Thompson hooks a hand behind the Geek’s neck and presses their helmets together.
“Have the rope ready.”
Beckert nods and takes the coils from his shoulder.
Thompson resumes his study of the alien city, tracing the line of a main street toward the city center; only now, the mass of blueskins is surging away, stampeding in panic. At the edges of the herd, uniformed aliens with modest rifles fight their way against the fleeing current. They point directly at Thompson, their mouths wide open and shouting.
Thompson shrinks from the glass just as an energy bolt crosses the thick pane and explodes the water in front of him. The concussion jolts him backward over the ledge. Beckert’s hand flies out and grips his leader by the media sacks, pulling him back to the ledge.
More bolts cross the glass, vaporizing the seawater in concussive shocks, as Thompson and Beckert slide along the ledge toward Argo. Frantically, Thompson signals Argo to set the explosive.
Argo slams a wad of putty at the center of a hexagonal section. He mashes the timer and snatches his teammates by the arm, dragging them off the ledge.
The charge detonates with teeth cracking force, stunning all three operators.
When he comes to, Thompson thrashes. His hands flop against the dark gray foundation, but gravity seems reversed—he is being pulled up the monolith. Sand and ropes of seaweed streak by, catching under his arms and groin. Turning his gaze upward, he watches the limp forms of Argo and Beckert slurped over the top of the foundation.
The Gun clambers for a handhold, scraping his gauntlets over smooth stone. There is nothing to grip but his rifle. With grim acceptance, he curls into a ball and submits to the overwhelming draw.
The current pulls him faster up the foundation. It rips him over the ledge and spits him through the gaping hole like a cannon ball. He is weightless, careening through air, surrounded by tumbling blobs of water. He glances off something solid, spins wildly, and slams onto a flat surface. A torrent of seawater blasts over him, shoving him into a metal railing. He folds at the waist around the vertical pole, instinctively clutching the bar. A frothing river washes by, compressing his midsection. He forces the bitter fluids of nausea back to his gut and gasps for air.
Using the railing for support, he drags himself out of the gushing seawater and gets to his feet. He opens the latches of his weapon, hastily clearing the water.
“Brick, Geek, transmit your positions!”
Two dots illuminate in his visor to the left and right, several meters below him. Thompson runs left and looks over the railing, seeing he is on the roof of a three story building. Seawater sprays violently across the rooftop and flows over the edges in long curtains.
The Gun latches his weapon together and plugs the stock into his shoulder, raising the water-flecked scope to his eye. With the aid of the illuminated dot, he finds Argo hobbling through knee deep water in the street and limping badly.
“Enemy sighted. Permission to engage?” the Brick radios.
“Weapons free!” Thompson replies.
The Brick’s cannon lances a channel into the panicked mob, vaporizing flesh and bone concussively. Braying yelps and terrified screams echo with the cannon’s deep Bah-ROOM.
Thompson scans the area ahead of his comrade through his scope and spies a group of enemy soldiers huddled at the corner of a building. Each holds a rifle in one hand and a small orb in the other.
“Brick, hold, ambush ahead, 100 meters, left. Painting target.” Thompson dials his weapon down and triggers a continuous beam at the ambush.
“Received.” Argo halts, thumbs up the cannon output, and leans forward. The weapon discharges, burning through the building and exploding the ambush on the far side. Clouds of dust and smoke pour from the detonation.
“Targets destroyed,” Thompson confirms.
Argo trots into the dust cloud.
Beckert’s roaring machine pistols call Thompson to the opposite side of the roof. The Gun zeroes in on the illuminated dot in his visor, and he finds Beckert pinned down behind the body of a large animal. The animal lifts its horned head from the ground and bellows as energy bolts repeatedly plunge into it. Beckert slides and rolls behind the animal, blindly returning fire.
Thompson tracks the flashes of enemy weapons with his visor, plotting their positions, and triggers clean headshots in swift succession.
“Geek, you’re clear,” Thompson radios. “Move up and support Brick.”
“Received, moving now.” Beckert stands from behind the slumped beast and sprints after Argo.
Before he leaves his perch, Thompson looks through his scope to the center of the city. Thousands of individual aliens blend into a sea of blue and yellow, flowing up a ramp toward shore. Tall buildings block most of the ramp; but in the gaps, Thompson sees uniformed aliens, mouths wide with inaudible speech. Rather than flinching from the shouting soldiers, the reptilian mob forms orderly rows. Their hunched shoulders relax, their tails lose the anxious swish, and their eyes seem less wide as they file up the grade.
Vicious, short thumps draw the Gun’s attention. He swings his scope left, where fresh clouds billow in the street. The scope compensates in infrared and in the cloud he sees two dark shapes running parallel. One sprouts flashes of flame at the end of each arm. The other, much thicker, limps quickly and lobs small objects ahead of itself. The pair disappears behind a building.
Thompson vaults over the roof railing and splashes down in waist deep seawater. He charges through the rising flood after his teammates, leaving a V-shaped wake. Haze fills the air, making the emptied section of city seem ghostly and surreal.
