Battlefield Pickup

Specialist Harrison felt horrible. His head pounded like his last awful morning on Libertaria for spring break as he opened his eyes and stared at the inside of his broken visor. Light filtered through the shattered alloyglass. He reached up, unhooked his helmet and pulled it off.

He could breathe again, though after his first breath he almost wished he couldn’t. The acrid stench of his burnt comrades caused his stomach to heave.

One look told him the HUD communications net had been destroyed by the vile TipKee long before being coated with regurgitated field rations. He tossed the ruined helmet aside before the smell of dead humans and the sickly odor smell of the rotting TipKee caused him to wretch again.

Without his visor the light from the low hanging red dwarf stung his eyes. Harrison couldn’t even remember the name of the rock they were fighting on.

Far off in the distance he heard sporadic rail gun fire. Thankfully, no one was shooting at him, at least for the moment.

Hearing the reports from the weapons made him realize he should probably check his own rail carbine. He discovered the R44A3 was still attached to his single point sling. He pulled it up, dropped the quad stack magazine and pulled the charging handle back. It wouldn’t budge. He sat up and tried again, bracing the butt of the weapon against a chunk of black lava rock. It didn’t matter how hard he tried, his weapon was seized up tight. He flipped it over and found a large piece of shrapnel embedded in the receiver.

As an enlisted soldier in the Republic Expeditionary Forces, the REF, he hadn’t been issued a sidearm. He cursed as he disconnected the weapon from the sling and tossed it aside. If he was going to make it back to his unit alive he would need a weapon. Looking around, he found the bodies of his squad mates, Timothy and Obenorf, fused together.

Specialist Harrison shook his head, then thought better of it as black spots clouded his vision. When they evaporated, he scanned the rough terrain. About a hundred meters out he saw the body of a lone TipKee warrior. He squinted in the fading light; trying to make sure it wasn’t alive before he made his move.

The high pitched whine of twin ramjet engines made him freeze. Being taken prisoner by the enemy wasn’t an option he even wanted to consider. Nobody made it out of those work camps alive.

He laid back down and did his best impression of a freshly killed Expeditionary soldier, which wasn’t too much of a stretch since he already felt halfway there.

As the craft circled overhead, Harrison followed it with his eyes. It was a black winged close air support craft the REF called the “Vulture” and was a terrifying sight on any battlefield. Its chin mounted coil gun fired massive 33 millimeter depleted uranium slugs with unnerving accuracy. Equipped with optical and radar stealth, it could hit, run and then disappear. This made the Vultures extremely hard for the REF fighter jocks to splash, despite their air superiority. The pilot banked north and the Vulture vanished in a ripple of air as its stealth engaged.

Harrison’s focus melted away almost as quickly as the enemy, distracted by a chunk of rock that was trying to give him a spinal tap. He sat up just in time to see two REF Sabre fighters zip overhead. If only he could get their attention! He staggered to his feet and tried to flag them down, but before he had even swung his arms once they were gone.

Standing there with his leaden arms above his head left him feeling exposed, especially since this pockmarked hillside was on the most war torn rock in the galaxy. It was time to move.

He reached the downed Tipkee, and one whiff of its aroma was enough to tell him it was dead. Its black speckled armor was pierced in multiple places and green ooze seeped out of its genetically modified carapace.

The exo-biologists back in basic training said the TipKee actually started out fairly similar to humans. They were fleshy, warm-blooded bipeds who had gone a little crazy with genetic manipulation and started to grow all kinds of chitinous layers on their bodies.

Harrison found the dead enemy’s weapon, a short black pulse carbine. Its barrel was a rectangular slab affixed to a receiver covered in rails. The designers must have been told to make it look evil, because it definitely had a right end and a wrong end.

During advanced individual training he had handled and fired all the opposing forces standard weapons but not this one. It must have been a new model.

He cut the sling off with his pocketknife and picked it up. Then he hit the green button he remembered showed the weapon status. Small characters appeared in the reflex sight. Harrison tried to remember his lessons on TipKee symbols but his head hurt too much to recall anything useful.

