Authors: Tanya Huff
“I think that’s our cue, Staff.”
“Works for me, sir.”
They moved back with the squad, Torin keeping herself between the lieutenant and the enemy. The largest part of her job was, after all, keeping him alive.
They were no more than four meters from the gate when a pair of the quadrupeds charged over the wreckage of the hovercraft, keening and firing wildly as they ran. Their weapon was, like the KC, a chemically powered projectile. The rounds whined through the air in such numbers that it almost seemed as though they were being attacked by a swarm of angry wasps. No choice but to dive for dirt and hope the distinctly inadequate cover would be enough.
Shots from the second level took the quads out just before they reached the squad.
Torin scrambled to her feet. “Let’s go before more show up.”
No one expected the quads to have riders; smaller bipeds who launched themselves from the bodies. One of them died in the air, the other wrapped itself around Haysole and drew its sidearm. Haysole spun sideways, his helmet flying off to bounce down the street, and got enough of an elbow free to deflect the first shot. Between the frenzied movement, and the certainty that taking out the enemy would also take out Haysole, no one dared shoot. Torin felt rather than saw Franks charge forward. He was a big man—because he was a second lieutenant she sometimes forgot that. Large hands wrapped around the enemy’s head and twisted. Sentient evolution was somewhat unimaginative. With very few exceptions, a broken neck meant the brain was separated from the body.
Turned out, this was not one of the exceptions.
“You okay?” Franks asked as he let the body drop.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s go...”
They stepped over the body which was when pretty much everyone left on the street noticed that the harness strapped to the outside of the uniform was festooned with multiple small packets and what was obviously a detonation device.
Rough guess, Torin figured there were enough explosives to take out the gate to the second level. The high ground didn’t mean much if you couldn’t keep the enemy off it.
Franks gave Haysole a push that sent him stumbling into Torin. “Move!” Then he grabbed the body by the feet and stood, heaving him up and into the air. The explosion was messy. Loud and messy.
It wasn’t until Franks slumped onto her shoulder as she wrestled him through the gate that she realized not all the blood soaking his uniform had rained down out of the sky.
He’d been hit in the neck with a piece of debris.
As the last squad through got the heavy metal gate closed and locked, he slid down her body, onto his knees, and then toppled slowly to the ground.
Torin grabbed a pressure seal from her vest but it was too late.
The lower side of his neck was missing. Veins and arteries both had been severed. He’d bled out fast and was probably dead before he hit the ground. There were a lot of things the medics up in orbit could repair; this wasn’t one of them.
“Damn, the lieutenant really saved our asses.” Sergeant Chou turned from the gate, ignoring the multiple impacts against the other side. “If they’d blown this sucker we’d have been in a running fight to the next level. Is he okay?”
Torin leaned away from the body.
“Fuk.” Haysole. The di’Taykan had a way with words.
Chou touched her shoulder. “Do you...?”
“I’ve got it.”
A carrier roared up from the port, its escort screaming in from both sides.
“That’s it Marines, we’re out of here!”
“Staff...”
“Go on, I’m right behind you.”
They still had to make it up to the port but, holding the high ground as they did, it shouldn’t be a problem. She spread the body bag over Second Lieutenant Franks and sealed the edges as Lieutenant Garly’s platoon started spending their heavy ordinance. From the smell of things, they’d dropped something big and flammable onto the street behind the gate.
This wasn’t the kind of war people made songs about. The Confederation fought only because the Others fought and no one knew why the Others kept coming. Diplomacy resulted in dead diplomats. Backing away only encouraged them.
But perhaps a war without one single defining ideology was exactly the kind of war that needed an infinite number of smaller defining moments.
Torin smoothed out the bag with one bloody hand then sat back and keyed the charge.
Maybe, she thought as she slid the tiny canister that now held Lieutenant Franks into an inner pocket on her combat vest, maybe it was time they had a few songs...