“You’re a good merc, Lieutenant,” he told her. “I wish I had more like you. Take care, and remember to paint the skies with our songs of glory in colors even the ancestors themselves would be envious of.”
“I will, bass,” Sunshine managed to say through a choking sob. “Lion Eight, out.”
Killing the comms, she hurried down to find the prison cell holding the Blevin. Perhaps she could save one life this day, besides her own.
* * *
Lion’s Gate, Freeport of Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth
“Good luck, Sunshine,” Mulbah whispered into the dead comm. He had killed her link the moment she had signed off for multiple reasons. Primarily it was to ensure the Mercenary Guild couldn’t trace her after she left the area. Also, he didn’t want her listening in should the battle suddenly turn bad.
2nd Company was hurting. Their already-undermanned squads took a huge hit when the Tortantula massed their attacks. Only through the sheer determination of Antonious and the fortuitous arrival of the Command Squad did the Lion’s Gate still stand. They were still going, but Antonious was injured and Mulbah wasn’t sure how much longer the tough merc could hold on.
Checking his Tri-V, he saw 3rd Company was heading back to the Freeport with a host of Zuul and Besquith in pursuit. The Besquith numbers were down, and there weren’t nearly as many Zuul as they had expected, which was mostly due to Samson and the stalwarts of 1st Company, who had been wiped out to a man in order to ensure the world leaders who had been at the defense summit escaped through the tunnels beneath the mansion.
Only a few others outside of the presidential security detail knew where the exit to those tunnels lay, and it was a secret Mulbah was more than willing to take to the grave with him. As long as the president and others made their way out, General Peepo wouldn’t be able to throw Africa into its deepest existential crisis since the Congo Civil War. A true decapitating strike would have thrown Western Africa into a darkness from which it might never have recovered.
Mulbah knew they had been lucky Peepo hadn’t started the fight by hitting the mansion with a kinetic. Using the alien mercenaries, as bloody as the fighting turned out to be, was better than watching Africa burn.
Another CASPer jostled his arm, bringing him back to the present. His eyes took in the scene and his analytical brain broke down the combat situation. It soon became apparent they were all about to die.
“Boss? It’s Zion,” a familiar voice crackled over the radio. “We’re two minutes out. Those Torts still roughly where they were when you hit them?”
“Roughly,” Mulbah confirmed.
“Hit ’em with K-bombs in one hundred seconds,” Zion instructed. “We’ll hit them as the flames die. And for the love of God, quit shooting your MACs when the bombs explode.”
“You sure, Zion?”
“Hell no!” Zion barked, laughing over the comms. “But it’s either that or they eventually kill you, then come for us. This way we can take more of them with us before we all die.”
“Copy, captain,” Mulbah grinned savagely. “One hundred seconds and counting.” He switched frequencies. “Command Squad, 2nd Company, hear me and listen! Countdown to launch K-bombs in ninety-five seconds. Everyone launch everything for five seconds, then stop. On my signal, show them the pain and paint the fucking sky!”
“Paint the sky!”
* * *
Antonious was on one knee now, blood pouring freely from his chest wound. He had quit moving some time before with his left arm resting on the base of the great stone lion, keeping him upright. Exhaustion hit him in waves which were growing stronger with each passing breath. He could feel his heartbeat weakening, and there was a dull, constant roar in his ears with each thud-thud in his chest.
Tired. It was the only real coherent thought in his head. Fighting the deadly siren of sleep, Antonious forced his head up as the rest of the 2nd Company shouted something. Paint the sky, he thought. Yeah, we do that. The Kakata Korps does that. We paint the sky with the blood of our enemies. Why do I hurt so much?
A counter appeared in the lower right-hand corner of his Tri-V. It read 54. He didn’t really know what it meant but assumed it had something to do with what his men had been yelling moments before. However, the details escaped him. He grinned at this and shook his head, which caused a new wave of agony to wash over him. Antonious was excellent at adapting, no matter what.
