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Chapter 37


“With a realm of possibilities that emerges from the infinite, humanity will surely encounter yet another malign alien presence. The only question is, when?”


Legacy Mandate by Emperor Yung I


For centuries, armed conflict between spacecraft involved vast distances, extreme velocities, and world-shattering weapons. Lieutenant Tilly Pennysmith and the IMS Tanager prepared for the Fleet equivalent of a knife fight, staring through optical weapon sights that generally served no tactical purpose in the vastness of space.

Pennysmith had readied Tanager’s antique glasscasters without Roush’s order, aiming their blunt muzzles at the Delta Three station’s edge, where Roush was so certain that Digger would emerge. She recognized Roush’s particular genius in tilting Tanager relative to the station, making Pennysmith’s point-defense turret the very first portion of Tanager the enemy would see.

“Sensors, what’s that inbound up to?” Roush demanded.

“Um, the—the inbound contact is still accelerating hard, coming on a direct vector,” Che Ramos said.

“Any luck on that ident yet?”

“N-not yet, Commander,” Che said.

“Inbound vessel is the Carthage,” Loki’s somber voice offered.

Roush knew the vessel well: reinforced frigate, heavy engines for intrasystem work, stealthy and well armed. She had surely been hiding out on the system fringe, dark and silent after obliterating Delta Three’s defense platform, and that had probably been an unfortunate incident. Some old-fashioned fool on the platform surely made a stand, and that had worked out well for Tanager, but the crew members who now scattered their bits among the shattered fragments of the platform might hold a different view, if they still possessed any voice.

Perhaps Tanager would soon add its elements, and those of its crew, to that same collection of trash circling Delta Three’s mild star.

That thought barely formed in Roush’s mind, and the bridge crew had just begun digesting the identity of their inbound nemesis, when they all heard the slight catch in Tilly Pennysmith’s breath.

Her finger, poised over the defense trigger, now jerked as the edge of a dark hull cleared the horizon of Delta Three station. In such tight confines Tanager’s meager energy weapons seemed mighty, lighting the station superstructure in flashes of brilliance, each shadow cut sharply as Pennysmith raked Digger’s rising bulk.

“Nav, hold our yaw angle, just nudge us negative a whisker!” Roush barked, staring between the holo tank optical feed and her own instruments.

Julie Yeager tersely affirmed, and the bridge crew immediately saw Roush’s game. As Digger came over the station, trying to bring its own weapons to bear, Tanager slid away, slicing at Digger’s shields while hiding behind Delta Three’s superstructure.

“Ops, shields and heat sinks are yours.” Susan Roush stared at the holo image, waiting for the moment Digger finally hit back. She wanted Pennysmith free of any duty aside from waging the close-quarters battle that decided Tanager’s immediate fate.

Though nothing in Fleet weapons training resembled the challenge before her, Pennysmith adapted quickly. Burning down Delta Three’s point-defense turret had illustrated the principle, subsequently slagging a collection of sensors and antennae structures cemented her comfort on the manual controls, and now she stared into her optical scope, kept the green aiming reticle centered on Digger’s emerging hull, and squeezed the trigger.

The darkened bridge flashed in brilliance as Digger’s shields splashed energy away into hard vacuum. Pennysmith fired, adjusted her aim and fired again, hoping to overload Digger’s shields, knowing that Digger would soon be clear of obstruction, able to return fire.

That moment arrived in a flash of fury, Digger’s foremost turret breaking the horizon and lancing out at Tanager. Pennysmith bared her teeth, holding the trigger down as they dueled, and without letting up she triggered Tanager’s glasscasters, launching a pair of the old-fashioned defensive charges. Meant to create small zones of interdiction, usually in ranges measured in hundreds or thousands of klicks, the glasscaster charges crossed the short distance and triggered right on top of Digger. Their silica payloads blasted into Digger’s shields, billions of high-speed granules deflecting away in showers of glowing ejecta.

“Heat sinks at yellow,” Phillipa Baker called out as Digger cut at them. Tilly Pennysmith heard the words with a muted sense of shock. Already? Digger just managed to land their first hits, and already Tanager’s heat sinks were at yellow?

Digger’s forward progress accelerated. They cleared above the station superstructure, both turrets cutting at Tanager, even trying a missile. Confused by the extreme close range, or the cluttering mass of Delta Three station, the missile failed to lock and streaked away into the darkness, but both ships lashed each other without pause.

