Earth
Local Time: October 16th –
0901 hrs
National
Year: 2028 AD
It was unseasonably hot for autumn.
The smell of warm grass and dirt pervaded Lieutenant Altman’s senses. Sweat
beaded on his forehead and began saturating more uncomfortable areas of his
body.
But
he dare not move. His orders were to wait for the TSR’s signal –whatever it
was- and he couldn’t risk the element of surprise by moving too much.
In
the distance was the tiny town that used to be Atwood. A machinegun nest with a
four-man crew was covering the highway in. Two sentries patrolled the road, but
all the soldiers were too distant to make out any details.
“Thank
God Kansas
“I’ve
got multiple vehicles on the road; too far away to tell what they are… too
small to be tanks. LAVs would be my guess.”
“Ah
shit!” Altman exclaimed, recalling a very similar set of circumstances. “Have
we been made?”
“Nah,”
Shiner lowered his binoculars, “probably just here for the prisoners.” Altman
cursed again. Whether the Imperials knew about them or not, the situation was
now much more complicated.
“What do you want
to do, Altman?” Shiner asked.
The Lieutenant
took a deep breath. They were still waiting for the TSR’s signal, but the Exped
no longer had the advantage. Any attack before the LAVs arrived would mean
being hit in the rear flank by the approaching squadron of attack vehicles.
“Dammit…” Altman breathed, cursing his circumstances. “If the TSR signals and
we don’t start shooting; they’ll be overwhelmed.”
“Fuck
‘em.” ‘Parrot’, a bearded sun-burned Kansas
Altman wanted to
turn to chastise him, but retained his composure. “Anyone else feel that way?”
Altman asked, hoping to get a sense of how popular Parrot’s sentiments were. To
his sorrow, he was answered with a chorus of affirming answers; the Expeditionary
was certainly living up to its reputation for cowardice. “Alright,” he said,
trying to hide his disappointment, “here’s what we’re gonna do: signal or no
signal we’re going to hit these guys as soon as they roll past us. Squad two,
as slowly as you can, get down the road a bit and on the bugle, lay down some
fire. When they slow down, the rest of us are going to get on top-” Altman was
interrupted by the sound of a flare shrieking up toward the sky. The platoon
watched it as a white contrail reached into the sky and burst high above the
town.
Both
the Imperial sentries and the machinegunners turned to watch the spectacle.
Once their surprise wore off, however, the sentries and one of the machine gun
crew abandoned their posts to investigate. Altman let a breath of resignation
from his nose. This was obviously the TSRs signal, but it was too soon for his
vulnerable unit to offer the assistance they were expected to.
“We’re going to
get up top, open the hatches and pour it in.” Altman continued, despite that
fact. “Anyone know how to drive one of those things?” There was no response.
“Right, could have made things easier. Okay…squad two: Go.”
The men kept a low
profile as to avoid the attentions of the enemy machinegun crew, barely
rustling the tall grass as they moved into position. As the sound of motion
faded, it was slowly replaced by the hum of bugs and birds; a subtle irony that
was not lost on Altman. Even as the world found itself under alien occupation,
and mankind struggled for life and liberty; nature continued unabated and
unmoved. The peaceful ambience was soon corrupted, however. Automatic fire
crackled in the distance, interspersed with the occasional concussive thud of a
grenade. The sound of battle made Altman antsy, but he fought his instincts and
waited. “How far out?” He asked.
“Well,
the LAVs definitely know something’s wrong and they’re picking up speed,” Shiner
replied. “Standard Light Assault Vehicle goes just over ninety on a road say
about…seven minutes.”
The Lieutenant let
out a frustrated breath. “Okay.”
For
just over four hundred and twenty long, agonizing seconds the sound of battle
crackled across the Kansas
Satisfied
he had determined the correct distance, he brought his arm down and second
squad ran onto the road and began spraying the LAVs with bullets.
Brakes
squealed and vehicles swerved. “Let’s rock!” Altman shouted. The troops dashed
from their grassy concealment and made for their camouflaged hulls. Altman
clutched one of the exterior metal handrails and began climbing up. Two more
men also grabbed onto the vehicle, but one lost his grip and was crushed
beneath its spinning treads.
Knowing
there was nothing to be done for him, Altman continued climbing. The turret on
the top of the vehicle began snapping off shots with deliberate and unrushed
precision. The operator thought he was safe; tucked away in the LAV’s armored
cockpit, selecting and terminating enemies via his targeting computer.
