Messenger

by James Walker

  Vic's stomach lurched and his heart hammered in his chest. He threw off his blankets, flung himself out of his bunk, and rushed to the locker room. He arrived along with the rest of the Thunderbirds squadron members. They quickly changed into their piloting gear, then filed out of the modular barracks.

  Chaos engulfed the encampment. Everywhere, rebel soldiers ran to their stations while the alarm continued blaring. The Thunderbirds ran to the trailers where their exosuits were stored and climbed inside.

  Their squadron had two kinds of exosuits: four Mad Oxen and a multitude of Meizhoushis, the cheapest exosuit model available on the black market and mainstay of SLIC's mechanized infantry. Tinubu and Cena used two of the Mad Oxen, while the other two had been reassigned: one to Vic, as repeated trials showed that no one in the squadron but Cena could match his piloting technique; and the other, though he had not been formally assigned to the squadron, to Pierson.

  Tinubu was the first into the trailers and leapt into the cockpit of his kneeling suit. Vic followed close behind and paused for a moment to look around at his fellow pilots. He saw Cena pull out her necklace and kiss it before tucking it back into her pilot suit and then climbing aboard her Mad Ox.

  Without further hesitation, Vic boarded his own exosuit. He closed the hatch and input the startup commands, flooding the cockpit with light as the systems came online. The main viewscreen activated, surrounding him with a view of the trailer's interior. The next instant, Cena's helmeted countenance appeared in the corner of his screen along with the words, “Group Transmission.”

  “What's going on, Captain?” she asked. “Where's the enemy?”

  Tinubu's midnight-dark face appeared next to Cena's. “I haven't heard anything either,” he replied. “Hang on, I'm getting a transmission from the command post. I'll patch it through to the rest of the squadron.”

  There was a short pause, then a screen appeared with a view of the command module populated by Childers, Guntar, and Esther. Vic could read the urgency of the situation in the tension on their faces.

  “What the hell is going on?” Guntar demanded. “How did they find us?”

  A transmission from Pierson joined the mix and he asked, “What are the enemy's movements? Is there a chance they don't have our position?”

  “Not likely,” Childers replied. “According to our pickets, they've spread out to surround all of Industrial Sector Seven. Our base is right at the focal point of their formation. They know we're here.”

  “Shit,” Guntar spat.

  “Enemy strength?” Pierson asked.

  “At least two companies,” Childers said. “They've probably got more in reserve. And it gets worse. The forces at the front of their formation have Spacy markings.”

  Guntar's expression turned even more sour. “Looks like our old friends have finally caught up with us. They're like damn chihuahuas. Once they latch on to your ankle, they just keep gnawing and they don't let go.”

  “More like rottweilers going for the throat,” Pierson corrected him. “Dr. Klein, how much longer until the Cage's security is breached?”

  “We're almost there,” Esther said. “Less than an hour.”

  Pierson asked, “Is there any chance you can suspend the cracking and resume where you left off later?”

  Esther shook her head. “Whoever designed this thing's security is insidious. The way it's set up, you have to start over from scratch every time you try to open it, plus it mutates in response to every new attempt. Besides, it would take at least an hour to disassemble everything and get it loaded up for transport.”

  “The Union will be all over us by then,” Tinubu said.

  “So we have no choice but to try and hold this position,” Childers said.

  “All right, there's no use wishing for the impossible,” Pierson said. “Let's get to the surface and take up defensive positions. If we can hold them off long enough to extract the Cage's contents, then we can grab whatever it spits out and execute a fighting withdrawal.”

  Pierson's decisiveness seemed to bring a measure of order to the others. Their manners transformed from suppressed panic to cool-headed resolution.

  “I'll start preparing the base for emergency mobilization,” Childers said.

  “I'll handle tactical deployment,” Tinubu said.

  Pierson asked, “Any objections if I take independent action?”

  “Please, Major,” Childers replied. “We're not about to interfere with the hero of Halispont.”

