The two fighters managed to reload their weapons and make a run across the street for more solid cover, the two of them gunning down a warrior in their path as they ran. Morgan punched a round through a fourth warrior who had moved up behind them, and then cringed as a low flying gunship came screaming past her position to strafe the entire side of the street. The already damaged building that the fighters had taken cover within collapsed under the bombardment, no doubt burying the two fighters. Morgan silently hoped that they'd been killed outright, and not trapped under debris and suffering a slow death. Then rockets came streaking out from a nearby hab-bloc and struck one of the two main thrusters on the gunship, which exploded and sent the gunship crashing through another building. As the building fell the dust and debris from that combined with the other collapsed building to cover the battlefield in a thin fog.
Morgan's instincts screamed at her to move, though she steadfastly held her position. This is the hardest moment of the mission, she repeated MacArthur's words to herself silently, and this is the moment where we show them what humans are made of. She could hear multiple Izrid warriors entering the building beneath her. At least one or two of the elite warriors that had begun to appear on the battlefield in recent months, in their bulky battle armor, clanked against the ragged interior of the former hab-bloc. She drew in a breath and fired once more, and this time her shot went low to strike a warrior through the meat of his thigh instead of punching through his skull. The warrior collapsed to the ground but managed to roll over onto his side and cut loose with a fully automatic weapon, sending flechette rounds buzzing through the air and impacting on Morgan's position. The sniper hurled herself backwards, banging her knees and elbows painfully as she rolled down several steps of the narrow stairway before catching herself with a sturdy boot thrust flat against the wall. She fought through the pain and took the opportunity to pop the ring on a frag grenade before hurling it against the opposite wall. The grenade bounced off the wall and fell down into the stairwell directly beneath Morgan. The young fighter scrambled back up the stairs and managed to reach a high corner before the grenade detonated with a deep bass thump, followed by the sharp clatter of shrapnel and chunks of concrete filling the space below. Morgan knew better than to assume she'd killed all of the warriors below, some of them were too well armored, though at least one or two should have been taken out of the fight.
The young woman crawled low back to her former shooting position and took up her rifle to peer down the scope at the Izrid she'd wounded earlier. He had drug himself into cover and could be seen reloading his weapon. She didn't have a clean kill shot, but decided to take one anyway, and managed to blow off one of the warrior's hands and knocking it back into full cover. As she loaded another shell into her rifle she heard the whine of a capture skiff, the shrieking wail of its engines having been played for her during the mission briefing by MacArthur several days prior. The thought of the skiffs made her tongue tingle, and she knew it was time.
As Morgan looked out across the battlefield she saw the skiff come into view, and sharply drew in her breath as she witnessed the full presence of the Izrid vehicle. It was a lightweight hover skiff, with an armored pilot pulpit, and bristling with non-lethal weaponry. Everything about the vehicle was designed for effective capture and transport of enemy fighters, with an overt lack of concern for being a target of enemy fire once the hold was full. From the un-shielded screaming engines to the simple mesh walls of the ship, it was as if the Izrid were daring the resistance fighters to fire upon it, which would most certainly cause the death of all on board, human captive and Izrid warriors. There were three electro-net launchers mounted on the vehicle, one on the prow and one on each side of the vessel, and an electrified holding pen at the center of the skiff. As she looked on she could see that two resistance fighters had already been captured and placed in the pen. One Morgan recognized, a dark-haired grunt named Lysa, who sat in the center of the cage, holding onto one of the rubberized handles coming up from the floor. The other was unrecognizable, and from what was left of her clothing Morgan assumed this woman had been part of the new squads of rocket teams. The woman was clearly dead, as her body hung limp against the cage, with knees buckled and held upright by only her one hand that seemed jammed into one of the gaps in the cage's mesh walls. Her flesh was dark and smoking, and after a moment of observation Morgan realized to her horror that the cage was electrified, and the woman must have died trying to escape, as lethal voltage continued to ravage her smoldering corpse.
Through all of the gunpowder, dust, and fire Morgan could smell the aroma of the woman's cooking flesh, and nearly vomited in shock at her own reaction. It had been a long time since anyone in the resistance had enjoyed a proper meal, and the smell of cooking flesh made her mouth water. Morgan blinked back tears and stood up, revealing herself to the skiff as she raised her rifle. Through her scope Morgan could see one of the Izrid gunners spinning up his net caster and aiming it downwards and across the street towards where the most recent rocket attack had originated. A flechette gun mounted on the bottom of the skiff trained itself on the attack location and peppered it with dozens of sharp projectiles. Morgan followed the tracer fire and saw the flechette rounds strike the body of a male resistance fighter as he was driven from cover, and swallowed hard as she saw him rent to pieces by the hail of tiny blades. The sniper swung her rifle back to the skiff and bored a hole through the head of the net gunner on the prow of the ship, and hissed in satisfaction as the power from her shot sent his lifeless corpse falling from the skiff and splattering onto the pavement. As Morgan reloaded the sound of small arms fire drew her attention back down to the rocket team and she saw a man and woman, both resistance fighters who had come with MacArthur, rushing out of cover and charging the skiff with nothing but assault rifles. Clearly, thought Morgan with a shudder of patriotism, these two took the mission as seriously as anyone possibly could.
