Sons of the Lion

by Jason Cordova

  Antonious slipped on a piece of stray lumber and tumbled to the ground. Somehow, he contorted his suit and managed to slide a bit on the concrete before popping back upright and continuing on. A quick diagnostic of his suit was comforting. His CASPer had protected everything, except for his dignity.

  “Nice, bass,” Master Sergeant Oti called out, apparently believing Antonious had done the maneuver on purpose. Not wanting to shatter the illusion, he grunted in reply.

  “Yeah, got me some practice. We got to hurry.”

  “Yes, bass!”

  “Incoming!” someone screamed. Antonious had just enough time to look up at the sky before his threat detector lit off. A trio of fighters were coming in hot and low. Antonious paused and tried to target them but the fighters were already gone before he could pull the trigger. Irritated at himself, he radioed the American who was supposed to be preventing fighters from harassing them.

  “PAC Command, this is Jackal Six, over.”

  “Yes, Captain, I know about the goddamned fighters!” Donahue sounded frustrated. There was angry yelling in the background which was easily heard over the open mic. Somebody was not happy with the performance of their crew, Antonious realized. “They just cleared the city, so now we can fucking shoot at them!”

  “Just checking, PAC Command.” Antonious chuckled. “Jackal Six, out.”

  “He sounded pissed, bass,” Oti commented in a dry voice.

  “Ya think?” Antonious shook his head. “To the gate, jockos. We got people to save.”

  “Contact,” Sergeant Obaye called out from the front. “Got lots of Torts clustering near the shantytown across the street from the Lion’s Gate, bass. They…oh nkama. Bass, those aliens are eating people, menh.”

  “What?” On an intellectual level, Antonious knew Tortantulas often ate their enemy. However, it did not sit well with him knowing his fellow countrymen were being devoured by car-sized spiders with crazed chipmunks riding them. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, bass,” Obaye confirmed. “The army guys are getting eaten. It’s a slaughter!”

  “Engage the enemy,” Antonious ordered as the image of men being devoured by the giant spider-like aliens came unbidden to his mind. He shook off the thought and tried to focus. “Try not to shoot them army boys, ken?”

  “Got it, bass,” Obaye replied.

  “You heard Obaye, jockos,” Antonious called out as they reached the Lion’s Gate.

  Next to the entrance was the recently repaired ten-meter-high concrete lion statue. Antonious was pleased to see the Liberian national flag was once more hanging from the lion’s mouth. Even the graffiti, which had once littered the base of the statue, had been cleaned.

  “Kill the Tortantulas!”

  “Paint the sky!” came the battle cry as the nine surviving CASPers of 2nd Company charged forward.

  Caught unaware while in the throes of their slaughter, the Tortantula/Flatar teams had little warning before the CASPers crashed into them. Arm blades swinging, Antonious decapitated one Flatar who was unfortunate enough to look up and see what the commotion was all about. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he nimbly danced aside as the Tortantula tried to strike back. Antonious fired off a few rounds from his laser rifle into what he presumed was the Tortantula’s face, and the giant alien mercenary slumped to the ground. More of the large spider-like creatures turned, and the captain realized charging into the group of Tortantulas, while brave, was a decidedly stupid idea.

  However, the butchery of the Liberian Army slowed as the Tortantulas recognized the greater threat in their midst, and they turned to face the new menace.

  Antonius recalled the weak points of the Tortantulas were the spindly legs. “Jackals, hit their legs. Watch for the Flatar. You see one of them jockos you shoot them, ken?”

  Every single surviving member of the 2nd Company was too busy fighting for their lives to responded verbally.

  Antonious drove the point of his arm blade through the head of a nearby Tortantula looking away from him, and the suit enhanced his strength many orders of magnitude beyond what he normally could have managed. The tip punched through the armored head of the alien mercenary and into the concrete below. The Tortantula shuddered and slumped forward. He jerked his arm clear and looked around.

