Sons of the Lion

by Jason Cordova

  Without loosening her grip, Peepo carried Thorpi to the window overlooking the city of Sao Paolo. She smashed the back of his head into the window once, twice. Blood ran freely down the back of his head as she relaxed her grip. Peepo turned Thorpi around and pressed his face against the glass.

  “You see Earth as something more than what it is,” she told him, her tone filled with loathing and disgust. “The Humans cannot be brought to heel soon enough. Their world is weak and polluted, their people lazy. Their mercenaries are dishonest and do not follow the natural order of things. They ignore the status quo. We will either subjugate them for the coming fight, or they will be eradicated. There can be no other options.”

  “You’re wrong,” Thorpi wheezed, his voice slightly muffled against the glass. “You’re wrong about them.”

  “How am I wrong?” Peepo demanded. “Everything I’ve said is true.”

  “You have all the facts,” Thorpi managed to gasp before Peepo used her powerful muscles to squeeze the smaller Veetanho’s throat once more. “But you have come to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Everything is going perfectly to plan,” Peepo whispered into Thorpi’s ear. Her breath was hot against his sensitive fur. “My plan. It’s just too bad you’re not going to live long enough to see it come to fruition.”

  Peepo slammed Thorpi’s head into the window three more times before she finally felt the vertebrae in his neck snap like a dry twig. Thorpi twitched for a moment before going still. Peepo let go, and the body slumped to the floor. She cast an eye at the MinSha.

  “Get someone in here to clean this mess up,” she said as she turned away, wiping her paws off as she strode back to her desk. She activated her comms, and it was immediately answered. “Administrator? It is time. Begin your blackout of Earth.”

  There was no response, but Peepo did not need one. The Information Guild was reliable, unlike some others she had the misfortune of dealing with.

  * * *

  Assault Shuttle Dranga-12, 42 Kilometers Above Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Subcommander Druss heard the warning call over the howling of the assault shuttle’s engines and knew the element of surprise no longer existed, if it ever had.

  The Zuul mercenary commander was suddenly pressed into his padded seat as the shuttle accelerated and began to pull more Gs. Around him, he could faintly hear the whines of his mercs as the additional gravity wreaked merry hell upon their senses. They were hardened veterans, but none had anticipated the Humans would put up much resistance, especially given the area’s history.

  The Maki piloting their shuttle suddenly took the shuttle into a hard turn, causing Druss’ brain to do strange things. The commander somehow managed not to vomit.

  “Hold on!” the Maki pilot warned, a few moments too late, as the shuttle somehow righted itself and blasted through the air, thrusters on full as it attempted to put some distance between itself and whatever was chasing them. The violent shaking of the airframe grew, and Druss guessed that everything they had been told about the Liberian defenses was terribly out of date.

  As the chaff from the Excelsior-class shuttle tried to distract the active-seeking missile from taking it down, a second wave of missiles, with their radar controller set to passive-search only, were launched from a different site deep in the heart of Chocolate City. They were from the modified PAC-V missile launch system, which the Korps had dubbed the PAC-VL the moment they laid eyes on it since it was now, after all, Liberian. These missiles, courtesy of Donahue and his company, had a lower heat signature and were miniscule in size when compared to their active counterparts. These were the real threat and four of the twelve assault shuttles never knew what hit them as they struggled to avoid the active sensors of the launch sites.

  Debris and alien body parts rained from the sky, most of which fell into the bay just off the Liberian coast. Over 100 Zuul died within a single minute of entering Liberian air space as the alien mercenaries bore the brunt of the defense network that had been emplaced weeks earlier.

  The surviving shuttles managed to make it into the inner confines of Monrovia and the pilots found their landing site easily—a large set of soccer fields not too far from the Executive Presidential Mansion. As predicted, it wasn’t even lightly defended. The Maki pilots had but a moment to ponder this strange phenomenon as the shuttles landed.