As hard rounds spanked off the bottom of the skiff Morgan watched as the flechette gun held its fire despite having both fighters clearly in its sights. This is it, Morgan thought to herself, this is the moment where we see if MacArthur was right about the new Izrid battle protocol. The male was too close to the female, and the Izrid held their fire with the flechette gun, just as MacArthur had theorized. The net gunner, however, did not hold his fire, and as he squeezed the trigger a wide electro-net emerged from his deck-mounted gun with tremendous force. The net unfolded as it neared the two fighters and slammed them both to the ground as the weighted ends kept them from being able to crawl out. Not that they would have been able to, as the voltage in the net effectively paralyzed them, leaving the fighters incapacitated as the net constricted into a ball and was reeled in by the warriors on the skiff. Morgan knew that her moment had arrived when the skiff turned towards her, even as more warriors were clattering up the stairs towards her. Not one to be taken easily, Morgan dropped her rifle and drew her sidearm.
The first warrior emerged from the stairwell and was greeted with nearly fourteen small caliber rounds from Morgan's pistol, and while most of them ricocheted off of his battle armor at least four buried themselves in his neck and face. The warrior fell backwards and landed with a crunch against the body of another warrior rushing up the stairs, temporarily stalling the enemy advance. Morgan spun on her heels as she slapped in a fresh magazine and raised the pistol towards the oncoming skiff. The young fighter began shooting at the same moment the gunner launched his net, and she was knocked off of her feet by the force of the net's impact. Morgan's mind was immediately awash in pain as the electric current streaked through her body, and she blacked out.
Morgan's awareness returned to her shortly after the net was removed, and she found herself being drug towards the holding pen by two powerful warriors. She had little strength left in her to resist, though she did her best to put on a convincing performance. Instead of applause she earned a stiff backhand that made her knees buckle and put spots in her eyes for a few se
conds, though she assumed that had been enough. Lysa helped Morgan to the floor of the holding pen as best she could, and the two women held each other for a moment before the skiff began leaving the area.
"Tough day to be a girl huh?" joked Lysa as she took Morgan's hand in her own and began popping dislocated fingers back into place, which shocked the sniper into full wakefulness, as she had been in such a fog from the electrocution and the backhand she hadn't taken notice of her other injuries.
"What, gallows humor already?" Morgan responded meekly as she gathered herself and began to assess her situation, "Though I guess it has been a bit colorful today."
Morgan saw that the female resistance fighter she'd seen captured in the net was sitting in the corner, her head lolling from what was likely a few hard hits to the head from the Izrid captors. The burning corpse and the male resistance fighter were not on the skiff, and as such Morgan could only assume that both were now dead and discarded. The skiff was picking up speed as it left the battlefield and threaded its way through the winding streets of Old Chicago, giving Morgan an airborne vantage point of the dystopian world that her home had become. In the months since MacArthur's gun crews had destroyed the mobile fortress, and according to the rumor mill Tara and Cole had managed to take down a second one from inside, the war had changed. Before it was a faceless war against the vast legions of Izrid warriors, whom all looked the same to the human eye, until the one-eyed warlord known as Cava-Rek had emerged from the shadows. He was what the Izrid called a magister, a feudal lord who commanded a portion of the Izrid military. According to MacArthur's briefings the resistance had learned that each magister controlled one or two of these fortresses, and all of the compounds, hatcheries, and foundries necessary to maintain their own private armies. All of the magisters were coordinating with the various frigates that lurked around the planet. So while they were all fighting the same war, each Izrid magister was like a king of his own region. Cava-Rek seemed to be the magister whom had emerged as the Izrid leader tasked with the destruction of the Chicago resistance, and he had brought the fight to a fever pitch.
It was when the skiffs began appearing that MacArthur had known something different was happening in Chicago, for no such reports of skiffs or the Izrid focus on female captives were coming from any other battlefield but hers. Which all amounts to my ass being right here in the middle of it all, though Morgan to herself as she watched the blasted skyline from inside the holding pen. Morgan, Lysa, and the other woman, presumably with the last name 'Cruz' according to the nametag on her shoulder, who remained silent. After nearly thirty minutes of high speed travel through the shattered city the skiff came to a stop over what looked to Morgan to be a former hospital or research center that had been re-purposed to serve as some kind of Izrid command compound. She could see one of the mobile fortresses docked to one side of the compound, attached by a vast network of ducts and cables that made it look as if the building was in a way devouring the alien craft. There were a great many warriors patrolling the grounds, and several gunships flying pickets in the local airspace. A heavily guarded facility to be sure, and what fate awaited her inside the sniper could only guess.
