by Jack Hanson
“I’m getting some distortions,” said Baqi, “but I can’t really make out anything that can’t be accounted for by the fact we’re under a few dozen tons of rock.”
“Understood,” said Ostler as they arrived at the large doors leading to the hanger. “We’re going in.”
The doors slid open thanks to Baqi’s ingenuity, and the team filed into a high-ceilinged hanger. Blast doors at the far end allowed access to the outside, while the items associated with an active hanger were strewn about. Boxes and tool racks had been stacked in some order, but with a definite functional clutter visible.
“Black, I’ve got nothing, but I don’t like this,” Ostler said as Epsilon Team filed in behind.
All the cadets looked around, curious about what they were seeing while their command talked in a small huddle. Paris fingered a rack of hoses and tools, curious about what they could be used for. Jane took the opportunity to break formation and join Hailey, who was standing next to Laila. She slapped his thigh from behind as she came up.
“What do you think so far?” she asked the two in a low voice.
“I don’t know, but I guess Ostler and Black are trying to figure out where everyone is,” Laila said.
Hailey was about to respond, but then froze , looking at Jane hard.
“Something on my face?” she asked him, and then grunted as he shoved her hard, sending her sprawling. Everyone turned at the sound of her clattering across the hard concrete floor of the hanger. Then noise was quickly overwhelmed by the screech that whipped through the air.
The four janissaries threw themselves behind cover instinctively, Black and Ostler roaring at their charges to get behind something. Laila and Hailey seemed to shuffle in place. The two made low croaking sounds as darts punched through their shields and into their bodies, spilling their blood across the floor.
Everything slowed down from the survivors’ point of view.
Sparks crackled as two mechanical walkers shed their Mirror Cloaks. These were large humanoid tanks in blue and orange, with bladed forearms and shoulder-mounted cannons that had cut down Hailey and Laila. With their long legs and arms and compacted bodies, they put one in the mind of upright spiders. The squad’s HUDs lit up with a red message indicating that Laila and Hailey were going into shock. The routine patrol was becoming more and more real by the second.
Jane’s response was to scramble over to where Hailey was bleeding out, ignoring Black’s crisp commands as his voice echoed hollowly in the back of her skull.
“Talk to me, talk to me,” she hissed, slapping at his medical pouch for the packet of coagulant agents that would stop the bleeding. His hand slapped at his visor several times, and she lifted it for him as something roared behind her. Hailey’s lips formed words that she couldn’t hear, a large bloody bubble rose in his mouth and popped.
“It’s going to be okay, love. It’s going to be okay,” she lied, her hands fumbling as she tried to rip open the packet. Santiago had scrambled over to where Laila was twitching, and was telling her she was going to be fine as he dragged her into cover.
“Cadet! Get behind something!” Santiago shouted over the gunfire that was starting to come from the rest of the squad.
Paris had braced his weapon behind a row of boxes, and was obeying Black’s orders to focus on the Leitani Recluse walker to the left. The rounds pounded into the heavy shield, drawing the Recluse’s focus from Jane’s exposed position to Paris’s impromptu machine gun nest. When the lasers swept over his position, he dove behind his cover. He listened to steel boxes chewed up by projectiles to the accompaniment of the horrendous screech that had set everything off. He had seen Black cycling his shotgun, hands moving blindingly fast, and caught his sergeant popping up to take aim at the second Recluse. The shotgun round contacted the Leitani’s shield, and caused some sort of electromagnetic feedback as green lightning jumped from the shield to race all over the mechanical shell. The Recluse went limp in a cacophony of metallic noises. Jane was gripping the hand of her dead lover, her breath ragged and heavy, as Hailey’s event message went from severe shock to a deeper red killed in action.. The coagulant powder bubbled futilely in his wounds where it wasn’t scattered on his grey battle armor.
Her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Jane’s vision tunneled as she felt her sudden headache blossom into a feeling of relief rushing through her veins. The gold that had filled her vision in the chess match began to appear on the two Recluses, and she imagined she could feel Paris, Sand, and Salem with her, waiting to be directed.