“Forward heat sinks at red,” Phillipa Baker said. Roush clenched a fist, staring between her instruments and the holo. This pathetic system gunboat was beating an Imperial frigate with one of the finest Fleet officers ever minted at the helm. Digger’s shields should have overheated by now, Digger rolling away to protect itself, but instead it was Roush preparing Tanager to roll and run.

Tilly Pennysmith stayed locked onto her scopes, the green light illuminating her face as she worked both turrets and the glasscasters, grimly sending everything Tanager could at their enemy.

The entire bridge saw a patch of Digger’s hull suddenly glow white, surrounded by a puff of vapor.

“A breach!” Roush thundered.

“Forward heat sinks failing!” Phillipa Baker called, almost at the same moment.

Pennysmith made no sound as she targeted and fired again and again, now cutting into Digger’s hull, silencing one turret, then the other, slagging its missile launcher. A secondary explosion from the missile turret set Digger spinning. It crumpled an extended piece of station superstructure and deflected away, venting from several terminal wounds. Digger slowly tumbled off and Tilly Pennysmith stopped firing.

“Good work, Weps,” Roush said, feeling her heart beat again.

“No,” a new voice snarled. “Bad job, really.”

The bridge crew turned at the sound of the voice and saw the jolly face of Karl Grund, the ship services chief, standing at the bridge hatch. He looked much less jolly with a heavy autopistol clenched in his beefy, heavyworld hand.

Farley lunged up from his panel, and Grund coolly shot him down, the two shots deafening in the tight space. As Farley’s last breath rattled out, Grund raised the muzzle of his weapon and pointed it directly between Susan Roush’s eyes. “It would have been better for everyone if you had just killed yourself back on Core, but no time like the present, eh?”

Tilly Pennysmith jumped at the sound of the gunshot, reaching for the pistol at her belt, but Karl Grund fell forward, crashing to the deck. Deckchief Church stepped through the open hatchway, the carbine in his hands covering Grund’s fallen form.

Susan Roush, who had never stopped savagely glaring, snapped at Church. “Cut that pretty damned fine, Deckchief.”

“Loki tipped me off,” Church panted, leaning against the bulkhead, “or I wouldn’t have made it at all.”

Che Ramos quivered in his position, shocked over and over through the last hour until he seemed unable to comprehend anything he heard or saw. He looked at the two fallen bodies, sprawled and still, puddles of blood creeping from their recumbent shapes. His gaze traveled to Deckchief Church’s pale face, then to Ensign Yeager who shrilled about something. He turned back to his instruments but the collection of lights and images momentarily held no meaning.

It seemed like the arcane symbols and lights shared some urgent message, but Che struggled to connect what he saw to the rational part of his mind.

“L-launch?” Che’s mouth stammered, seemingly without conscious intent.

“What?” Roush demanded, and the bridge crew fell silent.

“Launch,” Che repeated. “Inbound contact has l-launched missiles.”

“Why—?” Pennysmith began, but Roush cut her off.

“They’re trying to get some mass in close enough to block our transition. I don’t think they’re willing to nuke the station just to swat us, if they can even avoid the station dampers.”

“We can still run, just like the captain said,” Julie Yeager offered in a quavering voice, picking up her feet to avoid the expanding pool of blood on the deck.

The weakness of their plan always was the challenge of reclaiming the multiple Tanager elements: Marines planetside and aboard the station, and the captain and his cox’n in the thick of it, possibly prisoners. Possibly dead.

Farley’s empty comm panel chirped, and Phillipa Baker leaned over and accepted the transmission. “Coded message from Sergeant Kabir,” she said, her voice steady despite everything. “They have collected the captain and Chief Maru, and will commandeer their own transport out-system.”

Phillipa paused, her stoic calm shaken as she read the message. “He says that the entire station staff was slaughtered.”

“What?” Roush demanded.

“That’s what he sent, Commander,” Phillipa Baker said. “He ends by saying they will rendezvous with Major Mahdi themselves.”

Roush bit her lip, staring at the holo screen as ratings came into the bridge under Church’s watchful eye. As they carried the bodies out, and dumb-mechs began cleaning up the mess, she nodded.

“Very well. We run.” Roush turned her glare on Julie Yeager’s pale, eager face. “Okay, Nav, we’ll slingshot around Delta Three’s well, and see if we can transition before Carthage can get those missiles on us.”