“Congratulations on your recent acquisition of a gently pre-owned Verdooni X86 Micro Fusion Pulse Carbine.” An overly excited voice said with an accent he hadn’t heard before.

The Specialist jumped, jerked the weapon around, and looked for the source of the voice.

“We at Verdooni Advanced Weapon Systems pride ourselves on excellent customer service. If you need any technical or logistical support, don’t hesitate to contact one of our friendly and knowledgeable associates for assistance.”

It was the weapon speaking to him! But if this was a TipKee weapon, why was it speaking English? And who or what were the Verdooni?

“This is so strange.”

The voice came back cheerful yet apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that. Did you say, ‘support?’”

“Umm. . . no.”

“Okay, let’s try again. For technical support, say support. For battlefield resupply, say, resupply.”

He looked at the reflex sight with the strange alien characters on it. Maybe they would be able to change the display to English, though he doubted. He cleared his throat and said “Support.”

The weapon paused for a moment, “Did you say, sales and service?”

“No. Support, support!”

The weapon made a couple of beeps, “Okay, I’ll connect you with one of our trained and knowledgeable technical support associates. One moment please.”

The weapon began playing soft alien music that quickly became annoying. He gritted his teeth and looked around. “Who designed this thing? All this noise is going to get me killed.”

The music stopped and the cheerful voice came back. “Thank you for holding. Your communication is very important to us. All of our associates are busy helping other customers. Your estimated wait time is . . . twenty six seconds. For quality assurance your call will be monitored, recorded, archived in our vaults, and used for training.”

The irritating music came on. And the Specialist glanced at his scratched wrist crono as it ticked up the seconds. Right at twenty six the music stopped and another falsely cheerful voice came on.
“Thank you for contacting Verdooni Advanced Weapon Systems, My name is Jim. Can I get your name, rank and serial number?”

“Why do you need all that information?”

The associate spoke in an annoyed tone, “Sir, I need to pull up your contact information before I can provide you with support.”

Harrison thought about it for a second. It wasn’t anything more than the information he was supposed to give if captured, so he figured it couldn’t hurt. “Specialist William Henry Harrison, REF, 00730061911.”

“Thank you, William. I don’t see you in the database. Is this is your first contact with Verdooni Advanced Weapon Systems?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“All right. I’ll create a new account for you.” He could hear keys clicking rapidly, “How can I help you today?”

“Umm, yes Jim. I just picked this weapon up and. . . well the display is in TipKee and I don’t understand it.”

The support rep made a quiet grunting noise. “I see. This X86 model is a battlefield pickup and you would like it changed to your native language of English. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Hold please.”

Specialist Harrison looked around while he waited, checking for any TipKee warriors on the prowl. Seeing none he glanced at the magazine well. Inserted was a cylindrical micro fusion cell. He remembered from training that they were only good for around a hundred shots before they needed to be swapped out. The dead TipKee didn’t seem to have any extras on his body. Harrison guessed the alien’s squad mates probably relieved him on any extra ammo. But then why did they leave the weapon?

“Thank you for holding. I pulled up the manual on your weapon and will guide you through changing the language settings.”

“Umm okay, I’m ready.”

“Good, now please press and hold the large green button located on the side of the receiver just forward of the trigger guard.”

Harrison did as instructed. After a few seconds the display began blinking. “All right, the sight is flashing.”
“Excelent, now up on the reflex sight there are two buttons with arrows pointing left and right. Do you see them?”

Harrison found them, but they were small enough that pressing them with his gloves on looked like it might pose a bit of a challenge. “Umm yeah, they’re kinda hard to press with my gloves on.”

“I apologize for the difficulty that may impose. Are you in a vacuum?” The associate asked.

“Umm no.”

“Is the air in your current environment poisonous to your species?”

Will took a deep breath. “They didn’t say anything about it in the pre-drop briefings, so I don’t think so.”