  Not seeing a rider, Antonious shot the nearest Flatar with his laser rifle. The rider screamed in pain and fell off his mount, dead before it hit the ground. The Tortantula reacted quickly, grabbing at his CASPer with its leading two legs. Panicking slightly, Antonious sliced at the legs as he backed away. The Tortantula seemed immune to pain as it continued toward him, even though the ends of its appendages had been cut off. He thrust his rifle into the gaping maw of the alien and fired off another burst, one-handed. Blood and ichor sprayed back as he finally succeeded in deterring the massive creature.

  Momentarily satisfied, Antonious decided it was time to create some space between the two groups.

  “Jackals! Back to the gate!” he ordered as he shot another Tortantula in the abdomen. The alien hissed in pain but did not fall. Antonious fired several more shots, and after nine direct hits, it finally fell to the ground, dead. He ejected the battery and slapped in a fresh one as he muttered to himself, “These jockos are hard to kill.”

  * * *

  PAC-VL Command Site, Chocolate City, Liberia District, Earth

  “Finally!” Donahue pumped his fist in celebration as the guidance system locked onto one of the fighters. Their erratic flight paths had made them difficult. It didn’t help that he’d had to remain on passive scanning so as to not give away the command site’s location. “Target lock! Fire Two! Fire Three!”

  Two small missiles launched from tubes over a kilometer away, their exhaust ports flaring as they accelerated to four times the speed of sound. The first missile chased a fighter as it swerved through the sky above Monrovia, ignoring the metallic chaff it deployed. The pilot tried flares next, and the lead missile followed the white-hot flare and detonated near it. The fighter leveled out before making a sweeping turn to the right, the threat having passed. That was a mistake.

  The second missile was following the first. With passive sensors only, it received all the pertinent data from the lead missile and was able to triangulate the position of the target. With twice the speed and agility of its deceased cousin, the warhead closed on the tail of the fighter without much difficulty.

  The MinSha pilot had a brief moment of warning before the second missile struck the rear fuselage of the fighter. Skin-to-skin impact kills were rare, given the capabilities of modern Galactic technology, so when the PAC-VL burrowed into the armor of the aircraft, the pilot had just enough time to register something was wrong before fifty pounds of high-explosive composite in the warhead detonated, blowing the craft from the sky.

  Donahue had a moment to cheer before he realized the command site had drawn the ire of the two surviving fighters. They swung low over the city, their cannons blazing, and heavy incendiary rounds tore apart the inflatable buildings which hid their vehicle. Screams erupted outside as the men working the site were killed by the cannon fire.

  Time was short. Donahue set everything in the command site to automatic and stumbled out the rear and into the warm mud. Blood and body parts were scattered everywhere, a terrible sight to even the hardened merc’s eye. He looked away as the high-pitched whine of the fighters grew louder. Glancing up, Donahue spotted them closing in on his position once more. There was no more time. His luck had run out.

  “Bless us, O Lord, in this moment…” he whispered as the aircraft opened fire.

  * * *

  Executive Presidential Mansion, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Damn it, Samson thought as Donahue’s PAC-VL command site was taken down by the fighters. As good as the 100-year-old anti-air missiles were, the fighters of the Mercenary Guild were simply too much for the ancient technology.

  His Tri-V beeped as it detected the fighters coming in over the bay. S
canning, he saw they were the high-G fighters preferred by the MinSha. Instead of three, however, he could only find two. Either Donahue and his missiles had gotten lucky, or one of them had backed off and gone elsewhere. I hope we got lucky, and they shot one down, Samson thought.

  “Find cover!” he shouted across the general frequency as streams of high-velocity rounds began to tear up the ground around them. One suit from Alpha Squad immediately went red as a cluster of rounds punched through the CASPer’s armor. His Tri-V identified the dead merc as the squad leader, Sergeant Seku Washington. “Damn it! Don’t stick your fucking heads up!”

  The fighters screamed overhead, causing a few of the suits to angle upwards as they tracked their flight. Samson was about to yell at them when a round punched through the armor of another CASPer. He heard the gasp as bright red blood exploded out of the front of the suit. Another suit turned red on his Tri-V.