The noise of combat pulls him as if he were on a line. There is no longer nausea or pain in him, only the thought of bringing death to the enemy. Chemical triggers fire his awareness and reflexes, amplifying his skill and training.
His legs power through the eddied currents, treading on submerged blue bodies, until he reaches water low enough that he can run. His boots fly over the water surface, plunging with great splashes and propelling him onto drier ground. All around him lay the enemy, dead or dying. Some are whole. Most are in pieces.
“Brick, Geek, approaching from rear. Report.”
“Cutting a path,” Argo grunts, “We’re takin’ a lotta heat.”
“Understood. Will support.”
As Thompson races through the smog, hot tracers zip through the air ahead. His visor saves the angles, locating the sources of fire. With smooth automation, he dials up his weapon output and snaps shot after shot, exploding reptilian skulls and torsos with concentrated energy.
A great wailing echoes from the buildings and streets, seemingly everywhere at once. Random fires glow in infrared. Bodies litter the ground like cut hay. Though he cannot see his team through smoke and dust, Thompson knows they are close.
The smog ahead strobes as Beckert’s pistols chatter in extended bursts. A brief violet glow silhouettes Argo as his cannon builds up to maximum, and the beam leaps into a barricade violently. Shots rain down on the pair, some connecting. Beckert staggers, yet keeps his feet, and returns fire with deadly accuracy. Argo shrugs at the hits and swings his cannon into the herd.
As before, Thompson traces the lines of fire. He aims, triggers, and kills.
“Twenty meters behind you,” Thompson radios. “Get up that…”
A rocket streaks into the ground ahead of the Gun and explodes, tossing him end over end. All sounds are gone but a single, high-pitched tone. He lands flat on his back, and in his disorientation, he imagines a circle of people around him randomly striking his armor with heavy mallets.
The smoke strobes with bright flashes close by, and a dark figure takes his arm. The figure stumbles repeatedly, dragging him past a pair of legs like tree trunks. A violet glow gathers in the haze and leaps away. More rapid flashes, and the ground shudders intensely.
At last, Thompson’s eyes converge. Raging sounds around him filter in as though he were slowly removing earplugs. Strength returns to
his limbs and he feels for his rifle. Finding it beside him, he snatches it from the dusty gravel and props himself into a kneeling crouch.
The Gun looks around himself at a narrow alley. Beckert crouches at the entrance, pistols raised high at the buildings across the street. One pistol fires dry, and the Geek drops the spent clip. He slaps the emptied grip over one of the thick bristles on his thigh and lifts. Reloaded, the pistol action slides home, and Beckert sprays an opening window across the street.
Outside the alley, Argo sidesteps, triggering devastating shots from his cannon like a slow-rolling tank.
Thompson stands beside an open window and looks into the surprised face of a blueskin soldier. The reptilian barks, mashing a button on a small orb. Thompson smashes the creature with his rifle butt and runs, grabbing Beckert by his back rack.
The alley corner explodes with a sharp crack, pummeling the team with chunky debris. The destabilized structure groans then leans.
“Move, move!” Thompson orders.
The building pitches forward and collapses into the street with a resounding thud, choking the air with thick dust. Immediately, the weapon fire ceases, and the echoes of combat fade.
Completely obscured, the operators hustle toward the ramp, guided by braying coughs and terrified mewls. A singular glow of heat emerges in Thompson’s visor—the collective press of azure reptilians stalled on the ramp. He leads his team headlong into it, pushing his way through the blinded, confused creatures. Some attempt to scream and draw dust deep into their lungs, grunting and gagging.
The three keep a tight line as Thompson blazes a trail through the trembling masses. Argo and Beckert keep watch for any with a weapon.
As the dust settles, Thompson spots the large, round exit portal at the top of the ramp. The crowd is densely compacted, and the portal is jammed with wriggling figures desperate for escape.
He shoves his way through the pressed crowd, and, with nowhere to move, the reptilians fall into one another like dominoes. Most have pulled a piece of cloth over their faces permitting deeper breaths of the clearing air. Their screams are deafening.
“One side, Gun.”
Argo shoulders past his leader and sets a wide beam. Leveling his weapon at the wriggling jam, he triggers.
Plasma streaks through the crowd and plunges into the frenzied clog. The center of the jam instantly vaporizes and explodes, compacting the rest around the rim of the portal. Charred flesh rains over them. Blue gore slides down along the portal ring.
“Exit clear,” Argo announces. The operators surge over the stunned crowd, fragile bones snapping coarsely beneath the heavier operators’ strides. Rags of oily skin flop onto their shoulders as they pass the ring-shaped exit.
The portal leads to a spacious area, with high roof and open floor plan. Furniture, cordons, and moveable partitions with elaborate artworks adorn the space. Thompson takes the lead, nearly skating across the greasy floor until he reaches an area not painted by Argo’s blast.
The opposite wall is made entirely of glass, and its sliding doors are stuck open with prone reptilians. Some of them stir, rising groggily. Thompson puts them down with precise shots and runs to the glass. Argo and Beckert take position beside their leader, keeping watch to each side.