“Paint the sky,” he whispered in a hoarse voice, his throat raw and bloody. His mouth tasted of copper and metal. Breathing hurt. Moving anything other than his feet was difficult, at best. Pain was everywhere. Was this what dying gloriously in combat felt like? If it was, he decided as he tried to look at his Tri-V display that he couldn’t recommend it to anyone.
The subtle whoomp of K-bombs being launched could faintly be heard over the buzzing noise growing louder by the second in his ear. He shook his head and tried to remember what was so important about the noise. He knew what they were, this wasn’t the issue. The question was why. Was there something else he was supposed to do?
The sound faded and explosions could be heard. Antonious remembered they were in a fight against alien mercenaries, protecting Monrovia as well as the Korps’ HQ. He had a duty, and he would be damned if he were to fail his men. Failure was not an option for him. Not now, not ever.
Coughing up blood, Antonious fumbled for the trigger to deploy his K-bombs. His fingers were wet with blood and the controls were slippery. Dizzy, he cursed under his breath and tried again. This time he found the proper sequence and launched all twenty of his K-bombs
Antonious fell to the ground, dead, his last bit of energy spent.
* * *
As the initial blast of the K-bombs subsided, Zion and the remaining members of the 3rd Company charged into the confused mass of Tortantulas. The spider-like aliens were momentarily stunned from the concussive blasts of the K-bombs, which gave Zion the perfect opening to wreak havoc upon them. Even the few Flatar riders were dazed at the ferocity of the Goshawk’s attack as they hammered into the unprotected flank of the Tortantulas. Feral Tortantulas screamed as their legs and abdomens were sliced open by the whirling dervish of blades, while heads were split asunder by the terrifyingly accurate gunfire from the CASPers’ MACs.
For the barest of moments, Zion had hope. The very thought of not only winning this fight, but surviving as well, had never been brought up while discussing the defense of Monrovia or the Korps’ HQ. The arrival of the Besquith and Tortantulas had been a shock, and after seeing the Zuul wipe out Samson and 1st Company, Zion doubted anybody would walk out of the carnage alive.
Optimism flared wildly in his chest. They could win. What had been unthinkable minutes earlier was now within their grasp. The Besquith were reeling. The Zuul were utterly devastated from the attack on the Executive Presidential Mansion; their numbers had been reduced from thousands to a mere hundred. The Tortantulas had not suffered the losses of the others, but the Flatar riders had been whittled down enough that the larger Tortantulas were having a hard time controlling the ferals in their midst.
It was a tenable situation, Zion recognized. If the combined weight of Mulbah, his squad, and the surviving mercs of 2nd Company hit the Tortantulas at the precise moment, it would be a hammer striking a piece of iron against the anvil. The Korps could win. No, he thought as he shot a random Tortantula square in the face, we will win.
His threat detector chirped and he looked up. Twenty K-bombs were on a direct course at both the Tortantulas and the CASPers in their midst. Hope faded as he saw his imminent death in those descending explosives.
“Fuck me…”
* * *
“Oh shit,” Mulbah muttered as his suit detected the launch of the K-bombs the same time Zion’s did. Whirling around, he saw they had come from Antonious. He opened his mouth to scream at the company captain before realizing the tough playboy was already dead. He cursed his own stupidity for not overriding the suit once he had recognized
Antonious was dying.
Turning back, he managed to catch a glimpse of the first K-bomb detonation within the seething crowd of Tortantulas and CASPers. Screams filled his ears as alien and Human alike were mauled by the massive blasts as the bombs ripped through the melee with indiscriminate violence. Body parts flew everywhere; an horrific visage unlike anything he had ever seen before filled his Tri-V screen.
There was little else he could do. Keying his mic, he gave one final order.
“Charge!”
Mulbah and the surviving members of the 2nd Company tried to fight their way into the maelstrom. There was nothing left for them to accomplish now, since the president and other world leaders had successfully been evacuated from the city, and Sunshine had escaped.
He wanted to tell her what had been done, what he and Thorpi had agreed to do without her knowledge. The Veetanho had explained there were different ways to transmit data without the usual suspects questioning anything, and with Mulbah’s blessing, he had done just that with the young girl. She would be a courier for them, taking the incriminating evidence with her to deliver to the Peacemaker Guild. They were the only ones who could help save Earth.
