Thompson is about to signal Argo for a grenade when three burly figures enter the intersection from the left. Each of them is as large as the alien soldiers in their armor. The three carry bulky pistols, raised with one hand beside their heads, and shimmering half-meter blades in their opposite hands. The leader shouts ahead in a demanding tone, flicking his head, and the trio halts their march, taking position behind the row of kneeling soldiers. Unlike the undulating tails of the soldiers, the three stand perfectly still and stare into the darkness toward the operators.
Thompson dials in on the leader, studying him closely. Heavily muscled arms jut from a barrel-like torso. A thin vest drapes from broad shoulders and attaches to a similar pelvic garment. Multiple nicks and scars interrupt his pale blue skin. Fierce orange eyes burn within the broad, angular face.
A tall and elegant creature enters the intersection without hurry or anxiety. An intricate headdress rides on its brow. Silken veils enshroud it, deceptively simple in cut, yet remarkably accentuating in the curves of the midriff, chest, and leg. The eyes are half-open with detachment, and its graceful strides carry it out of sight into the light. Entranced by such alien majesty, Thompson lowers his rifle.
The three large bodyguards peel away from the line of kneeling soldiers, following the elegant one into the lights. There is a loud bark, and the kneeling soldiers rise as one unit. Keeping their weapons aimed in Thompson’s direction, they march into the bright lights of the bay.
With a hand gesture, Thompson orders his team around the corner. The operators run on their toes, anxious to close the distance in the long approach. The closer they get, the louder the various screeches and bangs emanating from the bay entrance.
Thompson’s breath is heavy, his sinews twitchy. His heart thuds in his chest and ears. He hears the tromping of boots coming from the left, and another row of soldiers forms a line across the intersection. Their eyes blink repeatedly, dazzled by the powerful light coming from the bay.
“FIRE!” Thompson yells.
The operators trigger a withering barrage. The armored soldiers stumble back from the onslaught, colliding with a large group of plainly dressed blueskins trying to run behind them. Shrieks and yelps pierce the air.
The mass of aliens tangles, collapsing on itself at the middle of the intersection. Dozens of wide mouths shout their terror. Glassy eyes hunt and search for help or escape.
From far beyond the braying, struggling pile, a massive slug bashes Thompson’s shoulder, twisting him completely around. Repeat hits to his back rip through the sacks of media records, exploding them. A million shards of metalized plastic glitter in the brilliant glare as the Gun is hammered to the deck.
Argo and Beckert trace the lines of fire to a barricade far beyond the intersection. Firing weapons illuminate the structure like a series of flash photographs. The operators trigger shots into the solid structure, the hits sparking through sturdy plating.
Rectangular lamps illuminate above the distant barricade with blinding intensity. Argo’s and Beckert’s vision wash out completely and they dive behind the struggling pile of blueskins.
“Gun,” Argo calls, “are you injured?”
Thompson answers with a groan. He rolls himself onto his belly, favoring his impacted shoulder. The tall operator lifts his rifle over the thrashing heap and triggers at the dazzling lights. The lamps burst with a spray of orange sparks
From his position on the floor, Argo looks back at his leader and sees a deep gouge in the Gun’s shoulder armor. Spidery cracks radiate from it.
“Gun!” Argo repeats.
Thompson crawls stiffly toward the intersection.
“Take out that barricade,” Thompson wheezes.
Some of the panicked blueskins wriggle free of the heap. Beckert puts a round into their legs and they fall onto the pile again.
“Lieutenant,” Beckert calls, holding up a spherical device. “Use the big boom.”
Argo takes one of the apple-sized spheres from his bandolier. He looks at it, unsure how to use it.
“Like this,” Beckert instructs. The Geek cradles the device in his palm, taps the top with his thumb, and traces a half circle counter clockwise. A semicircle glows from the trail of his thumb.
“That’s the timer.”
He waits for Argo to mimic the action.
“Now tap twice, and throw.”
Argo and Beckert double tap the tops and catapult the buzzing devices down the long, dark hallway.
Rapid fire opens from the distant barricade. Amazingly, one of the shots connects with a sphere and it splits without detonating. The other, bounces twice and skates all the way to the base of the barricade. Angered shouts echo down the hall as the defenders retreat from the imminent blast.
The hallway flares with a light more brilliant than the lamps, compacting the ceiling, walls, and deckplates into adjacent levels. A terrible rumble passes the floor’s length, tossing the frantic pile and the operators into the air; and a gale force wind blows them all back several meters.
Thompson pulls himself from beneath a limp soldier. He shakes his head, trying to clear his blurry vision, and lays his rifle over the mound of blueskin flesh. He leans on the pile, searching the distance for heat sources.
“Grenades, left and right corridor,” he orders.
Argo takes two bulbs in each hand, passing a pair to Beckert.
“I have left, you have right,” the Brick commands.
The operators activate the bulbs and chuck them around the corners.
“Cover!” Argo snarls, and the operators lay themselves flat on the deck.