“Can you remove your gloves to better manipulate the buttons?”

He did, “Yes. That’s better.”

The Verdooni representative cleared his throat. “Now press the right arrow to toggle through the available languages.”

As he pressed the button the alien characters were replaced with another set of odd squiggly shapes. He cycled through about twenty until the good old Latin characters appeared. The display read, Shots Remaining: 8.
“Oh, that’s just great.”

The associate asked, “Is there a problem sir?”

“Yeah. This weapon only has eight shots left, and I don’t see any spare cells lying nearby.”

“Well sir, I can connect you with our battle field resupply department and they will be more than happy to assist you.”

Harrison sighed, “Sure.”

“One moment.” The annoying music came back on. These Verdooni appeared to be great engineers and scientists but their musical talents left a lot to be desired.

While on hold he saw some movement out of the corner of his eye. A patrol of TipKee warriors were coming up the hillside! He crouched down and hoped maybe they didn’t see him. Then a rock above his head exploded, showering him with fragments of pulverized obsidian.

Harrison cursed the aliens’ genetic heritage as he scrambled behind a rock pile. The firing intensified and green pulse beams raked the ground where he had just been sitting.

“Thank you for calling Verdooni battlefield resupply and logistics. My name is Krystal. Who am I speaking with?” a feminine voice asked.

“Specialist Harrison, REF. I’m pinned down by a dozen TipKee warriors. Ahhhh!” He yelled as a grenade exploded the pressure wave slammed against his head causing his ears to ring.

“Well, Specialist Harrison that does sound serious. Do you need battlefield resupply today?”

The soldier risked poking his head over the top of the rocks and fired a pulse at the lead alien, striking it in the chest carapace. He didn’t stick around long enough to see if it went down, but he’d seen firsthand what these weapons were capable of. As he ducked, a pulse laser singed his short hair, raising blisters on his scalp. Had the shot been any lower and he wouldn’t have to worry about resupply.

“Yes! You alien twit! I’m almost out of ammo!” he said although he knew he’d be dead long before any resupply ship could reach him.

The Verdooni representative hesitated for a moment. “Sir, I need you to calm down and keep this conversation professional. There’s no reason to shout.”

“I’ve got eleven good reasons to yell! They’re trying to kill me!” He scrambled to another pile of rocks.
“Sir I will terminate this call if you yell at me again.”

Harrison was breathing heavy, both from running and the double shot of adrenaline. “I’m sorry, Krystal.”
“That’s better. Now I’ll need to charge your account for a resupply. What delivery option would you like?”
“How soon can you get a full combat load here?”

A laser pulse shattered a rock by his feet. He turned and saw one of the TipKee coming around the hill. He swung the carbine and jerked the trigger, holding it down and stitching the enemy from crotch to head with pulses. In his panic he had gone fully automatic, using the remainder of his fusion cell in less than a second. The display blinked at him: Cell Depleted. . . Reload!

Krystal’s calm voice said, “Well, we have several delivery options, from our standard three to five business day freighter transport. . .”

“Do you have anything faster? I’m completely out.”

“We do offer express hyper-gate delivery, but it is rather expensive. Wouldn’t you prefer to hear about our Super Savings delivery plan?”

“No!” he yelled. “Uhh, I mean no. I’ll take the hyperspace one.”

“All right sir. I’ll need your Verdooni Reserve card number.”

The soldier cursed under his breath. “Look I don’t HAVE a Verdooni card. Can’t you bill me later?”

“Normally, no. Not on the hyper-gate plan. That service requires upfront payment.”

The specialist bit his lip and grabbed a fist sized rock. He yelled “Frag Out!” and tossed it over his rapidly disintegrating cover. He knew seasoned TipKee warriors had undoubtedly heard that before. He just hoped his bluff worked.

The aliens yelled and scattered Harrison took the opportunity to sprint for the next rock pile.

“Sir, my supervisor just walked by. He informed me we’re running a promotion for new customers. He’d be glad to authorize your account for hyper-gate delivery.”