The skiff crossed over the outer perimeter fence and landed in what used to be a parking lot, now seemingly a loading and landing zone for the occupying invaders. She could hear and feel the power shut down as the skiff cut its thrusters, and the holding pen's mesh walls ceased to hum. The warriors on the skiff and the guards who approached exchanged a series of alien clicks and syllables, what passed for Izrid communication to the human ear, and three warriors boarded the skiff. Each of them held in their hands a short staff with a loop of wire on the end, and as soon as the door to the holding pen opened they placed them around the necks of the three women. Morgan, Lysa, and Cruz did not struggle, and allowed themselves to be collared and lead away from the skiff.
They were in the thick of it now, Morgan said to herself, as if being in a firefight wasn't in the thick of it already. The warriors led them through a set of double doors into what looked like a large public shower, then without warning other warriors dressed only in what appeared to be silken utility kilts emerged and began ripping the clothes from the women’s bodies. Lysa fought back for a brief moment, until the handler with the staff sent a jolt of electricity through the collar, and the pain forced her into submission. The warriors worked quickly, using their powerful arms and short-clawed fingers to strip the women completely naked. Then the handlers pushed them into the showers, which sprayed hot water on them from several directions as once, the water itself smelling tinged with some kind of disinfectant. Morgan was shocked at the rough treatment, though could not help but to take a small measure of enjoyment out of taking the first proper shower she'd experienced in a full two years. The warriors whom had previously taken their clothes approached them and began washing the women using a variety of rags and soaps, going so far as to use their razor sharp war axes to deftly shave their armpits, legs, and even womanhood. Morgan had enjoyed shaving herself in her pre-war life, and liked the way that men seemed to enjoy her shaved parts, though having an alien shave her with an axe only sickened her.
After another ten minutes of overwhelming attention the three women were clean, dry, and their skin and hair glowed in the soft light. The handlers brought them through another set of double doors, then down a long windowless hallway towards a pre-war elevator. Lysa and her handler went in first, and minutes later the door opened and Cruz and her handler went in, leaving only Morgan and hers. After several more minutes of waiting the young fighter and her handler took the elevator, and by the time the door opened Morgan had counted five floors of upwards travel. She was escorted down another hallway and to a simple door in what seemed to be a hab-bloc building of Earth's former wealthy elite, perhaps a place for lavish convalescence. When the door opened Morgan gasped, as the one-eyed Izrid that stood within was an exact match for the warlord in MacArthur's brief. The alien magister was not wearing the battle armor she'd seen in the surveillance photos, instead he was dressed in a tight fitting pair of briefs and an unbuttoned robe made from a material that seemed to flow like water in the air itself.
Cava-Rek smiled as he ran his eyes up and down Morgan's naked body, and then gestured for the Izrid warrior to hand him the collar staff. The body inspectors were correct, this particular human did in fact look strikingly similar to the resistance fighter who nearly killed him, Tara.
"Ah, the spoils of war," he hissed as he used the staff to gently draw Morgan through the doorway.
ACT II
Cava-Rek used the staff to lead Morgan into the room, which surprisingly revealed itself to be a tastefully furnished pre-war luxury apartment. The young fighter's toes were greeted with the soft support of carpet, which brought a rush of memories flooding her mind. Flashes of childhood playtime, chasing her older brother through their parent's modest home, and vivid recollections of her own living space, which had been long forgotten. The sun had set outside, and through the glass of the far wall she could see the lights of the compound, still bustling with Izrid activity. With the staff the warlord beckoned her to a small table set with a variety of fruits, and even a piece of raw meat. Without a word he picked up a small knife and depressed a button that turned the blade red hot. He then carved a small slice from the meat, which was cooked by the blade as it cut, and placed it in Morgan's mouth. She could not help but to chew and swallow with gusto, as it had been a long time since she'd had anything that smelled or tasted so good. The alien feed her several small pieces of fruit, then with a gentle push from the staff beckoned her sideways and the Izrid magister led her into an equally stylish bedroom.
"Listen to me very carefully human. In a moment I will release the grip of this staff, and you will be free to dress yourself," said the alien in shockingly eloquent English, even if the shape of his reptilian mouth heavily accented his words, "you are safe here, and the only threat to your well being is resistance."
&nb
sp; Morgan heard the staff click and after a slight tug the shaft part of the tool unfastened from the collar, though the collar itself remained. She had to fight the urge to reach up and attempt to remove the collar, though managed to stay in control, and turned to face the Izrid, who gestured towards a small open closet. Inside were several elegant, even if somewhat revealing, cocktail dresses, accompanied by several pairs of shoes. As Morgan padded over to the closet she could see that none of the shoes were of any particular functionality, all of them of the high heeled variety that were more suited to exotic dancers and porn stars than they were a woman who needed to actually walk in them. After a few moments of consideration, Morgan opted to don the least overtly sexy dress available, which meant little, considering that the dress she chose clung tightly to her body to accentuate her curves. The dress rode high as she bent down to place her feet into a pair of heels, smirking to herself that the aliens had given her a dress and shoes without any options for panties. Morgan had noticed the glint of desire in the Izrid's eyes, and suspected that her body would soon be forfeit, the lack of panties a not so subtle clue as to the alien's intentions. The sniper stood up and turned in a slow circle to face the Izrid.
Alien Resistance: Omnibus Edition Page 5