She didn’t know they all felt the same thing.
So focused was she on the new sensations rippling through her, she barely heard the sound of the blast doors opening, and something heavy slamming into her, knocking the consciousness out of her.
Chapter Fourteen—Baptism of Fire
Battle cries have made a resurgence in the janissary ranks. The use faded out as guerilla and urban combat became the mainstays of battle along with mechanized vehicles, but with the infantry playing a heavy role and melee combat a mainstay due to shields, war cries have made a comeback. The rebel yell of the Southern United Federation’s Grey Ghosts, the Haka of the various Pacific Islands supplied janissaries, and even the Harvesters’ use of “Canon in D” are some of the most famous, but the common one among the Janissary Command is ‘Cry havoc!’
—Janissary History logs
Sand saw a redness at the edge of his vision, which was suddenly cut off as Black slammed into Jane and she crumpled into a heap at his feet. He had moved too fast to follow, and Sand attributed it to a quirk of battle. He watched as Black carried her behind a row of metal sheeting and then came onto the net. Sand ducked as he talked, noticing his radar was filling up with enemy designations from the directions of the blast doors.
“Listen to me you three; we’ve been suckered into an ambush. Don’t ask how or why, just know we’ve got to fight through to survive this,” Black said. His voice carried the same directness he had always addressed them with. No panic or emotion crept through. It was calming to Sand’s nerves as Naith troopers began to fire on his position.
Salem heard Black’s calm voice over the comms. “Fairnought, provide suppressive fire for Falconer and Winchester. You two take a fighting position together and provide support while Fairnought joins you. I need you to form a solid base of firepower against the Naith that are coming through that blast door,” he commanded before adding, “Pairna: Gecko. I say again, Gecko.”
There was no response from the Khajali, and the meaning of the code word was unknown to the Salem.
“Those are Peacers? I thought we were fighting against raiders,” said Salem, a note of panic in her voice.
“Mission changed,” he told her on the communal band, and then switched over to a one-on-one communication. “Winchester, get control of yourself, if not for your sake, then for your teammates, do you understand me?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” she managed, drawing strength from his calmness and feeling her panic subside.
“Sergeant, should we join up with you?” Paris asked, hearing Black’s shotgun roar twice. Thick gouts of colored smoke appeared in the space between the two forces. The debris there began to corrode at a rapid pace as the gas ate away at any available cover.
“No,” Black said, drawing the large pistol at his side as he slung the shotgun. “I’m going to deal with that Recluse. You three have your orders.”
There was a silence as he left the net, and Paris’s spine stiffened as they heard him roar the janissary battle cry: “Cry havoc!” as he surged from behind cover.
A green flash leapt from his pistol to the two cannons on the shoulder of the Recluse, the second immediately after the first as Black seemed to fire from the hip, disabling both weapons. Putting away the pistol, he drew his blade for the first time, the black metal glistening in the light. The blades on the forearms of t
he standing walker glowed blue, and it raised them in challenge, towering over the lone janissary.
Paris ripped his gaze from Black’s suicidal run. He did as he was told, his heavy rifle spraying lead over two platoons of Naith troopers. He felt something welling up in his chest, and thought he was going to be sick as he, too, screamed “Cry havoc!”
“Winchester, I’m coming to you,” Sand said. He scrambled from his nest of boxes to the mess of girders and cargo trunks that sheltered Salem.
“Okay,” Salem replied, sounding more in control of herself as she popped up and added her fire to Paris’s. Her shots dropped a Naith trying to dash into a cluster of shipping materials. Paris’s shots had shattered much of the weakened cover, leaving the enemy scrambling for bits and pieces to hide behind.
A clang off to Salem’s right caused her to jerk her head, and she saw one of the blades of the enemy walker drop to the ground, shattered. The walker itself had been wrenched around with the force of the parry. She saw Black roll under the counter attack and strike the mech a blow that sent it stumbling as it tried to block Black’s straight edged sword with its one good blade. Augments were the only explanation, she told herself, as the five-meter-tall mech was battered around by the man.