“Thank god!”

“We’re also offering a complimentary pouch of frag grenades with every combat load order, would you like. . .”

“Oh hell yes! What else can I order?”

“Well, I would have to start another order since I already submitted it.”

“Never mind. When will it arrive?”

The TipKee warriors recovered from the fake grenade trick and started shooting again.

“The order was just submitted to the fulfillment warehouse. As soon as they process it, they will pass your purchased items through the gate to you.”

“How long will that take?” More rocks exploded.

Krystal hummed a few bars of an alien tune. “I’m refreshing the fulfillment display right now. . .”

A glowing red gate opened with a loud humming noise right next to where Specialist Harrison was crouched. A plastic tray with a bandolier of micro fusion cells and a pouch of grenades appeared. As soon as they made it through the gate winked out of existence.

“That was fast!” He exclaimed as he opened the grenade pouch. He snatched one, pulled the pin, and depressed the arming button. “Frag out!” he called as he lobbed the explosive little bomb toward the enemy.

The TipKee warriors believed it was another rock and charged up the hill. Three seconds later the grenade detonated in the middle of the patrol, killing three of the chitinous warriors.

“Is there anything else I can do for you today, Specialist Harrison?”

He was about to say no as he jammed in a fresh micro fusion cell into the carbine, when he heard another gate open. “What are you sending? I didn’t order anything else.”

Krystal turned down the volume on her headset with her blue fingers. Hot battlefield calls were always too noisy for her liking. “No, I didn’t order any additional supplies for you.”

Will popped his head around a heavily charred boulder. Sitting atop the volcanic rocks was a massive “Bulldog” main battle tank.

“Where the hell did that come from?”

“Where did what come from, sir?” Krystal asked.

The specialist swallowed hard. “A fracking Verdooni tank!”

“Hold please.” Krystal took off her headset and looked around the call center. Blue bald heads bobbed up and down at their terminals, most engaged in transactions, but one of the other representatives glanced over at her and snickered.

“VicTek! Did you just hyper gate a battle tank to Lalande Three?”

His bulbous head, large even for a Verdooni, wrinkled. “What’s the big deal?”

“You’re going to kill my new customer!”

“Oh come on. Your customer just took out five of mine.”

Krystal put her digits on her hips. “Yes, but only with small arms. You know a TipKee patrol isn’t authorized to order anything nearly that big. They would need the approval of a War Chief or higher. How did you get that requisition approved?”

He sat there with that stupid grin that she’d promised to herself to someday permanently remove from his smarmy face. Krystal thought he looked like a greasy used transport pod salesman from a disreputable dealer. She wanted to wrap her hands around his scrawny throat and choke the life out of him, but instead she had a better idea. “All right. Two can play at this game.

“Wait what?”

Krystal ignored him as she strode back to her desk. “Specialist Harrison?”

“What now? I’m busy getting shot at here!” He curled up as small as possible. A nearby boulder was reduced to slag by the tank’s heavy pulse cannon.

“I have good news,” she said. “We’re running a two-for-one promotion on precision hyper-gate airstrikes today. You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”

“Yes! Yes! Sounds like a good deal to me!”

“Shall I charge it to your account?”

“Sure. Bill me later, okay?” He answered.

“Specialist Harrison?”

“Yes?”

The Verdooni hesitated a moment. “I don’t wish to tell you how to do your job as a fighting man, but I’d recommend moving out of the area. The yield on these weapons is rather high.”

He could hear the pulse cannon humming as it readied another shot. “Actually, I’d like to buy a whole pallet of micro fusion cells.”

“An entire pallet?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like express hyper-gate delivery?”

“You bet!” he yelled as the tank fired, slagging another massive boulder.

Krystal tapped a few keys. “Order submitted.”

He waited until the gate opened. As soon as the pallet made it through, he dove for the red gate. He felt an odd tingle as he passed into the shimmering light. It was blindingly bright, especially since he’d just come from a twilight world. He blinked and covered his eyes as they took a moment to adjust.