Despite
the rotating turret behind him, Altman took a seated position on the roof of
the vehicle, straddling the hull to keep himself stable. The other man who had
made it onto the vehicle with Altman grasped the ingress handle, looked to the
Lieutenant, and waited for his nod before wrenching the hatch open. The troops
inside only had time to look up in surprise before Altman began spraying them
with fire. Even with their body armor, the closeness of the shots easily penetrated
their ceramic carapaces. The cramped quarters of the transport meant that even
those who survived the initial bursts were unable to bring their cumbersome
rifles to bear before subsequent volleys ripped them apart.
Seven
Hileans sat or slumped dead in their seats before Altman’s rifle clicked empty.
An eighth clutched his chest as blood poured from his mouth. His wide eyes
rolled in their sockets as he fought for life, but Altman had other plans.
He slapped a fresh
magazine into the receiver and fired a round into the Imperial’s head. Even
before the chunks of brain matter began to leak from the Hilean’s helmet, the
Lieutenant dropped into the vehicle, landing atop the fresh corpses.
The driver and
turret operator had both turned to deal with the sudden interloper and Altman
only had time to dispatch one before the other fired his pistol. It was not
pain, but a sudden weakness in his right leg that caused Altman to stumble. Altman
knew he had been shot, but he kept his weapon shouldered and killed the
remaining Hilean in the vehicle before he let that fact bother him.
Without a hand on
the throttle, the LAV began to rumble to a halt. Altman grasped his leg wound
and felt an exit. Thinking quickly, Altman reached for the wall-mounted medkit
and loaded a biofoam vial into the injector. He allowed himself a tiny
catharsis of screaming in pain as the regenerative enzymes made their presence
known with an intense burning sensation at the wound site. Focusing through the
near paralyzing anguish, Altman crawled toward the cockpit and pulled the dead
turret operator from his seat.
The cockpit was
cramped enough without two corpses taking up space in it, so Altman had to lay
down over the still-warm bodies in order to operate the joystick. Though he had
never been inside the cockpit of an LAV before, Altman found the controls
surprisingly familiar. The trigger of the joystick was the same as an Imperial
rifle and the zoom control on the side of the targeting screen was the same
shape and label as the one on Altman’s old ATS.
After wiping the
blood from the targeting screen, Altman found the machinegun nest and centered
it in the crosshairs. He pulsed the trigger and the turrets rounds impacted
with such force that the concrete barricade instantaneously turned to powder.
The white dust hung in the air, obscuring his ability to confirm the kill.
Suddenly, the
reinforced glass on the right side of the cockpit blew inwards, showering
Altman with its shards. Heavy mag rounds sailed through the vehicle -missing so
near that the super-heated air around the projectiles singed the back of his
combat jacket. He quickly realized that the other LAVs must have marked him as
hostile and had began firing on the cockpit. Fortunately for Altman, they were
shooting as if he were seated; if they were going to hit him they would have to
aim lower -but only just. He tracked the turret around and fired on the cockpit
of the nearest Imperial vehicle. Once satisfied, he targeted the next and the
next.
With all four LAVs
down, he brought the turret back to the crippled machinegun nest. Smoke and
dust still obscured the visual scanners, but Altman realized the thermal vision
mode would display any survivors as clear as day. Though barely literate in
Universais, Altman was able to find the appropriate switch. The screen switched
to a deep blue hue, immediately revealing the one surviving soul with a red
outline as he crawled away from the shattered gun nest. He was clearly wounded,
but he still clutched a rifle. Altman figured this fact alone meant the
Imperial still had intentions of using it, so he centered the Imperial in the
boxhairs and loosed a round.
The projectile
impacted just before reaching the soldier, having been taken by gravity.
Panicked, the soldier dropped his rifle and hugged his head with his arms.
Altman gave an annoyed grunt and edged the sight up, firing another bolt. He
smirked in satisfaction as he watched the top half of the figure fly in one
direction, and the bottom half fly in another.
All immediate
threats now dead, Altman clambered out of the vehicle and dropped to the
ground. The previously forgotten hole in his leg made itself known again as he
landed. Between screaming and cursing, he found his feet, using a pilfered
Imperial rifle to prop himself up.
“Jesus!” Ion, the
platoon second, exclaimed upon seeing Altman’s bloody leg. “You okay?”
“Obviously not!”
Altman spat, before returning his attention to business. “Take Two and Three
and engage the town. I’ve got One, we’ll pull up the rear.”
“Altman, we’re
down eight people; Two is gone except for me.”
“Those men need
us, Jace.” The Lieutenant replied, disinterested in his Sergeant’s
protestations. “Take Three, and stragglers and engage!” Ion cursed, but offered
no further argument.
“Bugler,” Altman
cried, “sound for reinforcements, I want First Platoon in this fight now!” Radios
were a luxury that the Expeditionary were not often afforded, however the
keening pitch of the issuance and acknowledgement of Altman’s orders with the
centuries-old instruments were still heard quite clearly over the din of
battle.