Mulbah fought hard for as long as possible. Men and alien alike died by the droves as the Korps gave as good as they received. The problem quickly became apparent, though. Mulbah had always known the relative small size of the Korps would be their undoing one day. He just never thought it would happen while he was still on Earth.
A claw struck him, knocking him off-balance. He fought off another Tortantula and shot it in the face for good measure. Another raked the back of his suit, causing him to drop to a knee as he tried to stay upright. Pivoting, he shoved the MAC directly into the face of the offending alien and fired a full burst. Rolling to his left, he sliced the leg off another Tortantula and tried to keep a third from impaling him with a foreleg. He only succeeded marginally as this Tortantula managed to penetrate his CASPer’s armor.
Gasping in pain, Mulbah looked at the massive fangs which were frantically chewing their way into his cockpit. The rank breath of the terrifying alien mercenary could be felt against his cool skin through the newly-created holes of his CASPer. He struggled but felt solid strikes against his suit’s armor as the frenzied alien tried to crack it open to pull him out and eat him. He wasn’t having it, though, and punched the Tortantula as hard as he could.
The spider-like alien stumbled back and Mulbah had a moment of space to catch his breath. He let out a primal scream of defiance. From behind him, an unearthly howl responded to his challenge. He turned and felt his skin grow cold and clammy. His stomach dropped as he recognized the newly arrived alien mercs.
The Besquith had arrived and it was time for the Korps to pay the butcher’s bill.
Mulbah fire his MAC directly into the gaping maw of the lead Besquith from point-blank range. The high-velocity rounds created a small kinetic shockwave as they passed through the meaty part of the Besquith’s head, which in turn formed a small amount of back pressure. As the round passed out the back of the alien’s furry cranium, the vacuum and shockwave combined to expand the rear half of the Besquith’s skull into a fine mist.
Mulbah shoved the dead creature off him and scrambled back to his feet. It was clear the aliens had caught them in a maneuver very similar to the trap the Korps had laid out for the Tortantulas twice now. He didn’t have much time to stop the wholesale slaughter of his men.
A warning light appeared on his Tri-V. The Besquith had somehow managed to dislodge his magnetic accelerator cannon from its mount upon dying, leaving him with just his laser rifle. He was fresh out of K-bombs as well.
Cursing, he turned and deflected the blow of another Besquith with an arm blade. The creature slid along the ground, its claws struggling to find purchase before it launched back at Mulbah. He brought his rifle up but the alien was too big and too fast. The rifle was torn from his grip and tossed aside like a chew toy.
Mulbah shoved his entire fist into the large mouth of the rampaging Besquith and sliced open the alien’s throat from the inside out. Blood sprayed out like a fountain and the Besquith stumbled, obviously confused. Mulbah took a step forward and punted the beast square between the legs as hard as he could, just for good measure.
The dead Besquith flew back and landed solidly on the ground. Mulbah had but a moment of respite before three more attacked.
The number of mercenaries still alive for the Kakata Korps were rapidly dwindling. 3rd Company, already devastated by Antonious’ accidental late release of the K-bombs, had finally been cut down to the last by the sheer weight and ferocity of the Tortantulas in their quest for slaughter. No longer fearful of being attacked on both sides by the CASPers, they were able to turn their full attention to the surviving Humans in their midst. With the element of surprise gone, the CASPers stood zero chance in the confined quarters against the Tortantulas.
2nd Company, even with the loss of their captain, were still putting up one hell of a fight, Mulbah noticed as he brought his arm blades up to block another attack by the trio of Besquith. Of all the companies in the Korps, the Jackals being the last standing in a pitched battle was not something he could have imagined months before. Antonious and his senior NCO, First Sergeant Oti, had done a terrific job training them after Taranto.
Of the Command Squad, Mulbah saw no sign. He swallowed, his mouth dry, as he realized there were only eight of the Korps left.