Tanager’s torch lit up, thrusting away from Delta Three station, the wreckage of their small battle, and their own captain. They curved around the planet beneath them, sliding from nightside to dayside, hiding the inbound glow of the distant Carthage, and all her angry missiles behind the curve of the much larger glow of terrestrial material.

* * *

With Corporal Suffolk moving ahead through the dark, echoing bay, Saef hurried, guiding the suspension cot over the dusty deck. Behind him, the dumb-mech scampered along, and Marines flanked him on either side. After hearing Sergeant Kabir’s grim description of the slaughter he discovered, Saef understood the Marine’s extreme vigilance.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Sergeant Kabir concluded as they jogged through the dimness, “but I saw plain enough. Implants chopped out of every body.”

“Doesn’t make much sense, Sergeant,” Saef said, still suffering from the aftereffects of his comatose condition. “It’s not as if they can just pull an implant from one person and use it on someone else. It’s been tried for decades. Never works.”

“I know what I saw, sir. I even got a vidcapture.”

“I don’t doubt you, Sergeant. It’s just another piece that…doesn’t make any sense.”

Suffolk led the way to a large airlock for dock seven, and went through the lock first, ready for any attack. The other Marines automatically formed a small perimeter, weapons pointing out into the surrounding darkness.

“Nothing’s right about this,” Sergeant Kabir rumbled. “Not a damned rebellion… Inhuman sods.”

Saef leaned over Inga’s supine form, checking the suspension cot’s readout as Sergeant Kabir spoke. He glanced at Inga’s blood-spattered face, and found her eyes open, staring at him.

“Maru—” Saef began to say, but he saw her lips moving, forming one word. He leaned nearer. “What?”

She whispered again, her eyes wide, staring. This time he heard the word: “Inhuman.” Her gaze locked onto Saef, driving intensity through the contact. A few random characters sprang into Saef’s UI as Inga tried to compose a line-of-sight message in her urgency.

“Yes, Maru, they’re right bastards—” Saef broke off as Inga shook her head, her hand fumbling weakly to grip Saef’s.

“Not…” she whispered, her eyes blinking shut, then opening, “…human.”

Saef just stared down at her in the dim light as her eyes rolled and she slid back into unconsciousness. He heard a clanking sound from the airlock behind him.

“There’s Suffolk, Sarge. What’s the silly bugger doing?”

Saef turned and looked through the view port at Corporal Suffolk, who stood with his carbine hanging loosely at his side, the faceplate of his ship suit open. His face wore a fixed grin as he motioned for the others to join him.

“Cycle the lock,” Sergeant Kabir ordered.

Saef held up a hand, staring at the screen. “Wait.”

Corporal Suffolk continued to motion and grin, but his eyes held a vague, absent look. “Vent the lock,” Saef said without looking from the screen.

“What?” Kabir thundered along with the outraged murmurs of the other Marines.

“He’s got his ship suit. Vent the lock to vacuum.”

Saef felt the hostility from Kabir and the other Marines, but after a moment he moved to the lock controls. The lock began to vent, the air pressure dropping away.

“What the hell, Suffolk?” one Marine growled, staring. “Put your damned faceplate on!”

But Suffolk stood with his fixed grin, motioning to them as his eyes began to bulge and blood dripped from his nose.

“That’s not Suffolk,” Kabir murmured, staring.

Saef also stared at the screen as blood began to smear across the image, and Suffolk’s body began to spasm, starved of all oxygen. The grin remained fixed in place even as Suffolk’s armored figure slid to the deck, blood sheathing his face.

“Look at his left hand,” Saef said, and the shocked Marines all looked. Blood dripped from a puncture in Suffolk’s ship suit just above the wrist of his left hand. “He got stuck by something.”

They all stood there in silence a moment before Saef said, “Cycle the lock, but don’t touch anything. Let’s move.”

As the lock cycled open, Saef noted Sergeant Kabir’s carbine covering Suffolk’s fallen form. “Haider,” Kabir ordered, “drag him along. We’ll put him out a lock. Keep the bastards off him.”

Saef considered countermanding that order, but he needed the Marines’ full cooperation for the final leg of their escape. Instead, he focused his attention on any potential threat as they moved down the short passage to the hard lock with the heavy merchant ship Aurora. The dumb-mech clattered along behind as Saef handled the suspension cot.