Outside, bright sunlight streams onto a wide landing field strewn with discarded bags and cases. Twin control towers stand at the far corners. At the center, chaotic swarms of blueskins clamber over one another, hanging onto a hopelessly overloaded transport. The transport’s jets whine, yet it cannot rise from the hundreds clinging to it.
Just above the transport, two platform-like skiffs hover. Soldiers lean over the skiff rails, gesturing wildly, yelling as loud as they can at the crowd to move away.
“Brick, on my command, you and I’ll take down those skiffs.”
“Aye, sir,” Argo confirms.
“Geek, get on that transport. We’ll cover for you and pick off the extra riders.”
“Aye, sir.” Beckert leans forward, perching on his toes like a professional sprinter, pistols close beside his head. Thompson and Argo dial up their weapon outputs.
“Now!” Thompson commands.
Beckert dashes past the parted glass doors. Thompson and Argo step out and trigger on the hovering skiffs. The skiffs puff with blasted parts and dark fluids. They lurch and spin, tossing the soldiers like toys, and slam down upon the crowd. Blue mist launches from the whirring hover fans.
The crowd’s attention pivots to the three operators sprinting closer. The reptilians disperse in all directions, bowling over the soldiers rushing in to defend them.
Beckert streaks up the middle, dividing the crowd like a shark parting a school of fish. Path cleared, he sees a lowered ramp on the transport which is overstuffed with passengers. The holdouts flee when staring down Beckert’s machine pistols.
Thompson dials down his weapon and shoots into the clinging blueskins. The shots create a chain reaction, the riders sliding off the transport like thawing ice. Less burdened, the transport rises from the pad.
With magnificent grace, Beckert tucks a pistol away and leaps for the closing ramp. He snags it one handed and flips himself inside.
While keeping a wary eye for the enemy, Argo watches the transport anxiously. In the shaded cockpit, he sees two quick flashes and the rising craft veers backward toward one of the towers. It wobbles, grazes the tower, and rights itself before smoothly descending toward him. Beckert is seated behind the cockpit windshield with a confident smile.
Thompson’s eyes are elsewhere, searching for the fast-moving aircraft that swept the hills and valleys on the team’s arrival, the craft that harried them the entire way. In the gap between the towers, he spots one far away. It loiters, hovering in place. The Gun lifts his rifle scope and studies the craft. In the magnified view, he sees the nose of the plane pointed straight at him, weapons jutting from stubby wings.
Why aren’t you attacking?
Sensing Thompson’s concern, Argo moves toward his leader.
“What do you see?”
“Aircraft, armed, but holding position. Geek!”
“Sir?” comes Beckert’s radioed reply.
“Bogey spotted, three kilometers to your six.”
“I see him, Major, plus twenty-two more, surrounding the complex.”
The transport touches down. The ramp lowers. Thompson and Argo run for it.
“Why aren’t they attacking?” Thompson demands.
“Don’t know, sir, but the radio’s hot with angry chatter. Sounds like a colonist argument.”
“Gun!” Argo yells.
Thompson whirls around and looks into a row of soldiers sprinting from the underwater complex, weapons blazing. The shots explode the glass wall and batter the operators to the ground.
Argo snarls with focused rage and stands, firing through the battering hail of bullets and energy. His shoulders twist, his legs twitch with impacts.
Thompson stays on his back and triggers from the ground, picking off the leftovers from Argo’s wholesale destruction. His rifle clicks from kill to kill, seemingly of its own volition.
A terrible shudder shakes the deck, and hidden within the billowing smoke of Argo’s blasts, the ring-shaped portal folds upon itself. The structures above, all support undermined, cave in with sharp cracks and groans until the way is sealed by rubble. Seawater crashes in an unseen deluge.
“Brick, go!” Thompson orders, climbing to his feet.
“Moving!” Argo shouts, and the big man hobbles up the transport ramp. Thompson shuffles backward, covering his own retreat, and he steps onto the ramp.
“Geek, let’s go!”
The ramp lifts beneath him, and the transport powers smoothly into the air. Thompson climbs the short ramp into the body of the craft and confronts a shivering huddle of blueskins. Forty-four saffron eyes watch him in mortal terror.
The crowd presses against the confines of the interior, keeping as much distance as possible. Delicate arm
s embrace one another, pulling close. The crowd wheezes with short, choking breaths.
“I got ‘em, Gun,” Argo announces.
Thompson glances to his right and sees Argo staring fiercely into the huddle, his cannon primed and ready. The Gun nods to his comrade and strides up the center aisle between unusually-shaped seats. A flight-suited alien slumps on the floor just outside the cockpit, a single hole perforating its helmet.
Inside the cockpit, Beckert occupies the pilot’s chair. His faceplate is up and he holds the controls with comfortable ease. Another flight-suited alien reclines loosely in the co-pilot’s chair, bearing an identical hole in the helmet.
Thompson hefts the dead co-pilot from the chair and tosses it on top of the pilot, drawing a collective gasp from the back of the craft. He ignores it and looks through the windshield. Ventilation towers reach up through the waves from the submerged dome. At the water’s edge, hard structures channel and focus the waves for a purpose he does not see. A swirling vortex, where the ring shaped portal once stood, drains vast quantities of seawater into the dome.
Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 25