Conflation

Part 17 —Distraction

Monday, 02 November 2009 23:18

Nasim was very angry at himself. He had been caught almost unawares by the Imperium soldiers. The net result had put both himself and Vanya at risk. Yes, he'd heard them coming about half a click away, but half a click was much too close for comfort. It was an unacceptable margin of error. He was also angry that he hadn't recognised the platoon as Imperium until they were even closer: whatever edge he was accustomed to having was obviously blunted for the time being. Damn.

If he'd bothered to stop and think for a few moments rather than forging ahead blindly, he might have reasoned that there might be Imperium soldiers here. Imperium didn't just leave its projects entirely abandoned, even when they proved to be failed experiments. On the contrary, he should have expected some sort of outpost. A small garrison at the very least. Something. The planetoid was an Imperium asset, and Imperium never abandoned its assets. Now the "something" was right on top of him. Practically staring him in the face. Clear and immediate threat. Definitely losing his edge.

There wasn't time to dwell upon that now. Nor on the fact that Vanya hadn't known about the Imperium presence here. Or perhaps he had, and hadn't bothered to factor it in. Now he had to come up with a suitable distraction; force these soldiers to deviate from their course. Avoid capture at all costs. They hadn't seen him yet, nor would they if he chose to remain hidden behind the sand dune where he'd taken refuge to observe them. However, Vanya lay directly in their path, and there was no way he would be able to elude capture. Not in his present condition.

Somehow Nasim doubted very much that Vanya was in good standing with Imperium, regardless of whether they knew or not that he was responsible for their latest misfortune on Salmig Station. Vanya just didn't strike him as the type who would bow to Imperium demands, conform to Imperium standards, or do anything at all that Imperium required of him. In fact, Vanya had probably gone out of his way to annoy Imperium, if only because thumbing his nose at the greatest power in space would appeal to him as a way of continually keeping himself and everyone else around him off-balance. The only course of action, therefore, was to keep them away from Vanya.

Nasim aimed a silent curse at Vanya and his theatrical delight in tweaking the nose of authority. Straightforward and unexpected was the best kind of distraction. Easy enough to accomplish, too. With one last look around him to get his bearings, he sprang to his feet and began to run, making sure his silhouette would be clearly visible against the bright, cloudless sky. A moment later a shout from behind told him he'd been spotted, and the muffled thud of heavy boots landing in unison on the thick sand grew louder as they gained on him.

He kept his pace deliberately slow at first, heading almost directly back the way he'd come: he was counting on the platoon of soldiers following him without deviating from the route he set, at least not at first. That way their passage would completely stamp out his footprints and make it impossible for them to track him later. When he was less than twenty yards away from where he'd left Vanya he veered away sharply and put on a carefully-controlled burst of speed. He heard shouting behind him; presumably the platoon sergeant was giving orders as they ran. There wasn't much time before they would regroup and try to snare him. They would send a small group of their fastest runners ahead in an arc to try to force him away from the direction he'd chosen, chivvying him in much the same way as a pack of hunting dogs was used to chase their quarry toward the hunters who stood by waiting with their guns. Another larger group would fall into formation and fire their weapons at him, keeping his mind on them, while a third group circled away from the first, to wait for him to run headlong into their arms.

He wasn't worried: the dogs might be dangerous in their own way, baying and slavering and determined to shred him to pieces, but he was more than equal to the task. The guns, too, failed to worry him. The weapons were powerful in the right hands, but Imperium was unlikely to waste good soldiers on a remote outpost such as this: likely these were raw recruits or else soldiers who hadn't fared well during their last tour of duty, and their marksmanship was unlikely to be good enough to hit a running target at that distance. It was a gamble, but one well worth taking. He knew where the weaknesses of Imperium soldiers lay, knew their tactics almost better than they themselves did, knew how to exploit their strengths as well as their flaws. He found himself moving instinctively, plans forming themselves effortlessly in his mind as he ran, plotting two or three steps ahead and changing plans as the circumstances dictated.

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The platoon had already broken off into three separate groups, splitting apart like three well-trained waves. A bullet whined as it sped by him, a good foot over his head. Raw troops, he concluded. Firing high. Training would put a stop to that eventually. For now, it meant he was safe. More bullets kicked up the sand a few yards ahead of him. Still firing high. They'd lower their aim to compensate in a moment. He put on a burst of speed and veered away eighteen degrees, slowed, then sped up again. Let them think he could only keep up a speed that kept him in range of the guns.

The soldiers sent to intercept him would be on him soon. Perhaps twenty or thirty yards ahead, concealed behind a sand dune. That's how he would have dispatched them, if he'd been in their sergeant's position. The weapons fire was growing fainter behind him as he began to outstrip the range of the guns. So far, he'd been lucky. No stray bullets had caught him. Very lucky. He broke into a sprint, veered sharply to the left, and launched himself at the small troop from their right flank.

For a moment there was confusion as the soldiers scrabbled to reorient themselves. There were only four, fewer than he'd anticipated, which was both good and bad. He had the element of surprise, and one was on the ground, twitching, before they'd so much as had time to react. He ducked swiftly under the muzzles of their guns, grabbed another soldier by the arm and used the man's own momentum to drag him forward, using him as a shield against his comrades. The man let out a howl of pain as his shoulder was wrenched from its socket and struggled to free himself, his training forgotten in his initial shock.

The remaining two soldiers were a different matter altogether. Nasim spun to face them, measuring their worth with a quick glace. They were moving in unison, trying to outflank him, their weapons poised. For the moment they were unwilling to sacrifice their comrade in order to shoot him, but that compunction wouldn't last for long if he proved too difficult to take down. Nasim almost wished there were more of them: a larger group would have been only slightly more difficult to handle while he was still relatively fresh. As it was, it meant that there would be more soldiers to deal with once he was free of these three. He backed away carefully from one, an older man, a veteran by the looks of it, sent out here perhaps for a last tour of duty, or to be a steadying influence on the younger recruits. The other concerned him less, though he was young and obviously very quick –perhaps enhanced. No way to tell.

The older soldier made his decision then, aiming his gun and firing. Nasim barely had the time to duck as his prisoner's head dissolved into a red mist. The bullet went through the skull and spent itself harmlessly in the sand a few paces away, though he knew if he hadn't ducked it would have very likely caught him in the throat. With all his strength he spun and threw the bloody corpse at the younger soldier, knowing the veteran wouldn't be caught off-guard by such an old trick. He heard a yelp of surprise from the youngster, but didn't stop to see if his strategy had worked. He feinted to one side, snatched up a fallen weapon and rolled neatly until he was at the feet of his enemy. He barely had time to uncoil like a wound spring before the older man's weapon was once again trained in his direction, and rammed the butt of his weapon into the base of his opponent's neck. As he did so, a spasm of pain in his back wrenched him around and made his knees buckle, almost causing him to fall.

He went down on one knee, turned it into a slightly-uncontrolled roll; quickly brought up his "borrowed" weapon and fired it almost point blank into the groin of the young soldier, who had recovered his wits enough to come forward again. The boy screamed horribly and fell backward, bleeding into the white sand.

Panting hard, Nasim rolled onto his back on the sand, trying to catch his breath. He'd have to get up and move very soon. The pain was gone now, leaving behind only a dim residual discomfort. There was no reason for it, and that worried him. This was the second time in as many days that this had happened, yet there was nothing ostensibly physically wrong with him. Quite the contrary in fact.

Whatever they'd done to him on that station, it seemed that the consequences were more severe than he'd imagined.

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