  All of the transmissions cut off except Tinubu's. “All right, Thunderbirds,” he said, “form up on me. This is our day to shine. Let's go kick some Union ass.”

  The trailers' canopies swung open and the exosuits stepped off. Tinubu led them to the storage compound, where the elevator was already waiting for them. The elevator was not large enough to transport the entire squadron in one trip, so only about half of them boarded it, along with several squads of infantry.

  The churning in Vic's stomach returned as the elevator made its slow ascent. The moment it reached the surface, the troops started filing out of the warehouse and the elevator immediately began descending to transport the next wave of troops.

  They emerged under a purple sky of deepening darkness. In the distance, the million lights of the city core's skyscrapers cast a harsh backdrop against the dim air. The very atmosphere seemed charged with dormant energy anticipating its release in the coming bloodshed.

  “We'll form a defensive perimeter,” Tinubu said, and began assigning positions.

  Vic took up position on his assigned street and watched as the members of infantry squad B rushed to occupy the buildings on either side. The scream of a hypersonic engine filled the air, and he looked up to see a surveillance drone flying far overhead.

  “Guess they know we're ready for them,” he whispered.

  “Don't rush in to meet the first wave,” Tinubu's voice came over the comm. “Let them come to us. We've got some traps set up for just such an occasion.”

  A minute of tense silence passed, then another. Vic's churning stomach had settled down to a dull throb, but now his mouth was dry. He licked his lips and flexed his fingers, trying to loosen some of the tension in his muscles.

  “Here they come,” someone announced.

  Several blocks down, a pack of attack drones with Spacy markings scuttled around a corner. They sighted Vic's exosuit and began making their way toward him, but he held his fire.

  Suddenly a massive fireball erupted in the center of the attack drones, spewing smoke and debris high into the air. There was a short pause, then the surviving drones emerged from the billowing smoke, lasers flashing.

  Vic opened fire. Rather than sweeping his aim across the drones' formation, he targeted each one individually with short, controlled bursts in order to conserve ammunition. As they drew closer, he executed a slow retreat, weaving across the street in a zig-zag pattern as a web of ruby beams lanced all around his suit. The infantry inside the buildings opened fire with armor-piercing rounds and grenades, further adding to the chaos.

  Just as the last drone fell, Vic noticed a squad of Spacy marines spreading out a couple of blocks away, running into the surrounding buildings and diving to the ground. As they began exchanging fire with the rebel forces, Vic brought his crosshairs to bear over their formation.

  His finger froze over the trigger. A bead of sweat formed at his brow and traced its way down his temple. These enemies were not machines, but people. Vic had already killed, but those had been drug smugglers, people who murdered as a way of life, without remorse. These were Union soldiers. Some were volunteers, but some would have been conscripted into service against their will. Many of them probably did not even want to be here. To cut them down like so much wheat was just...

  Vic's cockpit rang with the sounds of bullets ricocheting off the hull. The next instant, a rocket-propelled grenade blazed toward him. With lightning reaction, he twisted out of the way, his inner contemplation shattered.

/>   Propelled by anger in response to the attack, Vic unleashed his counter. He leveled his crosshairs over the approximate source of the R.P.G. and pulled the trigger, causing the side of the building to erupt in dust and debris. Then he swept the crosshairs slowly across the street, through the line of soldiers. Finally, he loaded an anti-personnel missile into his right shoulder pod and fired it into what remained of the enemy formation. The missile exploded several meters over the ground and rained hundreds of shards over the surrounding area.

  “I have no choice,” he told himself. “There's no way to survive, but to kill.”

  Before he could verify the results of his attack, the hum of an approaching aircraft warned him just as a VTOL appeared over a nearby building and unleashed a fusillade from its rotary cannons. Vic skated out of the way of the main barrage and raised his suit's heavily-armored forearms over its head, taking the brunt of the remaining shots. He raised his rifle and returned fire, but the VTOL sped away and dis­appeared behind another building before he could get a lock to fire one of his anti-air missiles.