She saw a figure crawling around the corner, and relaxed when she realized it was Baqi. Drawing a narrow, six-inch pole from a hip pouch, he affixed it to one side of their cover, and a glowing blue shield sprang out from it. He began to repeat the process as Sand came rolling in, bumping heavily into Salem.
“Okay hey,” said Sand, out of breath as they disentangled. He thought to make a comment, but a sudden burst of fire distracted him.
“Let’s get Paris over here,” she said as they knelt shoulder to shoulder, sending short bursts of fire downrange at anything that moved.
“Good idea,” Sand agreed. “Paris? Fairnought? You hear me?”
“I hear you Falconer. Ready?” he asked as he fired another burst.
“Wait one,” said Salem, reloading and then motioning for Sand to do the same. He complied, and then the two popped back up from behind their cover.
“Move, move, move!” she grunted.
Paris sprinted from behind cover, only to see a blur pass behind the other three. He saw Baqi slammed to the ground, blood spraying from a geyser out of his back and pooling out from under him. Paris stopped, his heart dropping into his stomach as a Khajali decloaked. The butt of the warrior’s rai’lith pierced Baqi, killing the janissary. Blood glistened on the green scales of the enemy Khajali. His breastplate bore no marks that identified him as a member of the Bastard’s Splinter.
The alien warrior lifted his rai’lith, then brought it overhead to eliminate Sand, but was knocked off balance as Paris emptied his rifle into him. The Khajali’s shield sprang up, and the few rounds that made it through flattened harmlessly against thrombium armor. The warrior turned towards Paris, leveling his rai’lith so that Paris could see the barrel beginning to glow. The Khajali’s eyes went wide as Paris barreled toward him. The cadet tossed his rifle at the Khajali, drawing his blade.
The weapon hit, followed by Paris, and the two fighters went down in a heap. Paris sprang back, the other’s claws nicking his armor, leaving deep rents. The Khajali’s deadly jaws snapped shut right in front of his face. He scooped up his fallen rifle and tossed it towards Sand and Salem, yelling into the common frequency “Smaug! Smaug! Smaug!”
It was the code word when an enemy Khajali appeared on the battlefield, and everyone’s guts twisted upon hearing it.
Paris glanced over at Black. Near their leader, hydraulic fluid pooled around the first walker, mixing with the blood of the pilot. However, the second Leitani had kept its composure, and managed to restart its systems. It was now climbing to its feet, firing at Black as it rose.
“I’ll be there shortly Paris, but I can’t leave this thing in our rear,” Black said as he weaved through streams of bullets.
“I’ll be… I’ll be fine,” Paris managed as the Khajali rose regally, adjusting its half cloak. It took in Paris, its nostrils flaring as it towered over him.
“Rillik,” he began, nodding slowly as he spoke Khajali. “Who taught you?”
Paris swallowed, holding his blade extended to his side, a foot and a half of thrombium gleaming.
“Rhulo,” he responded, controlling his breathing and bracing for an attack at any moment.
The Khajali nodded.
“He was to be admired, before his weakness overcame him and he sided with the breed races,” the alien said. His rai’lith whipped around amazingly fast, the butt sounding once on the floor.
“I see he gifted you with the blessed metal. I will send your blade to him after I finish with you. Prepare yourself,” he instructed. He nodded once and then leapt forwards.
Paris moved just in time, his blade twisting around to block the attack that came in from the side. The force behind it staggered him and drove his own blade to the side. He managed to leap over the second blow that came slicing at his legs, and found himself inside the Khajali’s reach. He drove an elbow into the unarmored corner of the alien’s jaw, stunning him for a moment.