  Samson tracked the direction of the shot and saw the Zuul were pressing the attack once more, flames from the phosphorous-laden K-bombs having dissipated enough for the alien mercs to move. The Zuul pushed forward and Samson, rapidly running out of space, had a decision to make.

  “Lion Six Actual, this is Leopard Six,” he said as he flipped frequencies. Firing his MAC at an exposed Zuul soldier, he grinned as the alien was torn apart. “Are the packages clear of the building, over.”

  “They’re clear, Samson,” Mulbah replied a heartbeat later. “Stay alive. The longer you fight, the more time we have to get them away.”

  “Copy, bass. Leopard Six, out,” Samson confirmed. Changing back to the 1st Company frequency, he ordered, “Keep them craw craw boys busy, ken? Alpha Squad, fall back to the patio. Use the barriers, ken? Bravo, provide fire cover. Don’t worry about the paint of them walls, menh.”

  * * *

  Tubman Memorial Plaza, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Joining up with Zion and the men of 3rd Company, Mulbah spotted a pair of exhaust trails over one of the launch sites to the north. He watched as one of the alien fighters was torn from the sky and then winced as secondary explosions signaled the end of their missile defense system. Unsure whether or not Donahue and his men escaped, he whispered a silent prayer for them.

  “Contact!” Zion called as the first wave of alien mercs appeared. Using the wide, squat buildings for cover, Mulbah aimed at the tell-tale shapes of the Besquith advancing on their position. “Light ’em up!” Zion ordered, and a wave of laser and gunfire ripped through the plaza.

  Mulbah squeezed off two shots from his laser rifle as he searched for the Besquith leader. Unfortunately, the aliens were moving so fast toward them that he had a hard time identifying the leader. With the Besquith, it was usually the largest and boldest Alpha leading from the front, but when the massive, dangerous aliens charged, they all looked pretty much the same—huge!

  The Besquith started to drop as Zion and 3rd Company laid down a suppressive fire unlike anything Mulbah had ever seen. Each shot was well placed and the sheer volume caused the first wave of Besquith to falter and seek cover. He could hear Zion cackle over the radio. It was a disturbing sound.

  “Bass, those fighters are coming back around,” Sunshine warned him. Mulbah looked at his Tri-V and saw she was correct. The fighters, having taken care of the PAC-VL command site, were now swinging east to assist the Besquith against the Korps.

  Fighters to his back, Besquith to his front…Mulbah and the Korps were quickly running out of options.

  “Command Squad! On me!” Mulbah ordered as he turned and faced the attacking fighters. Planting his CASPer’s right foot back for balance, Mulbah readied himself. He activated his MAC and targeted the fighters. “Bring those fighters down!”

  All five suits of the Command Squad fired their MACs simultaneously. The aircraft returned fire and their cannons, while not as accurate, were far more destructive. Mulbah heard the impacts of the rounds on the ground and buildings around them. One suit turned red, and Private Ibarra grunted softly over the radio before he dropped to the ground, a smoking hole in the stomach region of his CASPer.

  “Shit,” Mulbah growled. Ibarra had been one of his first hires after they had returned from saving the Korteschii from the lizard raiders. Despite the man’s constant refusal to be promoted beyond the rank of private, he had been a brilliant font of useless information, all of it hysterical.

  “Got him!” Sunshine exclaimed, and Mulbah glanced up in time to see one of the two fighters suddenly veer off, smoke pouring from its engines. It rapidly descended and disappeared from view. Mulbah targeted the surviving fighter and led it with his MAC. Rounds from his cannon stitched up the side of the aircraft’s fuselage but he was unable to determine if it would be enough to bring it down. The aircraft disappeared from his view. He watched as Sunshine went down a side street on the far side of the plaza, hoping for a better shot.

  “Damn it, Sunshine,” Mulbah barked. “Get back in formation!”

  “It’s coming back, bass,” Sunshine proclaimed excitedly as she returned to the firing line.

  Mulbah nodded inside his suit. “Of course it’s coming back!” he shouted. “The bastard is still flying, and we’re not dead yet!”