A blue-green skinned Verdooni in coveralls gasped as he saw the human soldier lying on his loading ramp. After he recovered and stopped swearing in his native tongue, he clicked on his translator. “Who are you, and why are you in my warehouse?”

“Oh hello. I just ordered that pallet you sent.”

“Hey you can’t just. . . it’s against regulations!”

Harrison smiled, unaware that baring ones teeth was a sign of aggression for the small blue aliens. The alien shrank back from the soldier who said, “To hell with your regulations.”

The green button on the X86 micro fusion pulse carbine began blinking. He pressed it, and a familiar voice came on the line. “Specialist Harrison, sorry about that. It looks like we lost our connection, so I took the liberty of calling you back.”

“You can go ahead and fill the order of the two-for-one airstrikes.”

“Where are you now? I’m not detecting your signal on Lalande Three.”

The soldier got up and smiled, “Oh, I just hitched a ride back to your hyper-gate warehouse.”

Krystal put her large head in her hands. “Oh no. You didn’t.”

“Oh yes I did. Are you going to send the airstrike?”

The Verdooni battlefield resupply agent hit the cancel order button. “I’m sorry. It appears we just ran out of stock.”

“Hey, I’ve got to go. There’s a bunch of your people pointing weapons at me.”

The hyper-gate warehouse security team had arrived. They didn’t look happy to see the human.

Krystal said, “Thank you for choosing Verdooni Advanced Weapon Systems, have a nice day.” With a click she was gone.

***

After several months of investigations and questioning, he was finally allowed to leave. The Verdooni had him scheduled to embark on a slow freighter back to the Republic, with a very large envelope indexing every charge he had incurred. When converted to dollars the total charge ended up well over 3.3 million, enough to outfit an entire battalion of Republic soldiers.

As he waited for the freighter to lower its ramp to let him onboard, he decided to take a quick look at the envelope. In the very bottom Harrison found a small box about the size of an old Zippo lighter. He pressed the solitary button on the front and a small screen sprung to life.

“Hello Specialist Harrison.” A familiar voice came on over the communicator; mated to the voice was a pretty blue face, with large almond-shaped eyes.

“Krystal?”

“Yes. I’m giving you this device for when you get back to the Republic colonies.”

He squinted at the image. “Why?”

“I’ve recently been promoted to sales rep over all Terran people. Considering I helped save your life, I’d appreciate it if you put in a good word for Verdooni Advanced Weapon Systems with your superiors.”

Specialist William Henry Harrison leaned back on the bench and stared up at the large freighter. “So you’d like to start selling weapons to both sides of the conflict?”

Krystal looked down, “The Verdooni do not get involved in conflicts. We only sell to whoever is willing to purchase our products. This means we are a strictly neutral business endeavor.”

“Who’s looking at expanding into an untapped market?”

“You could say that.”

The Specialist grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll do it on two conditions.”

She sighed, apparently a universal sign for annoyance. “What conditions?”

“You get my flight moved back a few days, and we talk about the details over dinner.”

She leaned back from the camera and her large eyes widened. “Are you trying to, as you earth men say, ‘pick me up?’”

“Think of it as a way to improve our people’s diplomatic relations.”

She scowled. “So you can brag to your fellows back in your unit?”

It was Specialist Harrisons turn to sigh. “Most of them were wiped out in the ambush.”

“I’m sorry.” Krystal could feel her skin turning a bit purple as blood rushed to her cheeks. She had to admit that he was handsome, even if his skin was too pink and his head wasn’t large or bald enough for her taste.

“All right. I’ll pick you up by the docks in an hour.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said with a grin.

Krystal gave him a coy look and disconnected. As her screen went blank she leaned back in her office chair, and wondered which jumpsuit she should wear to the ‘diplomatic’ dinner.

Then she stared up at the ceiling and chuckled. “It looks like the Specialist managed to get two battlefield pickups.”