  Settling into the thick mud, the rear entrance of the shuttle dropped open. The air outside was humid and sticky, which made the already miserable Zuul even more so. Their fur felt damp and the body armor each mercenary wore chafed. Even their weapons, normally easily wielded, felt slick in their hands. Panting, they unbuckled their harnesses and prepared to disembark from the assault shuttle.

  As Subcommander Druss and his surviving Zuul mercenaries piled out, a new sound filled their ears. It reminded the alien commander faintly of a mourning howl, but orders of magnitude louder. In fact, Druss realized as he looked upwards, it sounded very similar to artillery. His threat sensors suddenly pinged as it confirmed incoming artillery on their position. It was going to hurt.

  “Incoming!” he roared as the world around the shuttles began to explode as the 155mm shells struck the dense mud and detonated. Subcommander Druss cursed as shrapnel and overpressure waves tore through his troops, and dozens of his mercs died with each shell’s explosion. He hit the watery muck and wished, not for the first time, he had never heard of General Peepo or any of these misbegotten, thrice-damned Humans.

  * * *

  Lion Gate Entrance, Freeport of Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  “Lion Six Actual, out,” Mulbah said as he ended the conversation. Samson killed the comms and sighed. It was time. He triggered the base-wide alert.

  “Imminent assault on HQ,” the general broadcast began. “Initiate Operation Stonewall. Repeat, Operation Stonewall is now in effect. All personnel report to your pre-assigned positions.”

  Samson set the warning to auto-play but muted it for his suit as he brought up the tactical overlay. He saw 1st Company was already in their CASPers and ready to reinforce the Executive Presidential Mansion, which everyone had expected would likely be one of the primary targets for the Mercenary Guild when the time came. Zion and the rest of 3rd Company were supposed to join them.

  “Move your ass, Zion,” Samson growled as he finished the warm-up sequence on his CASPer. The Mk 7 suit lumbered to life and the captain quickly exited the warehouse. He watched in glee as the air-defense missiles Donahue had sold the Korps launched into the sky. Dozens upon dozens of the deadly surface-to-air missiles disappeared as they sought their targets.

  Bounding twenty meters a leap, Samson hurried to get past the Barclay Training Center before anybody decided it was a good landing area. It was too perfect, given it was the only open space within a kilometer of the Presidential Mansion, and it was the primary reason Mulbah and Thorpi had decided to have the first artillery barrage hit there.

  Checking his display, he was pleased to see he was the last member of 1st Company to cross the artillery fire zone. Accelerating, he launched himself over a cluster of houses which were just outside the presidential complex and landed solidly on the last bit of concrete before the tall gate which protected the compound.

  Vaulting the gate with ease, Samson was met by the rest of the 1st Company. He saw they were all loaded for Oogar. Scanning the compound, he was able to determine the defensible positions Thorpi had pointed out during the prep period. The reinforced concrete barriers weren’t the best, but they were better than nothing.

  “Find your assigned positions and dig in,” Samson ordered his men. He switched to a private frequency. “Top, make sure everyone holds fire until they have a clear shot, ken? Don’t want to let them know we here too early, menh.”

  “Yes, bass,” First Sergeant Simbo said. “Who you think we gonna get?”

  “Don’t know,” Samson admitted. “They’ll be tough, though. You watch.”

  He took a position behind
the large concrete barrier which had been erected just past where Mulbah had saved the life of the nation’s president during the assassination attempt. Now 1st Company was there to buy time for the evacuation of all the leaders who had joined the Defense League.

  “Stay sharp, boys,” Samson said after switching back to the company frequency. His old childhood accent began to slip through the longer he spoke. “They come soon.”

  * * *

  Kakata Korps HQ, Freeport of Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Antonious looked at the landing shuttles on his Tri-V and chuckled darkly. The SAMs had been an unpleasant surprise for the aliens, and the following artillery bombardment had ruined their day. He checked in on the base defenses as a proximity alarm began to wail across the compound.

