There was a crack of ice and a hiss of air, and Wit’s cockpit opened. “Talk to me, Mazer. What are our options? Any way we can reach the hull?”
Mazer shined his helmet lights up again. “I wasn’t anticipating an air pocket here. This complicates matters.” He considered the distance from the floor to the ceiling. “If we came up like planned, we could fly up through the air pocket with enough ejecta behind us to reach the lander. But the drill bits would never get a grip on the hull. We’d bounce off.”
“So we can’t bust through?” said Calinga. “What do we do? Leave the nuke here?”
“We could,” said Wit. “But it would do far more damage inside. Our chances of success grow exponentially if we break through. Mazer, could we burn our way in? What if we turn these gophers around and hit the underside of the lander with our lava spew? Could we melt a hole big enough for Calinga to launch through?”
“No idea,” said Mazer. “Maybe. It’s worth a shot. Trouble is, we’ll have to get out, turn the drill sledges around, extend the stilts, and get the sledges in an upright position, with the back end pointed up at the lander so we can hit the lander with our lava spew.”
“Calinga, get back in your sledge and go deep,” said Wit. “Get into launch position again. Mazer and I will melt a hole. If it works, we’ll tell you to surge up and soar through. We’ll come right after you. Then we ditch your sledge and the nuke as planned.”
“Roger that,” said Calinga.
“I’ll need to extend your stilts and get you into a diving position,” said Mazer.
Calinga closed himself in his cockpit. Mazer went to Calinga’s sledge, pulled back the side paneling, and punched in the sequence to operate the stilts. It was a multistep process that took a few minutes, but soon all the stilts were out and in place.
“You’re set,” said Mazer. “But wait until I’m back in my gopher and out of the path of your spew.”
Calinga waited for the all-clear then fired up the sledge and dove into the earth. An ejecta of lava spew shot back and hit the underside of the lander. Where it did, the hull sizzled and dripped away.
“Hull’s melting,” said Mazer. “I’d say your plan’s a go, Wit.”
“Show me how to set up the stilts on mine,” said Wit.
Mazer waited until Calinga’s sledge had disappeared back into the earth and the ejecting lava spew had stopped. Then he rushed to Wit’s sledge and opened the paneling on the side and walked Wit through the process. Soon the sledge was up on its spider legs, its back end ready to shower the lander with lava.
There was a hint of movement in the darkness. Mazer turned and shined his light. A crowd of twenty to thirty Formics was scurrying toward them. They didn’t look armed, but their clawed hands and maws looked ready to rip Mazer and Wit to shreds. “We’ve got company,” said Mazer.
His weapon was in his cockpit. He ran for it. The Formics rushed forward. Mazer had the gun in his hand three seconds later and fired the first shots from where he stood on the side of the sledge. Most of the shots found targets. Formics dropped. Others scattered into the darkness.
“Hold them off,” said Wit. “I’ll get your sledge into position.” He rushed to Mazer’s sledge, opened the paneling, and got busy.
Their helmets were made for piloting the sledges. They weren’t designed for small-arms skirmishes in near-total darkness. Mazer had no HUD, no targeting help, no heat-signature capabilities, no night vision. His visor was a pane of glass, nothing more. He had a handgun and a spotlight.
He kept the light moving, searching for Formics trying to sneak up on their position. Occasionally his beam found one, and he squeezed off a few rounds, aiming for the Formic’s center mass.
Moments later the crowd of Formics emerged from the darkness and retreated, scurrying back the way they had come. “They’re leaving,” said Mazer.
“Good,” said Wit. “I need two more minutes.”
Mazer kept moving, shining his light in every direction, gun up and ready. For a moment he thought they were in the clear. Then his light fell upon hundreds of pairs of eyes in the darkness, rushing forward.
“Formics!” said Mazer. “Two o’clock. Hundreds of them!”
“Thirty more seconds,” said Wit.
The first group had been scouts, Mazer realized, sent forward to see what the enemy had to offer. This was the real army. Mazer didn’t think he could hold them for ten seconds, much less thirty. They were coming like a swarm.
He flipped the gun to three-round bursts and opened fire. The gunfire echoed through the air pocket. Every shot hit a target. It wasn’t hard. The Formics were practically on top of each other, charging forward, scurrying in a frenzy, closing in on Mazer like a wave of eyes and arms and fury.
They were completely fearless, he realized. He was mowing them down, but they didn’t care. It was as if they knew they would overrun him eventually, and the individuals up front were willing to sacrifice themselves to make that happen.