Free Hunter Killer by James Rouch

‘Boris is with the working parties. He’s safe enough out there with the other men, even Clarence. They’ve had an order to lay off, and they’ll obey it. Andrea I can’t be so sure of, so she stays here, giving a hand with the casualties.’ That wasn’t really how Revell wanted it. He’d far rather have had her here, in the control room with him, instead of upstairs. But he felt he had to display at least that much disinterest, even so, his thoughts constantly veered to her.
‘Major, one of your men…’
‘Shut the damned door.’ Revell’s shout was as loud as the crash with which Cline had thrown it open.
    ‘Private Libby, he…’
‘If you can’t take care of it yourself, then learn to live with it. I’ll be damned if I’m going to play nursemaid. Now if you’ve fixed that camera, get to work on the hook-ups to the launcher sites.’
    Cline shut his mouth fast. Bugger, bugger, bugger: the realisation that he’d made a cock-up by complaining occurred to him forcibly. From now on he’d have to think first every time, and then be very smooth. Still, if he did his job by the book he should be able to paper over the cracks he’d made in the image he’d been trying so hard to project. He’d have to, if he was going to turn the time spent on this harebrained mission to his advantage; and he would, or die in the attempt. Well maybe not die… but a neat and not too painful little wound would be in order.
    The worst cases, those with multiple fractures or internal injuries, were laid on the bare floor. The other casualties sat propped against the wall, all around the room. All of them were encased in plastic-coated metal-foil survival bags, the shining cocoons helping them retain their precious body heat.
    Libby had stuffed wads of paper into the broken panes of the single window, but it was only a gesture; there was scant difference between the temperature inside and outside the building. The day had brought no warmth. 
    As he worked to repair the salvaged weapons, his hands almost seemed to seize up with the cold. The metal of barrels and mechanisms stung and left cold- imprinted patterns on his palms and fingertips.
    The men’s breath hung in fine clouds before them, dispersing slowly in the light draughts. It was a perfect at-a-glance indicator as to the more serious cases; they could be recognised by the thin plume of vapour surrounding them, their weakened bodies barely being capable of shallow breaths. In two instances that vestige of white mist was the only sign that the men in question were still alive.
    Gunner Fraser, his own head bandaged, moved quietly from man to man, tucking the cold limbs of the semiconscious back inside their metallic wrapping, sometimes making a fractional adjustment to the position of a dressing or lighting a cigarette.
    ‘Daft, isn’t it.’ Libby slid across to sit beside Andrea, as she watched the young medic’s ceaseless fussing. ‘At the moment it’s the cold that’s keeping some of the poor devils alive, slowing them down, giving their bodies a chance to start to cope with the damage, but in the end it’ll be the cold that kills them. Why don’t you give the kid a hand? That’s why you’re supposed to be up here. Go on, a pretty face is always good medicine. Surprise me and give them a treat, smile.’
    She had never talked to Libby before. There had never been any need, and she would not have done so for any other reason. But now it was easier to talk than to try to ignore him, and she could turn the occasion to good use. ‘Will the major order patrols, or are we to sit here and wait for trouble to come to us?’
    ‘The intruder alarm perimeter is far enough out to give us fair warning if some of the natives or someone less friendly should stumble our way.’ ‘Then I do not know why we need to be here. Why not let the machines do it all? If they can find the enemy, why not give them the capability to kill also?’
    ‘You don’t mean that.’ In