  “Six more assault shuttles, inbound,” Antonious muttered as he walked his Mk 8 CASPer across the parade field to the prepared defensive position. He looked over at Master Sergeant Oti’s CASPer and grunted as the Mk 7 began to stride forward. “Wait, menh. Those might not be Zuul.”

  “Who you think they might be?” Oti asked, pausing.

  “Not Zuul,” Antonious reiterated as the shuttles landed on the airfield near the edge of the base. These shuttles were better armored, seemed slightly larger in size, and had different markings across their hulls. He zoomed in as much as he could and began transmitting the information across to the rest of 2nd Company. His Tri-V displayed the symbols and his Mk 8 helpfully transcribed them. He swore softly. “Definitely not Zuul. Defense positions Delta! Move it, jockos!”

  The shuttles opened and Antonious began to shake inside his suit as he recognized a veritable horde of Tortantulas pouring forth from the shuttles. The aliens were supposed to be out of action, according to all the intelligence reports Thorpi had, yet here they were. Antonious figured either the Veetanho had played them and set them up for his mother or he had been conned by his mother as well. Not knowing the major as well as the others, Antonious put the odds at an even 50/50.

  “Boomsticks, this is Jackal Six, over,” Antonious called over the secure frequency.

  “I really wish you mercs would quit calling us that,” a voice complained a few seconds later. Antonious smirked in spite of their situation.

  “Copy, Boomsticks,” Antonious replied. “Request for fire, over.”

  “That’ll give away our position sooner than the colonel wanted, Jackal Six,” the soldier on the other end reminded him.

  “I understand, Boomsticks. But if you don’t readjust your firing grid, you’re going to let us get eaten by a bunch of car-sized spiders, over.”

  “Tortantulas?”

  “Got it in one, menh,” Antonious stated. “Prepare for shot at the following coordinates on my command, over.”

  Antonious fed them the coordinates via his CASPer. A moment later the artillery team responded back.

  “That’s…very close to your position, Jackal Six,” they warned him. “Confirm, over.”

  “Confirm last. Fire, craw craw boy.”

  “Roger, Jackal Six,” the voice nervously responded. “Shot, over.”

  “Boomsticks, Jackal Six. Shot, out,” Antonious responded as his CASPer tracked the incoming artillery shells. Since it was such a short distance and there were no buildings taller than four meters between the artillery pieces and the fire zone, it was a mercilessly short flight time.

  “Jackal Six, Boomsticks. Splash, over.”

  Any second now, Antonious thought as the familiar howl of incoming artillery sounded in his ears. Less than 400 meters away from the Jackal’s position near the storage hangar, the Tortantulas were funneling through a narrow point in the road, which slowed their forward progress as the low-slung temporary housing units blocked their path slightly.

  The Korps had faced off with a small unit of Tortantulas before and learned a few things from watching their behaviors. The first thing the Kakata Korps had recognized was the presence of a Flatar rider meant the Tortantula was, more than likely, one of the leaders of the horde. However, killing them off tended to bring about wanton carnage from the surviving solo Tortantulas. The trick, the Korps learned, was to kill the Flatar and the solos with a massive artillery barrage, leaving the larger Tortantulas alive to be picked apart later by a concentration of fire. This meant snipers and artillery, the latter of which the Korps usually did not have.

  The single artillery shot landed near the front of the Tortantulas at the choke point, the 155mm round detonating and wiping out a cluster of the riderless aliens in a heartbeat. The blast knocked a couple more off their legs and left several more crippled and unable to continue. A feral stopped and began to feed upon its fallen comrades, a sight which turned Antonious’ stomach. Others, urged on by the Tortantula/Flatar teams, pushed past the writhing injured with nothing but a glance.

  “Boomsticks, Jackal Six. Adjust fire north-northeast, plus 40 meters. Shot, over,” Antonious said in a monotone voice, his eyes locked onto the firing grid. The first shot, while close, had only killed the Tortantulas without the riders. This was good, but Antonious wanted to kill the leaders in the rear as well.

  “Jackal Six, Boomsticks. Shot, over.”