Blasts shudder the left and right corridors a fraction of a second apart. Thick smoke billows into the intersection with the rain of fragments.
Thompson jumps to his feet and slides his rifle around the corner. A parabola of intense lamps shines at him from inside the bay. Between him and the lamps are a staggered set of blockades.
He triggers at one of the lamps, exploding it spectacularly. Before he can trigger again, withering fire pours onto him. A hole burns through the corner and carves a divot out of his left arm. His legs spring reactively, propelling him away from the corner as the chugging shots burn hole after hole in the wall.
Argo and Beckert shrink back from the heavy weapon’s assault. Light streams through the perforations, illuminating the smoky air in long, glowing shafts.
Thompson glances at his arm. The armor above his elbow is cut with a cylindrical notch four centimeters wide. The notch curves into cauterized flesh which is cracked and seeping blood.
Argo studies the shafts of smoky light. Like spokes in a wheel, they point toward their origin, indicating the position of the heavy weapon. His visor calculates the angles and distance as he thumbs up his cannon’s output. The solution highlights with a dot. He plugs the muzzle of his weapon into one of the holes as the violet glow washes over him and triggers a full output stream.
A crackle of thunder booms from the bay, and the intense light dims considerably.
Argo’s eyes burn with murderous intent as he rounds the corner, triggering stream after stream into the blockades.
Beckert dashes out behind him, aiming down the left corridor. Heat sources mill and crawl through the haze. A shot streaks from the milling crowd, and Beckert opens up with both pistols. The glowing blobs lurch and jerk as they drop to the deck.
More shots stream through the smoke, indiscriminate and random, glancing off the walls. Beckert tracks the lines of fire and nails the combatants with precise shots.
Thompson moves into the intersection behind Argo, aiming toward the blasted barricade. His rifle pangs at each moving heat source. Shards of media records snap and crunch under his feet.
Beckert looks down at the litter of shattered media records. Thousands of hours of human history, memory, and experience twinkle amid the dead and dying.
“Keep the pressure on!” Thompson yells.
Beckert rockets back to the present. He levels his p
istols and triggers at the slightest hint of movement. One pistol fires dry. He drops the clip and reloads.
“Last mag!” he shouts.
Argo and Thompson press through the staggered chest-high blockades, triggering continually. Withering fire zips around and into them. Rockets slice the air from the bay and explode against the sturdy barriers. The operators duck behind the switchback obstacles, alternately firing and moving.
“Find a replacement!” Thompson radios back between grunts.
Beckert clips a pistol to his back and searches the floor. At his feet, two soldiers overlap, their weapons still slung over their shredded torsos. The Geek takes both weapons and throws the straps over his head. He retrieves his clipped pistol and walks backwards after his team, aiming to the rear.
The uneven terrain of corpses trips him, and he stumbles back onto the spongy bodies. Tracers and energy beams rip the air above, hissing and crackling through the space he occupied a split second earlier.
“Cover!” Argo’s deep voice bellows.
Beckert scuttles to the blockades in a combination back crawl, backstroke. The sturdy barrier thumps violently, jolting him away as though in rejection. Fragments rain all over him.
“Geek! Move up!” Thompson orders.
Beckert nods and sits up from his supine pose. With his feet beneath him, he springs up into the dense smoke, lighting atop the blockade wall. The entrance to the flight deck is only ten meters away, the doors battered, perforated, and jammed half open.
Thompson and Argo continue their blazing advance, helmets and chests glowing with absorbed energy.
Beckert leaps from blockade to blockade, skipping across the tops and jumping down on the right side of the entryway. He slides on his knees behind the twisted door.
“In position,” Beckert radios. He crosses his arms at the wrist, pistols pointing left and right. He pokes them past the bent doorway, triggering to the sides full-auto and clearing unseen defenders. The tick-tick-tick from the pistols announces the end of his ammunition, and he clips them onto his back. Raising a knee, the Geek takes one of the enemy rifles from around his neck and aims it into the smoldering bay.
“Committing.”
“Clear above, Geek! Clear above!” Thompson vaults over the last blockade.
As Beckert pulls the weapon to his shoulder, something drops straight down between his knees and sticks like a lump of wet clay.
“NO!” Thompson screams.
The device detonates, launching Beckert into the ceiling and smashing Thompson flat. The Gun’s vision triples. Dazed, deafened, he sits up amid the smoke and gawks through his cracked and functionless visor. The air in his helmet grows instantly stale, smothering him. He lifts the seal of his broken faceplate, tasting acrid smoke.
His hands search for his rifle. Instead, he finds Beckert’s ankle. He gives his comrade a shake to rouse him. There is less resistance than there should be. He tugs on the leg as his vision merges, and the whole leg slides toward him like a gory mop.
A burly figure drops down from above the entrance, silhouetted by the light from the bay, with a heavy pistol in one hand and a crackling blade in the other. It spots Thompson and aims.
Argo howls from the blockade, hurling his spent cannon at the creature. The orange-eyed blueskin staggers back from the hit, recovering quickly and triggering at the charging Brick.