  Vic ejected his rifle's spent magazine and slapped in a replacement, then returned his attention to the street. Despite his attack thinning out the ranks of the enemy infantry, a second wave had arrived and continued trading fire with the rebels. In the corner of his screen, he noticed one of the rebel soldiers flash him a thumbs-up sign, and his spirits lifted disproportionately to the small gesture.

  He felt calmer now. His fear and hesitation were drowning under a sea of adrenaline. He tightened his grip on the controls and prepared to continue the fight.

  *

  Omicron remained with the reserves, his gaze flicking between his static-filled sensors and the sprawl of buildings before him. Tracer rounds and flashes periodically lit the darkening purple sky, accompanied by sounds of explosions and gunfire. He flexed his muscles in an­ticipation, barely able to contain himself from leaping into the fray.

  “The first wave is engaged,” a staticky transmission crackled over the speakers. “Sixth platoon, move in and strike the southern front. Director Nimh will take command. Lieutenant Omicron, give them support.”

  “So, I'm moving in with the big cheese, huh?” Omicron eyed Ridley's exosuit pressing forward to his right. “Let's see if he can keep up with the big boys.”

  Omicron pressed the button on the wrist of his flight suit, flooding his veins with linkage fluid; then he joined the P.S.A. column as they advanced up the street. The sounds of fighting grew louder with every step. After several blocks, the buildings to either side lit up with flashes as rebel troops inside launched an ambush on the advancing force.

  Omicron reacted instantly, slashing his microfilaments through the sides of the buildings over and over again, tearing enormous chunks off their decayed facades. No sooner had the fire from the buildings fallen silent when a rebel exosuit leapt out of a nearby alley, falling upon Ridley's suit with a slender blade. The weapon in its hand vibrated just perceptibly, filling the street with a high-pitched shriek.

  Ridley managed to avoid several frenzied slashes, then backed off enough to raise his rifle and open fire. With surprising speed, the rebel suit circled around behind him, avoiding his burst, and fell upon him with a downward strike. Ridley raised his gun hand, meeting the rebel suit's forearm with his own; then, in a flash, drew his own blade with his other hand and severed the rebel suit's arm. He fell upon his enemy with the precision of a surgeon and severed one of its legs despite its twisting dodges. The crippled suit fell to the ground, sparking and billowing smoke.

  Omicron whistled. “Well, I'll be damned. Pretty-boy knows how to fight.”

  “This block is secure,” came Ridley's voice through the speakers. He raised his suit's sword-arm and beckoned the platoon onward. “We'll keep advancing and seize the detonation point.”

  As the platoon pressed forward, Omicron repeatedly zoomed in on the back of each infantryman. The P.S.A. emblazoned each trooper's last name across the back of his body armor, a fact that made them conveniently easy to identify. Finally, his screen alighted on the name Gomez, and a wicked smile lit his face.

  Omicron kicked on his thrusters and blazed over the heads of the advancing troops. With an augment's inhuman precision, he dipped just low enough to envelop Agent Gomez in the wash of his thrusters, then checked his rear camera to ensure that the agent had been burned to a crisp and chuckled.

  “See you in hell, wipe.”

  He put his thrusters into full reverse as a rebel barricade came into view and the defenders opened fire. Infantry and exosuits alike took cover and traded shots with the defenders, filling the air with smoke and projectiles. Despite the barricade being targeted with several explosives, the defenders held firm, keeping the attacking force stalled.

  “I think I can help with that,” Omicron said.

  He peered into the street and centered his main camera on the barricade. As he began zooming in, he caught the name Hans on one of the troopers hiding behind a piece of rubble, trading fire with the defenders.

  Smiling, Omicron brought his particle cannons online and set them to individual targeting mode. He spread their targets across the length of the barricade, making sure that the trajectory on one of the beams was just low enough to graze the piece of rubble Hans was using for cover.

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  A barrage of azure beams erupted from the chest of Omicron's suit, blasting the barricade to pieces. One of the beams shot too low and passed just two meters away from Hans, its intense heat reducing his body to a charred heap. With the barricade heavily damaged, the Union forces poured forward to overrun the defenders.