Not counting Sunshine, at least, he thought as he drove the point of a blade across the face of one particularly aggressive Besquith. A deep cut appeared across the Besquith’s lower jaw but it only seemed to anger the alien more. It raked a pair of long claws across his chest armor and multiple systems in his suit started to chirp warnings. The CASPer was taking too much damage to continue on.
Screams filled his ears as the number of surviving Human mercenaries dropped to five. Each loss was another shot to his soul, his heart ached with each death. There was nothing more he could do. He had failed his mercs, his country, and possibly even the world by trusting the Mercenary Guild. There would be no coming back. He knew for the rest of his short life, the souls of his dead would weigh upon him.
Tossed bodily to the ground, Mulbah only had a moment to realize the battle was over at long last. All the CASPers around him were a smoking, bloody ruin of meat and metal. On his Tri-V display, every single suit showed red. 38 mercenaries, men he had vetted, hired, trained, and led into combat, all dead. Thousands of Liberian Army infantry, wiped out. The only thing he had succeeded in was allowing for the world leaders who had been at the Executive Presidential Mansion to escape. Even then, it had been the sacrifice of Samson and the rest of the Leopards who had achieved that distinction, not Mulbah.
Laying on his back, he could see the sun overhead. He was surprised for a moment at just how bright it was outside before realizing his cockpit was filled with more than a few holes, allowing him to see unfiltered daylight. The jagged, odd-looking foreleg of a Tortantula stabbed at one of the holes in the cockpit to make it bigger. The leg also pierced his skin at the collarbone. He felt it snap beneath the weight of the creature, and he screamed in pain.
The CASPer, ever helpful, administered a mild analgesic to counter the pain and allow him to keep fighting. However, the alien mercenaries had other ideas. Standing on top of his suit, the Tortantula held him down and called out for one of the Besquith to help.
“This is their leader,” the Tortantula told the Besquith as it approached. “Keep him alive while you pull him out. His slaughter will be of legend.”
The Besquith snarled but obeyed, punching the suit to make the holes bigger.
Mulbah squinted as more daylight struck his face. A jagged claw withdrew and a second solid punch made the hole larger. Fangs larger than his head could be seen through the opening, covered in blood and saliva. Mulbah felt a shiver of fear run down his spine as he saw his death drawing near.
He tried to bring an arm blade
up to bear but a heavy weight slammed it back down to the concrete. The Tri-V failed as power in the suit died completely. Struggling to move, Mulbah found the bloodshot eye of a small creature looking in on him. It was the same Flatar rider he had tried to kill earlier, before it had managed to kill Corporal Obassi.
How long ago was that? he wondered. It felt like days but he doubted more than two hours had passed since the battle had begun. It never ceased to amaze him just how the Human brain could compress time. Even facing death, his mind remained analytical.
He had no real fear of death. It was his sense of failure which bothered him more. While the Korps had achieved their mission by getting the world leaders out of harm’s way, along with the president, it had come at a high cost. They had sacrificed it all to give them a little bit of a head start. Between this, and Sunshine’s apparent escape, Mulbah could convince himself this was a win for the good guys.
“Well, go on. Get him out of there,” the Flatar ordered, and the Besquith managed to rip the canopy from the CASPer. Claws dug into his chest, and he cried out in pain as blood began to flow freely. Lifted out of the suit and held up into the air, Mulbah was completely limp in the alien’s grasp. He had no more strength left, no more fight. He was beaten.
“Colonel Mulbah Luo,” the Besquith growled and licked Mulbah’s bloodied face. The alien’s breath was rank. The mercenary commander wished he had the energy to make a snarky remark about it. “You will be a delicious snack.”
“No,” the Flatar said and pointed his miniature gun at the back of the Besquith’s head. “He will hear the charges against him and be found guilty before he joins the slaughtered. There must be a trial. Peepo’s orders.”
“A show trial,” Mulbah whispered through his split lips. The impact of the punches from the Besquith had done more damage than he realized. Blood flowed from his scalp and began to clot near his left eye, obscuring his vision. He tried to laugh but only managed a weak cough. More blood dribbled down his chin. His lungs burned, and everything hurt.
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