“Look.” Kabir pointed his carbine at the operating handle for the hard lock, and Saef leaned over to spot the tiny concealed needle. It gleamed, formed from some translucent crystalline material.

Saef took a hand from the suspension cot, drew his sword, and used the tip to snap the needle off. “That may be just the first trap. Let’s keep watch for anything else.”

They cycled the lock, entering the merchant ship two at a time, moving as quickly as they could. The interior of Aurora offered the first breaths of clean-smelling air Saef had enjoyed since awakening from his coma, but its dim, silent expanse felt no more welcoming.

Saef quickly dispatched two Marines to Engineering, and they set off, carbines held ready, clearing through the vessel. Sergeant Kabir took a final glance at Suffolk’s body in Aurora’s outer lock, then hefted his carbine and followed Saef to the ship’s tiny infirmary.

“Haider,” Kabir growled, “stay with Chief Maru. We’ll be in the bridge.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Haider settled into a corner, his carbine across his chest.

Saef set the suspension cart, made a last check of Inga’s vital signs, and turned to look at the armored Marine. “I am particularly attached to the chief. Keep an eye on her.” He started to say more and thought better of it, though his heart lurched at the sight of Inga’s lifeless face.

“I understand, sir,” Haider said, and he did. No one who valued their life would take the responsibility lightly.

Saef and Kabir quickly made their way to Aurora’s bridge, after a quick check for crystalline needles or other booby traps, and Saef began powering up systems. Since Aurora was a private merchant vessel, it did not operate a synthetic Intelligence, and this left more for Saef to determine on his own. He moved through the systems as quickly as possible, double-checking key instruments to be sure Aurora could actually serve as their savior from the Delta Three star system.

As the passive sensors fired up, Saef began to piece together the unfolding drama. Scattered bits of wreckage swirled about the station, attesting to all the violence Tanager had unleashed. Out-system, a substantial vessel accelerated inbound, preceded by a swarm of missiles, but Tanager’s signature did not appear anywhere. For a moment, Saef felt a quiver of dismay as he spotted a terminally damaged hull rolling slowly in the orbital wake of Delta Three station, but quickly established it was not Tanager.

“She going to work for us?” Sergeant Kabir asked.

Saef quickly continued through the instruments. “So it appears. If that inbound contact doesn’t catch us.” He actuated the explosive bolts holding Aurora to Delta Three station, and used cool thrusters to drop slowly away from the tangle of superstructure. The slagged point-defense turret, evidence of Tanager’s violence, warmed Saef’s heart. At least that would pose no threat to them now.

Saef checked the scopes again. “Ah, Roush must be leading them off, bless her.” The swarm of missiles tracked after a target invisible behind the planetary expanse.

“Okay, Sergeant, here’s our window. If the major’s going to leave the well, this is it. Send the parameters to him, and I’ll push the signal through the ship transmitter. He’ll either show up in our window, or he gets a long vacation!”

* * *

Clad in the implacable might of K77, Major Mahdi sprang over the installation enclosure in one leap, then bounced up to a small second-floor window where he clung momentarily. Mist and rain still swept the darkness, and K77 no longer wore the bright emblem of the Imperial Marines. Instead it seemed a shadowy patch of mist itself as Mahdi hurled an explosive charge through the window. He leaped away, landing smoothly on the broad, smart-alloy feet, loping into cover as the air defense tower erupted behind him.

A secondary autocannon must have detected some hint of K77’s stealthed presence, because it snapped around, questing. It opened up, pouring a string of fire around Mahdi’s position as he rolled, casting his considerable mass into a shallow dip. The autocannon tore the earth around him, a slug ringing off his shoulder plate.

“Someone kill that, please,” Mahdi snarled into his comm.

A single mass-driver round flashed through the dark, and the autocannon spun, wildly firing strings of tracers in random directions before spinning down.

Major Mahdi was up in an instant, reaching out in three long strides, then leaping back over the outer enclosure, even as troops and vehicles began stirring around the base behind him.

Few planetary defenses performed well against Imperial battledress troops. In that regard Delta Three’s defenses seemed quite typical.

Mahdi took two high bounds, landing on a modest, wooded rise overlooking the air defense base. Wiley and Sparks lay concealed among the foliage, their thermal shields deployed, the mass-driver barrel poking out.

“Alright, lads,” Mahdi told them, “scarper off. We’ll meet you two there.”

