The quiet. The massive holographic displays endlessly churning their meaningless, to me, data. Tables spread with the drives and papers. Even empty coffee cups waiting to be filled.
I was thinking if we passed a machine that could churn some out, then I was gonna hit it and hit it hard. I was thinking about coffee. Not lost starships from the past and the future. Or a race of killer apes called the Simia that are somehow responsible for the end of humanity. My pay grade did not care. My pay grade needed coffee to keep putting one foot in front of the other in this insane asylum of a contract.
Now we were on the third level, Science Operations, behind tinted reinforced invisi-steel windows, with eyes on the drops in the courtyard below. Punch was doing recon while the Monarch hacked a display and downloaded our situation into a tactical format. Updating it with data from Punch’s feed off of Boom Boom’s rifle.
I turned to the Little Girl and gave her a look. Asking without words how much longer we had until her friend showed up. I wasn’t opposed to it. I just needed to know. Sending that thing in to wipe out the Ultras blocking our exit would really make all our collective days right about now.
She nodded her head and silently mouthed the word “soon.”
I raised my eyes.
“When,” I whispered impatiently.
She gave me a look indicating she had no idea. But soon. The way our luck was running it would be at the worst possible time. But I tend to think positively that way. That’s me.
“We got three crews. Two pilots each. Two door gunners each. One of whom is probably the crew chief. Tagging twelve tangos.” Punch then ran through the weapons he was seeing. We assumed they had full combat loads.
So, there’s that.
Our number was currently eleven plus a kid. A little girl.
Me, Punch, Choker, Jacks, Hauser, Hustle, and Hoser. The captain. The Monarch. Cook and the Little Girl. And the Kid.
The winds were picking up outside the station. Coming off the desert floor above and sending sand down through the shafts of light. Racing down the orange rock canyon walls and blowing that skirling sand and light debris here and there. It was a high-tech ghost town, and we didn’t have time to wonder what had happened to the science team.
Either the monkeys had gotten them, or they’d been pulled out now that the Monarchs had begun their final conquest of the world.
The scene would have been almost beautiful if not for the twelve killers between us and a way out. And I couldn’t find any coffee.
I checked my watch. Time. There was none to spare.
One hour to the hit on the airfield. Dog would be storming the bank now after fighting its way through the outskirts of the small town surrounding the desert starport. According to the schedule.
And we sergeants are all about our schedules.
Ghost in sniper support. The First Sergeant running the whole show. Our situation looked bad, but I didn’t know who had it worse. The guys taking the bank. Or us.
Twelve Ultras, even though they were aircrew, were still Ultras. Every one a killer. That’s their motto, according to Chief Cook. Every one a graduate of their most advanced infantry schools. The average Ultra carries sixteen weapons. MX battle rifle. Savage Rampage model short-barreled shotgun. Stuka 9mm sidearm. Six frags. One banger. One Ultra combat knife. Two arms. Two legs. One bucket. Head smashes are their favorite. Supposedly they keep tallies on the sides of their helmets. But I’ve never been close enough to verify.
Nor do I want to be.
The captain took a drag on his cigarette and lowered his smoke-stained finger still holding the smoke to the table the Monarch was updating.
“Base of fire here with the cyborg and myself. The rest of you move here along this rock garden area off to their left. Our right. If they’re distracted you can make it to the tube station. Board and go. We have to take that ship, Sergeant Orion, once you get there. That is No Fail. The rest of Strange is counting on us, so get it done.”
The unspoken part of his plan was evident. The cyborg was expendable. And the captain was a real leader. They’d buy us an exit window. Few of us, and especially those who had served in other Monarch support military units, had ever had the privilege of having that kind of leader. Someone who led by example, instead of special privilege. Of course, he was gonna make sure he paid the price for a shot at the company’s freedom. He and “the cyborg” would buy us time to reach the tube station. The rest was up to us.
The Monarch seemed satisfied with the plan. It got the job done. She drew on the plans an axis of movement for both elements in broad blue holographic strokes. Who was going where. Who was staying behind to die.
It was possible. The captain’s plan. But the Ultras would ruin us across fifty meters of open ground if we got spotted. The plan could go from maybe to wrecked in about five seconds from what I was looking at. But NCOs are optimists that way.
“Permission to tag along, sir.” Punch of course. If just for the fight. But also because he was that kind of guy. Reaper would be in good hands with him someday.
Chief Cook cleared his throat and stepped up to the table.
“Uh, sir,” he said in his pseudo-officious voice like he was addressing the judges who enforced the laws and revenges of the Monarchs. “Perhaps we could do this another way.”
The Old Man was silent, pulling his smoldering cigarette away from the table and taking a drag. His way of saying our Voodoo chief had the floor. Any good commander gives warrant officers a lot of room and credibility. Especially when it
