The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,24

the other side of the depot in shadow. More stacks of crates and barrels stood in the center of the spacious aisle. The wood of the crates was still fresh, the nails showing no trace of rust.

The Ordic crest was stenciled just above a pasted label indicating COAL, MUNITIONS, PARTS, or PROVISIONS. Some lazy soldier had left a dried paint bucket behind. Burns removed the splayed brush, holding it up to his face as a comical mustache.

“Sharpen up, Burns,” said Lister.

“Relax, Lieutenant. Can’t you see we’ve hit the jackpot here?”

“We’ll take only what we need,” said Sam. “Restock the coal bins. Crawley, you see if there are any parts you need for the big lugs. Other than that, we’re not looting the king’s supply depot.”

Burns dropped the brush and hefted his gun.

“What I really want to know,” said Sam, “is why Baird would go to all the trouble of leaving a supply depot out here without guards.”

The Dogs moved toward the far side of the shelter. Behind the crates stacked in the center aisle, the other end of the depot lay steeped in blue gloom.

“Hsst!” Lister held up a fist, fingers closed to signal a stop. With a glance, he beckoned Harrow forward.

The scout advanced only a few steps before he too stopped to listen.

Most of the Dogs heard it then, the sound of a spring expanding in a well-oiled chamber.

Harrow cradled his bulky weapon in one arm while gesturing with the other. His fingers indicated a shadow looming over a distant stack of crates.

The enormous figure stood out in a depot full of the familiar shapes of boxes and barrels. Its upper body curved in perfect symmetry, an oval with a ridged square close behind. To either side were more complex shapes, a pair of rectangles with cylinders jutting back and to the side. Blue-white light reflected off the figure’s steely carapace, not from the skylights above, but from its own torso, below.

Sam took charge of the hand signals. She sent Harrow to the center to take up a position behind a crate. Burns she directed to the left, Lister to the right. She beckoned Dawson up to support Burns, Morris to support Lister. She moved up behind Harrow and signaled those behind her to take cover.

A shadow passed over Sam. She looked up at a sudden movement across the center skylight. Just as she drew her long-barreled pistol and aimed upward, the huge figure beyond the crates emitted a low hum and several sequential clacks. It lunged forward, scattering the crates and barrels. Blue-white light blazed out of glass lenses on its body, briefly blinding the Devil Dogs.

One of the barrels smashed into the crate that Burns had chosen for cover. The impact knocked away his slug gun. He cried out in surprise as he tumbled backward.

The heavy warjack moved toward him, its four-legged gait uncanny. Each of its crab-like legs ended in a small, hoof-like block. The legs supported a massive chromium torso which in turn supported a fat, ovoid upper chassis. On either side, brass gears and pistons supported an arm: one short and buzzing, the other ending in a four-fingered mechanical hand. The lights shone from panels on its abdomen and shoulders, as well as from several lenses around a central glass eye.

Burns staggered to his feet and slung the pick-axe off his shoulder. He bellowed and raised his weapon. Before he could strike, the strange jack grasped him around the chest. With a quick mechanical action, it smashed him into the crates lining the wall.

A deafening report filled the depot as Harrow fired his weapon. A heavy slug grazed the joint between the strange ’jack’s shoulder and buzzing arm. Flaming, the shell ricocheted through one of the side skylights. As fragments of glass sieved through the wire mesh, Harrow retreated, opening the breech of his gun to reload.

The strange ’jack dropped the stunned Burns and moved forward, each step singing a high note of oiled springs. Its short left arm unit whined a higher and higher pitch before a steel disc shot out, tearing through the crate that formed Sam’s only shelter. Grain and dried beans spilled out next to her.

“Back!” Sam shouted. She took her own advice, retreating to the cover of another crate.

“Nets!” roared Lister. “Take it down!” He swung his heavy chain net overhead and hurled it toward the strange warjack’s legs.

Dawson and Morris threw their own nets an instant later. Two more from the men behind them struck soon after,