I can see that we have some air support, snipers bringing death from aerial platforms. They’re firing at a near-constant clip, so clearly their overwatch is rich in targets. But still, that’s one kill per trigger pull, maybe a couple more if the angle is right. We’d be better served to ditch the precision of snipers in exchange for a hard-mounted N-50. But the engineers evidently weren’t prepped for something like that. Meaning we’re going into a grind saw with nothing capable of dishing out serious punishment. No buzz ships and certainly no capital ships.
To make matters worse, our progress is being slowed by a stream of refugees pouring from the city. We got eyes on the vanguard of that helpless column of civilians about two miles out from the city limits. The first waves were those who had private sleds or repulsor bikes. Then came the foot travelers. Mostly human mixed with a diverse sampling of other species—but no zhee and no koobs.
They seem committed to the fight for the Soob.
“Hey!” yells Abers from the back of Easy’s ATV. “Back off, punk!”
A frantic-looking Kimbrin is pawing at the front of their vehicle. I’m no mind reader, but I’m guessing this guy wants to see about hitching a ride. Trouble is, we’re heading in the opposite direction.
Abers levels his rifle at the Kimbrin. “Last warning. Leave.”
This seems to do the trick. Emphasis on seems.
We weave through the refugees, gunning engines where we can but not running people over outright. First because these are civilians and second because if we make a move like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those who’ve been eyeballing our rides as means of escape took the opportunity to jump us.
The Kimbrin steps in front of Easy’s ATV again, and this time he has a few buddies. They try to surround the repulsor. Abers uses his rifle like a club and domes one of the aliens, dropping him in a heap. Easy pulls his pistol and aims it at the Kimbrin going for the ATV’s handlebars.
The alien doesn’t stop, and Easy pulls the trigger, putting a hole in the assailant’s head.
Then I hear the rapid-fire bark of a slug-thrower firing from my rear. I turn and see a dismounted Pikkek sending a spray of fire at the last remaining Kimbrin, who tries to run but is cut down even as he turns. A few refugees nearby are hit as well.
A collective scream of panic erupts from the crowd. Pikkek fires his weapon into the air in short, staccato bursts. The sound of gunfire causes the crowd to disperse like a school of fish from a predator. A huge gap opens as they nearly trample each other to get away from the one thing they most wanted to escape—shooting.
“Go!” I order, and my team shoots the gap and puts distance between ourselves and the refugees, who close up ranks the moment we break through.
“Command, this is Carter,” I say into my comm.
“Go for Command,” answers a female voice. Elektra, I think. The shot caller for the Soob. I’m now out of Brisco’s jurisdiction.
“My strike team has reached Soob city limits. Advise route to objective.”
“Copy that. There is no point of entry without some fighting. We’re sending you past the spaceport—we have a semblance of a line and some clear roads you can travel to objective. Over.”
“Roger. Let them know we’re coming.”
The last thing I want is to show up only to get dusted by some jumpy mercs. Not that I hold it against them. The jumpiness. They’re fighting an entire city and likely getting attacks from all sides.
“Copy. We will let them know the when and where. Command out.”
I get on the comm and tell my team what’s coming next before giving instructions. “Lash, I want you on point. Pikkek, keep your team to our rear just to be sure the mercs at the spaceport don’t get confused and open fire at us.”
“We shall follow you… k’kik… Mookta!”
“Hey, Mookta,” Easy chimes in. “Any chance we’re gonna be gettin’ on a ship once we reach the port? Just about had my fill of Kublar.”
I look at smoke and still-burning fires that strain skyward from the spaceport. Someone—probably Team Nilo—had landed a good-sized freighter. Maybe that’s how they secretly brought in the sleds that Hopper’s team reportedly had. Now it’s shot to hell and listing to one side, its prow prostrated onto the deck. Landing struts destroyed in the fighting. It looks like a black and gray whale, offering prayers to the shining Kublaren sea at the opposite end of the city.
“I’ll see if we can get some leave after this,” I say, not entirely sure how serious Easy is.
Things are scaling up from security and ambushes to full-scale fighting. And while it isn’t like we had a contract clearly detailing our expectations and responsibilities—there’s no opportunity to tell Surber that something isn’t our job—I can’t say that something like this is what any of us expected. In fact, this feels altogether too much like my first tour with the Legion, when the House of Reason continually sent us to handle things meant for the infantry. Because fewer men fighting somehow makes it seem less dangerous. Less of an invasion. A public relations war of optics.
“Gotta survive first,” Lash grunts, adding his genial opinion to the conversation. “Then think about headin’ home. Don’t get the order twisted or you won’t make it.”
“Lash is right,” I say. “This is going to be brutal. So… KTF.”
I wait a beat and then add the Republic Marines’ motto, “Demons on deck…”
“Hell to repel,” chime in Easy and Abers, the pleasure in their voices clear.
“Ha,” Easy laughs. “You did know it. I knew you wasn’t that dumb.”
“I may surprise you yet.”
A pair of Black Leaf mercs wave their hands to get