  * * *

  Executive Presidential Mansion, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Samson was running low on MAC rounds so he switched to his laser rifle as the Zuul threatened to overrun their position. While his accuracy was better with the rifle than the MAC, the action on the smaller weapon slowed his rate of fire. During a gunfight against a numerically superior opponent, this was a problem, he was fast learning.

  “Bravo, fall back to the mansion,” Samson ordered as he shot another Zuul directly between the eyes. “Alpha, give cover fire. Simbo, watch your left!”

  “Yes, bass!” Simbo replied and pivoted nimbly in his suit. A small squad of Zuul were attempting to flank their position, and he fired off a few K-bombs to dissuade them. He shot at several who decided to charge forward, killing the ones who were no longer protected by the concrete.

  “Medic!” a voice cried out as Bravo Four turned yellow on the Tri-V. PFC Doré—no, that’s Private Dau, one of the new recruits, Samson corrected himself—was on his back and screaming in pain. Somehow his CASPer’s legs had been blown off and the damage was bad enough to cause massive hemorrhagic bleeding from his belly as well. Within seconds of turning yellow the suit changed to red, and Private Dau’s screams came to an end.

  “Merde,” Samson swore in French, a habit he’d recently picked up from one of the newer recruits. The Leopards were losing men at an unsustainable rate. The way it was going, he could see no way to protect the underground tunnels long enough to allow the politicians and their lackeys to escape. He grunted and started firing rapidly, dropping Zuul mercs in rapid order.

  “Bass, we gon’ lose this fight!” a voice cried out over the radio. Samson recognized Private Asselmo’s voice immediately.

  “Carry harder, menh,” Samson told him as a fighter swung around for another pass at them. “Carry harder.”

  * * *

  Lion’s Gate, Freeport of Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  “Fuck me!”

  One of the Tortantulas broke through the line of CASPers, grabbed Antonious by his mecha’s leg, and tossed him twenty feet through the heavy steel gate. He crashed onto and through the metal bars and his Tri-V flickered as his CASPer’s right leg turned yellow. The solid impact drove the oxygen from his lungs, and he gasped, panicky, as his lungs screamed for air.

  Regaining control of his diaphragm after a few terrifying seconds, Antonious realized he was still alive. This was a positive. The long, metal rod from the gate sticking through the lower part of his suit’s leg was not. It had, fortunately, missed his calf, though not by much. The steel rubbed against his haptic suit inside the CASPer, reminding him just how fortunate he was. It was something that normally would have bothered him had he not been in the middle of a life-or-death fight against car-sized sp
iders with homicidal, well-armed chipmunks riding them.

  Scrambling to his feet, he pulled the rod from his leg, then he slashed wildly at the Tortantula charging at him. His arm blade sliced off one of the large mandibles near the alien’s mouth, and it screeched in pain and stabbed at him with one of its legs. Barely managing to get an arm up in time to block the attack, the blade sliced the foreleg in half all the way up to the first joint. The Tortantula jerked back far enough for Antonious to angle his K-bomb launcher directly into the mouth of the injured alien. He fired one grenade at point-blank range.

  The large explosive detonated the instant it struck the Tortantula’s face, liquifying the front half of the alien in the blink of an eye. The body stumbled back, already dead before it hit the ground. Antonious had no time to celebrate his victory, though. Explosions in close quarter combat cut two ways, and a large piece of shrapnel embedded itself in his chest.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Wincing in pain, he noticed a large splinter of the grenade had penetrated the frontal armor of the Mk 8 CASPer just below where he figured his heart was. The piece of shrapnel was not deep enough to kill but moving with it in place was nothing short of agonizing.

  Antonious could still fight, though, which was all that mattered. Staggering upright, he tried to target one of the Tortantulas but discovered his targeting array was off. The impact on his suit had jarred it out of alignment. Cursing and wincing in pain, he tried to do a quick reboot of the targeting systems.

  More of his men fell as the Tortantulas broke through. He was down to seven working suits, not counting his own damaged one. Time was running out, and they had barely put a dent in the Tortantula’s numbers.