getting fires under control and shook his head at the idea of a crew staying in a tank that had a fire in the internal spaces, much less still driving it into combat and afterwards.
Trucker came back, saw the table, and sat down. He pulled the water container from his belt, then a metal cup from inside the carrier, and set it down. He dug in a thigh pocket and pulled out a plas bottle, pouring some in the metal cup and then adding the water.
”You able to metabolize alcohol?” Trucker asked.
A'armo'o nodded.
”Tannic acid and caffiene?” Trucker pulled two red packets out of a pocket, then dug out a few tan packets.
”Yes,” A'armo'o admitted.
”Got a canteen cup?” Trucker asked, pouring a red pack and a few of the tan packs into the alcohol and water. He twisted the red packet and slapped it on the side of the metal cup.
”Bring me a metal cup to drink out of,” A'armo'o ordered.
He would rather die than show weakness in front of the big Terran lemur.
”How bad was it?” Trucker asked, spitting off to the side.
”Nearly sixty percent of the planet's population is dead,” A'armo'o said. He caught himself wringing his lower hands together, almost stopped, then decided that he had nothing to hide from the big lemur.
Trucker shook his head, wincing. ”Like I said, we would have gotten here sooner.”
A'armo'o realized that the big lemur wasn't just offering empty platitude to make A'armo'o feel better.
He honestly meant it.
”Sucks when civvies get caught in the grinder, but the Clankers, they go after the civvies,” Trucker said. He spit again as one of the A'armo'o's subordinates trotted up.
And set down a small metal cup that belonged in a child's playset.
”Here you are, Great Most High,” the functionary said.
Trucker narrowed his eyes then shook his head. ”You're an armor man, right?”
A'armo'o guessed at the context. ”Yes. I have commanded tanks for over two hundred years.”
Trucker touched his temple then turned to face his own tank. One of the front hatches opened, one of his men stood up and threw something once and then again before vanishing back into the tank and closing the hatch.
A'armo'o realized it was a shell casing. Sixty millimeters wide and 120 millimeters tall. It still smelled of burnt propellant.
Trucker slapped the black painted shell casings on the table. The first one he poured the contents of his own cup into. The other he poured water and alcohol in it, then packets before twisting the red packet and slapping it against the side of the shell casing.
”Tank commander don't drink out of something like that kid's cup,” Trucker said, shaking his head.
Terrans are a martial people, went through A'armo'o's mind.
”Try that, Great Most High,” Trucker said, tossing the packets into the breeze. ”Keep Terra beautiful, litter Slatmurt.”
A'armo'o knew that it had to be a joke, the inflection, the slightly sarcastic tone, but he was unsure of how it was a joke.
A'armo'o sipped at the steaming brew and almost gagged. It was thick with tannic acid, caffeine, and alcohol as well as propellant residue that had dissolved into the liquid.
”Salut,” Trucker said, raising his shell casing and taking a drink off of it. He smacked his lips and gave a tooth bearing grimace of happiness. ”Nothing like the taste of victory.”
A'armo'o nodded. I will make this a ritual my commanders must follow. Victory or defeat, they will taste it with their own tongues.
”What will you do with my men, Terran Trucker?” A'armo'o asked the question that had been burning in his mind for three days.
Trucker took another drink out of the shell casing and set it down. ”Well, we could ignore the Precursors and go at one another like two drunks in an alley fighting over the last narcobrew and let the civilians all die,” Trucker said.
”That... is an option,” A'armo'o said.
”We can have separate theaters of operation,” Trucker suggested.
”Where you would be forced to rush in to save my men due to inferior equipment,” A'armo'o said. ”They have fighting spirit but...” he trailed off.
”I don't doubt your men are brave. Bravery and confidence doesn't stop a hyper-vee round though,” The big lemur said. ”Or, I can help you figure out how to refit your men, interlock you into the battleplan, and you can help us by taking on the lighter clankers while he lock horns with the big boys.
A'armo'o nodded. ”That would be better. My tanks are much much smaller than yours.”
”Wait till you see a BOLO, sir,” Trucker laughed. ”They make my tanks look like toy cars.”
”I hear three of them have been successfully defending a metroplex,” A'armo'o said. ”Our satellites cannot see much.”
Trucker nodded. ”Three BOLO's can take out a Balor in open combat. The Balor can't take off or the BOLO that gets a bead on it will blow it out of the sky. It can't bring in another Balor or other reinforcements of the BOLO's will blow it scrap metal. The city is safe, since they can even interdict orbital shots.”
”I hear you have former neo-sapients,” A'armo'o said slowly.
”First Telkan Marine Division and our First Recon Division,” Trucker said. ”They're disciplined. They'll fight next to you if ordered.”
A'armo'o knew better than to question Terran discipline.
”I am loathe to ask, but have you heard from your homeworld?” A'armo'o asked.
Trucker shook his head. ”No. It doesn't matter though.”
A'armo'o raised his eye crests. ”It doesn't?”
Trucker took a drink from the shell casing. ”Nope. Casualties are to be expected in war. The Sol System is one stellar system. An important one, sure, but even without it,” he leaned forward slightly. ”We can still beat your people.”
A'armo'o, before seeing footage of Terran fight over the last three days, would have scoffed at that statement.
Now he just nodded in agreement.
Trucker leaned back in the chair, taking another drink. ”But that's not this fight. There's almost a billion sentient beings here that are relying on us. If you want to fight after the clankers get thumped, you and I can go somewhere private and punch each other in the face. Right now, there's civilians relying on us.”
A'armo'o nodded.
The Terran made sense. Made more sense than his orders that he had refused to carry out.
”Let us work together, Terran Trucker,” A'armo'o said. He took another drink of the horrible substance in the dirty shell casing, finding it tasted better the second drink. ”Save these neo-sapients and let our governments worry about the rest.”
”Works for me,” Trucker said.