Wiley and Sparks assented, leaving the mass driver and thermal shields behind where they lay stacked, a timed thermite charge placed to slag it all down, and they wormed their way back through wet vegetation. Still crawling, they crested the small hump and set off downhill.

Mahdi stood among the blowing foliage, drinking in the three-hundred-sixty-degree vision afforded by K77, picking out each of his battledress-equipped Marines as they completed their own objectives. Interceptor craft glowed white, smoldering in their revetments, sensor towers wilted, collapsing, and air defense batteries sent showers of flame into the night sky.

Once again Mahdi wondered if he should have commandeered a vehicle from this base, counting upon the confusion of the raid to allow their escape. He had decided against it simply because Wiley and Sparks might not survive long enough to reach any commandeered craft. Their lack of battledress proved to be a deadly conundrum.

Mahdi sized up the progress of confusion around the small base for a moment longer before setting off, bounding through the streaming rain. The shadowy form of Corporal Hastings streaked through a row of service mechs at the edge of the base enclosure directly opposite Mahdi’s position, and for a moment their paths paralleled, separated by the defensive perimeter and a narrow road. The charges Hastings scattered among the service mechs detonated behind him, and he sprang high up over the outer enclosure, a blur of mist and shadow. He landed smoothly and leaped again, clearing the road and landing among the vegetation a short distance ahead of Mahdi.

In a few minutes, the other four battledress-clad Marines completed their individual raids, one by one bounding away from the shambles of the air base, joining Hastings and Mahdi as they loped away.

Mahdi checked his instruments, not surprised to see most of his weapon inventory depleted and the Shaper power cell half consumed. They would be climbing up out of the well long before they ran out of power, or they would be dead. Either way, the point would be moot.

The sharp white glow flickering through the clouds above almost caused Mahdi to halt.

“You see that?” Corporal Hastings asked, bounding easily along some distance ahead.

“I saw it,” Mahdi said. “Someone’s getting their arse kicked upstairs.”

They continued bounding through the shrouding vegetation for a moment before Hastings offered, “I hope we still got friends up there.” Since they were all thinking the same thing, Mahdi knew a reply was necessary.

“Same enemy we just buggered running the show upstairs. Can’t find their arse with both hands, these sods.”

There were chuckles from the Marines, but Hastings persisted. “What if they’re gone, though?”

“Then we’re guerillas for the duration,” Mahdi said. “And you know what that means, right? Harems! Ground-side women love guerillas.”

“Winning hearts and minds!” another Marine chimed in while the others chuckled.

“That’s right, lads,” Mahdi said, “giving our bodies in service to the Emperor is a hard lot—”

“Never harder!” another Marine crowed and they all laughed.

Mahdi smiled to himself, leaping through the trees, listening to the voices of his Marines coming through their secure comm channel. No matter how brief it may be, life as an Imperial Marine never felt sweeter.

* * *

Wiley and Sparks continued their tactical use of public transportation, after they ran some distance down to an active road. The autocab made no comment on their muddy armor and weapons, simply driving them to a small private airfield and leaving them standing in the dark. Major Mahdi had mapped the field as one potential exit point, and it certainly fit the bill. Several low-orbit-capable execu-jets stood about the tarmac, visible through the ongoing downpour, and no visible security measures cluttered the scene. They just needed to get the appropriate jet ready to launch, and await the arrival of their battledress brethren.

Perhaps their easy victories lulled them, or perhaps their own belief in the Marine mystique bordered upon hubris. For whatever reason, they jogged toward a candidate aircraft, crossing the wide tarmac, the open mouths of various hangar structures yawning darkly not far away, and it was far too late when a tingle of caution touched Wiley. He belatedly flipped the eyepiece down from his helmet as they jogged through the streaming rain. The image exposed by his multispectrum optic as he scanned over the nearby structures would not compute at first, the individual blobs of human heat signatures blurring into a concept he had trained endlessly upon: ambush. He even managed to say the word out loud just as a bright light stabbed out through the curtain of rain, bracketing Wiley and Sparks. An amplified voice began booming, words and phrases rendered meaningless in the torrent of adrenaline.

Imperial Marine doctrine on countering an ambush comprised several steps, but, like most humans experiencing their first actual ambush, Wiley and Sparks responded at a more primal level. They ducked, throwing their carbines to their shoulders, firing.

A part of Wiley’s mind, the tiny, calm portion that paid attention in all those training classes, made objections, but the much louder portion of Wiley’s psyche, thrilling in exultation and fear, screamed defiance as his carbine hammered.