His blade swept in, and rang against thrombium armor. A sweeping backhand from his opponent sent him flying through the air, turning a tool rack on its side as he crashed into it. His adapted body flooded itself with painkillers, and he threw himself clear as his enemy leapt through the air and planted the spear tip of his rai’lith where Paris had been a second earlier.
The Khajali lurched forward, a green projectile ricocheting off his armor. Paris glanced toward the source of the shot. Black was giving him what aid he could afford as he broke down the second Recluse. The war machine was now leaking several fluids from its joints and sending a shower of sparks into the air. He had not taken his eyes off the Leitani as he had fired, and his jagged blade dripped black liquid onto the floor. Paris didn’t question how, focusing instead on flanking the stunned Khajali and pressing his advantage.
His blade whipped in again, Paris twisting his wrist as he stabbed down, but his foe caught the blade with a vambrace, deflecting it and counterattacking with his claw. Paris grunted as he felt his pauldron crumple from the blow. His shoulder pulsed with pain but he blanked it out as he pressed an attack. Reversing his grip on the blade he slammed the hilt into the unarmored throat of his foe, and the Khajali staggered back in stunned surprise. As Paris moved forwards, he felt his legs swept out from under him. The cadet maintained the presence of mind to roll back to his feet, away from the descending rai’lith. His hand wrapped around a fallen wrench, and he hurled it at the Khajali as he rose to his feet. Paris’s strength and the weight of the wrench aborted the alien’s rush as his head jerked in surprise.
Spitting blood, Paris held up his knife and gritted his teeth. “C’mon,” he hissed under his breath, jerking his fingers in a come here gesture.
Sand and Salem tried to ignore the sounds of battle that came from behind them. The surviving members of Ostler’s squad, Petra and another cadet named Dragvik, had met up with Ostler and Santiago and had formed another base of fire. The grenade launcher Ostler had brought along sent bodies flying from time to time, and the remaining Naith were trying to pin down Ostler’s group as they moved towards the two cadets.
Grunting, Sand rolled out into the open and heard needles ricocheting around him. His shield even kicked up once or twice as he dragged Paris’s massive rifle into their cover. The shield stakes were still holding up, but larger and larger holes were beginning to appear in their cover.
“Help me with this,” he told Salem as he rested the bipod on the top of the trunks.
“It’s too big for you to fire,” she insisted, but helped him anyway.
“Get that drum out of my pack,” he said, ignoring her and giving her his back. He felt her rip the pack open and pull out the package,
At first she seemed to fumble a little with the loading, then he heard the drum settle into the receiver.
“There! You’re hot!”
He didn’t respond, charging the bolt and crying out in surprise as the weapon recoiled into him. He grunted with exertion, barely able to keep it on target but still cutting down a trio of bold Naith troopers who tried to cover the distance to their impromptu bunker.
“I don’t know how Paris manages this,” he burst out as Salem began to add her fire to the mix. A rocket flew high over their heads and exploded against a wall.
The explosion couldn’t have happened at a worse time for Paris. The Khajali had been worried about taking another shot from Black, who had sent two more rounds from his strange pistol into the fray. One had even wounded the Khajali, and black blood had sizzled against the floor for a moment before the cut sealed itself. They had been at a standoff, with the rai’lith holding off Paris. Thenthe explosion had sent the cadet flying and dazed him as a chunk of wall bounced off his head.
He was surprised to see two Khajalians standing over him. Realizing his vision was blurred, he tried to stand up, but his vision blurred and doubled more.
“It was a good fight, Rillik, an admirable challenge, tainted as it was by the actions of the Weeper, but I am glad to see he walks the world still,” he said in his native tongue. “I wonder what you would have become under his guidance and the training of Rhulo, but no matter.
Paris was confused by the flow of words from his opponent.
“I thought you were meat, but you were a foe, and I will be glad to have your spirit guarding my harem, watching over your clutch mates,” the Khajali finished, and raised his rai’lith high above his head, bringing it down to impale the fallen cadet.
Paris’s final thought was not of his oncoming death, but the hope that Salem and Jane would escape, or be killed in the fighting.