  “That's two down,” Omicron whispered. “Told you I'd kill you if you laid a finger on my partner, you little fucks.”

  Ridley brought his suit to a halt across the street from Omicron and raised his rifle at the augment. “Lieutenant Omicron, what the hell do you think you're doing?” his voice crackled over the comm.

  Omicron put on an expression of mock innocence. “Whatever are you talking about, Director?”

  “Do you think I'm blind?” Ridley snapped. “I saw you catch one of our infantry with your thrusters earlier, and you just vaporized one of our men along with the enemy barricade.”

  “Hey, I'm sorry,” Omicron said. “I think one of my particle cannons must be miscalibrated. Friendly fire, you know?”

  “Don't give me that bullshit,” Ridley snarled. “You deliberately persuaded me to deploy the agents you fought with just so you could get revenge, didn't you?”

  “Hey, hey, how could I hurt them deliberately?” Omicron said, affronted. “We augments are programmed not to hurt our allies, didn't you know?”

  “You could have found a way around that.”

  Omicron kept his voice friendly. “No offense, Director, but you got any proof to back that up?”

  “You—”

  An explosion cut their exchange short. Omicron looked down the street and saw one of the P.S.A. exosuits falling to the ground, belching fire from its shattered hull. A Mad Ox leapt through the curtain of smoke and fell upon Ridley's suit in a fury, lashing out with an enormous superheated blade. Ridley managed to dodge the first few swings, then the enemy's coordinated attacks obliged him to block one of its strikes with his own blade. The superheated edge of the Mad Ox's weapon cut easily through Ridley's blade and cleaved through his suit's shoulder, severing his left arm. Ridley stumbled back and returned fire with a sustained burst from his rifle, but the rebel suit evaded so skillfully that he only landed a handful of glancing blows.

  “Hey,” Omicron shouted, “we were having a conversation, asshole!”

  He unleashed a blast of particle beams at the rebel exosuit. He never saw how it managed to dodge the burst, but rocketed backward just in time to avoid a strike from the enemy suit's enormous blade as it appeared on his left. He lashed out with his microfilaments; the enemy ducked and drew a shotgun from its hip, firing several shots in quick successi
on. Omicron raised his suit's left arm and repelled the pellets with his electromagnetic deflection shield. The next instant, the shield exploded into a thousand pieces as it was struck by a missile from one of the enemy's shoulder-mounted pods.

  The smoke cleared from Omicron's viewscreen just in time for him to see another P.S.A. suit attack the Mad Ox from the side, only to be sliced in half by one swing from its fiery blade. Then the rebel suit vanished around the corner, avoiding another volley of beams from Omi­cron's particle cannon.

  “Fuck!” Omicron slammed his hand against his instrument panel, denting it. “Who the hell is this asshole? How can these rebel wipes have so many aces in their ranks?”

  “Fall back,” Ridley's rattled voice came over the comm. “Resistance is heavier than expected. Retreat to the reserve line and we'll come back with reinforcements.”

  “It's one fucking guy!” Omicron exploded.

  “You can stay and fight him if you want,” Ridley replied.

  The remaining P.S.A. forces pulled back, shooting a barrage of suppressing fire down the street to discourage pursuit. Omicron hesitated, then, with one last snarl of rage, joined the P.S.A. troops in their retreat.

  *

  Pierson watched the battered platoon's retreat, then opened a transmission to Captain Tinubu. At this range, the static was so thick that it was a struggle to understand each other, but Pierson dared not change position while the southern line was so weak.

  “The southern line has taken considerable damage,” Pierson reported. “I'm filling the gap for the time being, but we could really use some reinforcements on this side.”

  “We could use ——orcements every—re,” came the crackling reply. “But I'll see —t I can do.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Pierson let out a long breath. Fighting augments was not his idea of fun. It took everything he had to keep up with their superhuman reflexes and coordination. And that pilot in the custom domestic enforcement model had been rather skilled as well.