Altman sorely
wished someone know how to operate an LAV with every painful step he took with
his wounded leg. Regardless, he willed himself forward toward the sound of
battle. As his squad approached the entrance to the town, Altman stole a glance
toward the body his briefly commandeered guns had bisected. What met his eyes
filled him with horror.
The sight of blood
and guts alone had ceased evoke any squeamishness from him for a long time, but
the dead face that stared back at him did not have the elongated snout or sharp
teeth of a Hilean Imperal, but that of a human. “Holy Christ!” Altman cried,
jumping back.
“What? What!”
Shiner asked, scanning for targets.
“He-he-he’s
human!” Altman said, frustrated that he had to state the obvious. Shiner
flicked his eyes down, then back at Altman. “Yeah…it’s a remote posting. Empire
can’t put Roos everywhere.” It was all the Lieutenant could do to stand there
in shock. “Hey, Altman? Is that going to be a problem?” Shiner pressed. “The
whole town guard is human except for the Abushi probably.”
Altman had heard
of the Empire using humans to bolster their military presence on Earth, but he
had never been in combat with them. Willing himself out of his fugue, he swallowed
and nodded. “Okay…push forward people.”
The humans of the town
guard wore no armor. Further, they found themselves still engaged with the
skilled TSR unit that had been all but fighting alone until just moments ago. With
all his heart Altman wanted to demand the surrender of the Imperial humans, but
his orders were to rescue prisoners; not take them. So he shot his fellow man
in the back and those under his command shot their fellow men in the back. Sandwiched
between the Resistance forces, the town guard that remained in the open was cut
down quickly. But the militia’s victory had not been won yet.
The team began to
take fire from a small two story building, adorned with Imperial banners. Altman
and his team returned fire, shattering the windows, but distressing reports
began filtering across the line. “Bingo on ammo!” Someone cried.
“Me too,” he was
answered, “half a mag.”
“Don’t let up!”
Altman shouted. “Find Imperial weapons!”
His commands
proved unnecessary, however, as all soon went quiet, save the cries and screams
of the wounded and horrified civilians. Altman kept his rifle centered on the
building, waiting and listening. Suddenly, an object was tossed from the
building’s windows. Altman’s instinct was to take cover, but a long, odd trail
of something white caused him to hesitate. In a few moments, Altman realized it
was toilet paper. “What the hell?” He asked himself. The white, papery trail
waved in the air silently for a few moments before another roll was ejected
from a window on the corner of building.
“Hey, I…I think
they’ve surrendered.” Someone shouted.
Altman considered
that for a moment. The absence of gunfire from the building certainly lent
credence to the idea.
“First squad on
me!” The Lieutenant commanded. Rifle at the ready, he entered the building with
his squad at his back. Glass and shattered concrete crunched beneath their
feet. It was eerily silent, until subtle movement caught Altman’s eye.
“Don’t shoot!”
Someone meekly pleaded. Slowly, humans in purple drab uniforms stood with
raised hands from behind desks, tables, chairs, and cabinets –anything they had
been desperate enough to seek as cover from the battle. One of them had the
front of his pants darkened by urine and more than a few had their faces, arms,
or other parts covered in blood or dirt.
“What is this
place?” Altman shouted at one of the men in an Imperial uniform.
“J-J-JSP office.
We’re just a police station, okay?”
“One of your
patrols picked up some POWs last night. Where are they?”
The man’s response
was too quiet to understand.
“Where?”
“Downstairs.
Please, just take them and go.”
“Take them and
go?” Ion asked incredulously, approaching with rifle at the ready. “Where the
hell do you get the nerve-”
“Ion, take a
couple guys downstairs and check it out. Shiner, upstairs and get everyone
down.”
“Look!” The
Imperial human shouted in alarm as Shiner pushed past him “There’s no point in
hurting us, okay? We’re not with the Empire.”
“Your uniform and
my dead men say different.” Altman replied.
“Hey, c’mon what
are we supposed to do? I just took this job to feed my family, okay? You don’t
have to kill us”
“Who said anything
about ‘have to’?” Parrot said, leveling his rifle at him.
“No! Nonononono-”
The man’s protests were cut off by a bullet ripping through his skull.
“Cease fire!”
Altman commanded angrily.
“Hey, screw these
guys Altman. It’s more than they deserve!” Parrot replied vindictively. The
Lieutenant scanned the room. One of the Imperial women had her eyes shut tight
as tears steamed down. Others simply had their faces turned down with their
hands raised in submission. There was a time he would have felt nothing but
hate for these people, where he might have nailed them to a piece of wood to
make an example of them, but that hate – that unquestioning, unswerving vitriol
is what got him in this unit of screw-ups and wash-outs in the first place.
