Glory Main by Henry V. O'Neil

Author:Henry V. O'Neil
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

“I guess we should have waited, huh?” Gorman’s voice came out of the gloom, disembodied and dull.

“What do you mean?” Mortas answered as if in a dream. His consciousness was drifting away now that they’d consumed the second ration, refusing to concentrate on even the elementary need to post a guard. The darkness was so total that it hardly seemed necessary, and even Cranther was in no hurry to broach the topic. They’d been going nonstop since the end of the day the day before, and even though their current position wasn’t perfect—­too easily trapped up there—­it seemed impossible to think of moving.

Gorman explained his comment. “Didn’t you hear that? That hissing sound? I think they’re putting up more flares.”

Cranther moved with great suddenness, his boots kicking Mortas’s as he got his feet under him. The scout came to his full height, facing in the direction of the settlement.

Mortas stood too, a grinding sense of alarm slowly working through his lethargy. Cranther’s hand gripped his arm to silence him, and that was when he heard the remotest whooshing sound, like someone brooming off a rough surface. Cranther’s hand started squeezing the fabric of his sleeve, and he forced his eyes as wide as they would go in the pointless hope that it would help him see in the dark.

“No, no, no—­” The scout was fairly wringing his sleeve now, and then suddenly the intense pressure relented. The voice was choked and staccato. “Back in the hole. Get back in the hole. Everybody down.”

Mortas obeyed instantly, throwing himself forward and banging his chin against the dirt. He’d landed on top of Gorman’s torso and Trent’s legs, and they all began squirming around to make room and get lower. The hissing sound grew louder, far up in the night sky, like the malevolent warning of some giant winged predator. Mortas looked up just in time to see a faint trail of light and fire passing over the valley, sparks trailing behind whatever Cranther feared so much.

Then it burst over them. Lightning and thunder at the same time. A convulsive wind-­slap on their backs blowing away the gloom like the birth of a new sun. A multitude of guttural growls, followed by a rain of spherical projectiles streaking toward the ground below, through the volcanic light. Mortas cringed in the seconds it took for the bomblets to reach the wrecked vehicles, and then the fading glow from the delivery rockets abruptly erupted into flashing fire as their deadly produce detonated.

In the instant of those explosions, Mortas was almost sure that the spheres hadn’t struck the ground. Only a few yards off the deck they flashed a blinding light, which was quickly followed by a sharp cracking boom that was in turn answered by dozens of sparks and popping sounds that joined together into a rolling roar. It reminded him of strings of firecrackers he’d set off in his not-­distant youth, but these were different: They were followed up by purple sparks and the

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