Argo’s agile feint diverts the killing shot from the center of his head to his ear. The Brick’s helmet vaporizes at the point of impact.
Argo lowers his shoulders and spreads his arms for a tackling clinch. Unable to side step the Brick’s wide reach, the bodyguard is snared and slammed to the deck.
The orange-eyed creature grunts with the weight driven into its gut, but its eyes focus with zeal. It curls its wrist, hooking the pistol toward Argo’s head again. The Brick leans toward it and backhands the pistol away. With the big man’s weight off balance, the creature rotates and plunges its blade into Argo’s side.
Argo shudders with unimaginable pain as the crackling blade sears flesh. He stiffens, hands wracked, head thrown back, screaming through his nose. The creature shoves Argo’s stiffened bulk aside and sits astride him. It pulls the blade from the operator’s ribs and takes it two handed, pointing at Argo’s face.
Still clutching Beckert’s leg, Thompson hurls the limb at the alien, the wet end slopping the creature’s snout. The leg glances off, not harming it, but orange eyes lift with malice. The creature rises to meet its new challenger.
Thompson’s gut churns with base hatred, primal and vengeful. It excites him, concentrates his focus. He flips up from the floor onto his boots.
The orange-eyed creature steps toward him, wary but confident. Argo’s blood boils on the crackling blade.
Thompson fakes a jab, drawing his opponent into a swift counter strike. The Gun slides just enough so the blade skitters across his torso and he steps in close, trapping the creature’s knife arm in his left arm pit. He opens his right hand and jams it under the creature’s jaw, gripping the wide throat. Continuing forward, he lifts with the gripping hand, sweeps the feet, and slams his opponent to the deck.
The creature snarls from the jarring hit, yet does not flinch. It clutches at Thompson’s unlatched faceplate with its free hand, getting a claw beneath it and lifting. Orange eyes open wide with delight, as if appreciating a practical joke.
“Da-oma Kachi-in! Pah!”
Its muscular tail flexes, rolling the combatants over. Thompson loses his grip on the throat, and a clawed fist pounds his face. Keeping the creature’s knife arm trapped, he hooks his right hand behind his opponent’s head. The Gun slides the treads of his boots close to his backside and springs explosively, flipping the clinched fighters head over heels.
Thompson scrambles atop the flailing enemy and reinforces his hold on the trapped arm. He braces his left arm in the crook of his right, and lays his right hand on top of the creature’s trapped arm. With a growl, he arches his back, hyper extending the creature’s elbow.
The fierce blueskin’s mouth gapes, teeth bared, howling with pain and rage. The blade clatters from its grip. It punches, thrashes, bucks, and strikes to be free. The hits glance off Thompson’s helmet, an occasional claw raking the exposed skin of his face, but the Gun ignores the minor abuse, intent on the sizzling blade beside him. With phenomenal speed, he seizes the weapon and stabs it to the hilt under the creature’s chin. Crackling energy burns into the surrounding tissues, launching the blueskin into powerful convulsions. The orange eyes cross, as though drawn to the intruding blade by magnetism. The blade ceases its crackling, and the convulsing blueskin falls still.
Another figure rushes into the doorway. Before Thompson can react, a flash from his right drops it dead. The Gun turns to see Argo crouched with his long rifle.
The Brick heaves the weapon to his comrade and rises, one hand covering his leaking side. He stoops to pick up his cannon, and throws the wide strap over his shoulder.
Thompson gets to his feet, checking his weapon and finding a few shots left. His eyes are vacant.
“Where’s Geek?” Argo wheezes.
Thompson steps over and plucks grenades from Argo’s belt.
“Which part?” he says coldly.
Argo spins in place, searching among the spots of warmth around him. He finds the detached leg.
“Beckert…”
Thompson strides toward the bay entrance. One by one, he arms the grenades and hurtles them out into the smoky bay. Renewed shouts and weapon fire pour from the haze, abbreviated by sequential detonations.
Argo’s search becomes frantic until three spots of glowing warmth catch his attention. He races to them and finds his comrade. The Geek’s left arm is a shattered mess of exposed bone and charred, ragged skin. Both legs are gone, one at the knee, the other mid thigh. His torso plating is a network of cracks with multiple gaps. Of his limbs, only his right arm is intact. It drapes to one side, palm up like a beggar’s.
Ar
go checks around for the enemy and crouches down. He lifts the Geek’s shattered face mask and goggles. Beckert’s eyes are open with clouded corneas and bright red sclera. Blood rolls from his nose into and around his open mouth.
“Oh, Beckert, no…”
Beckert’s eyes turn blindly toward the voice. His lips quiver over broken teeth.
“A-Argo? Is that you?” He swallows with effort. “I can’t see…”
Argo blinks in amazement.
“Don’t move! Gun!” he radios, “I found him! Beginning surgery...Gun?” Argo looks for his comrade and no longer finds him in the entryway. Fresh explosions reverberate from inside the bay, weapons discharging in all directions.
“What are you doing?” he curses.
Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 30