The snapping sound of return fire somehow reached him over the roar of his own weapon, driving him to the tarmac. Sparks stood, firing, staggering back as round after round struck him, grunting with each impact, bright fragments flying from his shock armor, and Wiley opened up again, prone on the tarmac.

Though only bare seconds had passed, Wiley felt the shock subside somewhat even as Sparks tumbled to the wet tarmac, hammered down by incoming fire. The enemy’s light fell victim to their first volley of return fire, so the scene now fluctuated from total darkness to flashes lit by bright muzzle blasts. Wiley centered one human heat source between the glowing crosshairs of his weapon sight, squeezed the trigger, and barely saw the figure crumple as he rolled away from the inevitable return fire.

With hot rounds snapping through the rain around him, Wiley laid his crosshairs across another enemy form and fired. Before he could roll, an incoming shot rang off his helmet, and another smashed his shoulder plate, but Wiley still blindly rolled over and over, finding himself behind the scant shelter of a wedge-shaped wheel chock.

Muzzle blasts flashed from the darkness, rounds slammed and skipped from the tarmac, and Wiley steadied his sights, peering around his tiny chunk of cover. Fear faded away, physical pain became a distant voice, and Wiley squeezed the trigger again. Dimly, he knew he had only seconds left to live, and there, prone on the tarmac of a miserable, rain-swept little airfield, he just stopped caring about it.

* * *

The string of nearly invisible, battledress-equipped Marines bounded in great leaps, racing through the rain toward their potential exit point. They crossed a narrow road, each Marine clearing the gap in one clean bound, splashing down among wet foliage, and springing forward again. The amplified senses of their battledress detected the eruption of gunfire while still some distance from their target.

“Wiley and Sparks,” Corporal Hastings said, without pausing.

“Yes,” Mahdi replied, landing and leaping. “Take Ragnarson and Mumtaz and veer south.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Hastings commed back, and without a break the three Marines sped away, blurring through foliage and rain.

Major Mahdi glanced at K77’s power levels and made the decision in an instant. “Emergency power now, lads. Let’s go get them.” He was committed. If the airfield did not provide an exit off-world, their battledress power cells might not hold enough juice for a plan B.

They raced toward the racket of gunfire, their armor-sheathed legs thrusting them forward faster and faster, leaping high over foliage, springing from hillside to flat, flying forward. But Mahdi heard the gunfire slackening ahead, a single shot barking, answered by a thunder of return fire. His marksmen clearly neared their end.

* * *

Wiley tried to draw his entire body behind the bare handsbreadths of cover as rounds sang and snapped around him. His helmet jerked from two more deflecting hits, and fire licked a streak across one thigh, while tarmac fragments stung his cheek and neck. They were shooting him to pieces, and Wiley felt his anger surge.

“Fuck it,” he snarled, snapping his carbine to full-auto and jerking a flash from his harness. He triggered the flash, tossing it feebly out ahead. With his eyes closed, he came to his knees, then to his feet, staggering as his leg nearly folded. The flash blew, dazzling his exposed eye, right through his closed eyelid.

His carbine was up and blasting, punching his shoulder with each burst as he staggered forward at an angle. “Bastards, bastards, bastards!” Through his multispectrum optic, Wiley caught glimpses of targets as he swore at them, firing long bursts.

He barely noticed the staccato pop of weapons firing from behind, the snap as rounds passed nearby, he just staggered forward, firing. He collapsed to his knees and fumbled for a fresh magazine, seeing a large, vague outline soar through the air ahead, crashing through the thin metal of the hangar structure. He looked about him, blinking blood and rain from his eyes. The massive forms of Marine battledress moved around him, their weapons cutting down the last of the ambushers.

Wiley fell back in a puddle, sitting with his legs outstretched, gasping for air. He looked up as Major Mahdi stepped near, towering over him in K77.

“You look like shit, Marine,” Mahdi’s voice crackled over K77’s speaker.

Wiley nodded. “Better’n Sparks looks, Major.” The bullet-riddled body of Sparks lay nearby, blood and water pooling around the still form. Mahdi had no response, and Wiley drew a ragged breath, feeling on the edge of collapse. “Major…can we…can we get the shit off this damned planet?”

Major Mahdi looked at the execu-jets parked across the tarmac, apparently unharmed by the gun battle.

“We can certainly try. Give me your hand, lad.”


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