  “Shot out,” Antonious confirmed.

  “Jackal Six, Boomsticks. Splash, over.”

  The second artillery round smashed directly into the rear mass of Tortantulas, most of whom had riders. A giant plume of dust, Tortantula parts, and smoke rose into the air. Panicking, some of the Tortantulas tried to push forward through the ferals, which led to the riderless aliens attempting to turn around and kill what was threatening them.

  Antonious nodded. Perfect.

  “Boomsticks, Jackal Six. Rounds on target. Fire for effect, over.”

  He waited for the subsequent arty fire for a long moment. Given the short distance, it should have arrived almost immediately after he called it in. But, there was nothing. Antonious blinked and repeated the rolling barrage request. The artillery unit did not respond. He swore softly as he realized counterbattery fire had found his fire support quicker than he had anticipated. The HQ artillery corps was likely wiped out, leaving only the battery protecting the Executive Presidential Mansion and the eastern approach.

  Antonious brought his laser rifle up to his shoulder and knelt behind the prepared defenses of the warehouse. The Tortantulas were wise to the trap and had split into two groups, with one moving to the east while a larger one headed west toward the old concrete pier. The eastern path was prepped for any potential enemy, with the Liberian Army waiting in the slums of Bushrod Island to attack from the rear, while the Jackals were responsible for any excursions to the west. He swallowed and tried to quash any fear which might be heard in his voice. The men needed him to be strong. Everyone needed to believe he was fearless, brave.

  “All troops at HQ, this is Captain Karnga. Army, cover the eastern group. You know what to do. One group is going to the west, jockos. 2nd Company, let’s move.”

  * * *

  Camp Johnson Road, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Zion and the rest of 3rd Company ran down Camp Johnson Road as fast as they could, passing the occasional car as they made their way to the Executive Presidential Mansion. More than a little embarrassed Samson made it into position before he did, Zion was determined to make up for the lost time.

  Responsible for the front entrance and Camp Johnson Road, which ran in front of the mansion, Zion knew eventually one of the assaulting merc companies would try to take the easy way down the street to attack the complex. The problem he saw with the large building was it was rather indefensible, even with the additional concrete barriers the Korps had put into place over the previous two weeks. The steep decline in front of the Executive Presidential Mansion would be a death trap for any who took refuge there. It was designed to funnel people in and make them surrender the high ground, something that would mean certain death to anyone who tried to defend from there.

  No, Zion knew his best chance at providing
a delaying action would be to take the fight to whoever they had to face. The idea of assaulting the attackers sounded bizarre, but the longer he mulled it over, the more he liked it. There was the distinct probability they could catch the alien mercs before they got too close to the Executive Presidential Mansion as well, which would be an added bonus. The longer the Korps kept the president—and now, the other leaders from around Africa—safe and out of the Mercenary Guild’s control, the better the odds they could escape.

  “Goshawks, let’s move,” Zion said as he spotted a new group of shuttles in the sky. These weren’t shot at by the PAC-VLs; Donahue had warned them the launch sites would be quickly targeted by the Mercenary Guild once their location was revealed. He switched to a private frequency. “Samson, it’s Zion. More shuttles are landing over by the old Tubman High School. The front of the mansion can’t be defended, like Thorpi expected, so 3rd is going to head out. Good luck, Captain.”

  “You too, lawyer boy,” Samson replied.

  Zion bounded off, followed closely by the rest of the 3rd Company as they went looking for a fight.

  * * *

  Executive Presidential Mansion, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  The Reaper drone buzzed low overhead, scanning the grounds around the compound as the Zuul moved onward from the soccer pitch. Samson watched the feed in grim amusement. The dog-like mercenaries had paid the butcher’s bill trying to escape the trap the Korps had laid at the Barclay Training Center and had suffered severe losses at the soaked soccer pitch. While he didn’t have an exact count, Samson estimated the attacking merc company had lost 50% of their troops before they had even managed to clear the pre-planned artillery bombardment zone.