He noticed the
sound of boots clomping down the steps and less than a half-dozen uniformed
humans marched down with hands raised as Shiner shepherded them with the barrel
of his rifle. “Come on Altman, are we just gonna let them live?” Parrot
demanded.
The Lieutenant
said nothing for a few moments, but merely stood there in thought. The Empire
had to be fought tooth and nail at every turn, he knew that. What species happened
to be wearing its uniform was irrelevant. He tried to tell himself that over
and over. But no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not see Imperial
soldiers before him, but terrified humans. “Line them up.” Altman said in an attempt
to inject some authority before his men began to act without him.
The pleas of the
JSP operators went unheard as the militia men stood them against the wall. A
cruel smile was on the face of every soldier under Altman’s command. Blood was
on their mind, and they knew satisfaction was imminent.
More footsteps on
the stairwell sounded before Altman could determine what to do next. He turned,
seeing Captain Woodsworth, looking not much worse for wear after his capture, observing
the lined JSP officers –a sadistic smile creasing his face. “Well what are you
waiting for?” Woodsworth asked. “Shoot them.”
“You will
disregard!” Altman shouted as the all-too-eager militiamen leveled their
rifles.
“What do you think
you’re doing, Lieutenant?” Woodsworth asked, irritated.
“With all due
respect, Captain, you’ve been captured by the enemy. Protocol dictates that we
treat you as compromised for now…which makes me the ranking officer afield…sir”
“Don’t you quote
protocol at me, you festering little puke. I am your superior officer and I am
ordering you to execute those collaborators or I will relieve you of command.”
“You have no
authority to do that, sir.”
“Last chance,
Altman!” The Lieutenant bit back further argument. While Altman knew he was
legally in the right, he knew better than to make an enemy of a Logistics Regiment
Captain. He allowed himself one slow inhale and exhale before issuing his
order. “Gentlemen…” he said in resignation. Before he completed the sentence he
made the mistake of taking one last glance at Woodsworth -at the smug look of
superiority plastered on his face. Despite everything, it was asking too much
of Altman to let this bastard win. “Put out their eyes.”
The Lieutenant
didn’t have to turn around to imagine the looks of confusion on the faces of
his men. The look on Woodsworth’s face, however, was priceless. “Knives to
eyeballs,” Altman clarified, “Do it!” However hesitantly, motion occurred
behind him followed by horrific screaming. The Lieutenant didn’t turn, instead
he kept his gaze firmly locked on Woodsworth.
“I am going to
remember this, Altman.” The Captain threatened.
“Well be sure to
put this in your report,” Altman replied, “that the Imperial garrison in Atwood
can no longer fight or serve the Empire in any capacity. They will, however,
necessitate the Empire extending medical care to them and the Empire itself
will have to replace and retrain the garrison itself. We’re costing the Empire
far more than we would if we just killed them, as part of the Logistics
Regiment, I figured you’d appreciate that.” Woodsworth may not have been
totally convinced, but his expression did change. “I’m fighting for victory,
sir, not vengeance.” Altman condluded.
With
that, the Lieutenant left the building with no further words said; mainly
because the vomit was already rushing up his throat. He purged himself against
a nearby wall and rested a moment, trying not to think about the foul taste his
breath had suddenly become.
When he was ready
he turned to retake command of his men only to see di Zio standing behind him
with a very amused look on his face. “Somehow I don’t think K-Jack would feel
as bad for us,” he commented, “and we just might find out, given the
gunships’ll be here any second.”
The Lieutenant
sighed, taking a moment to think.
“Find
some trucks and torch the fields; we’ll use the smoke to cover our retreat.”
“You
want us to start a wildfire?”
Altman
paused. A wildfire could consume the entire town, Imperial and civilian alike.
However, he knew that the Imperial reinforcements were likely already on their
way and -despite their hard fought victory- there was no way the Resistance
could hold the town. “Yes.” Altman replied simply. Di Zio quickly rushed to his
men to relay the instructions, offering no further questions or objections.
“Hey!” An angry voice
shouted. Altman closed his eyes, praying for the day to just end. “Are you
Altman?” The voice’s owner, a black man decked out in all the fancy gear a TSR
was entitled to, approached.
“Your
prisoners are inside,” Altman said, hoping to preempt the argument the TSR
officer was clearly bucking for. “I suggest you bug the hell out while the
getting’s good.” In response, the man shoved him and Altman finally knew just
how long his own fuse was.
“Where the fuck
were you, I lost a man because of your slow-” Whatever descriptor the man was
about to use was never heard as Altman’s fist had connected with his jaw before
he could say it. The TSR fell to the ground more surprised than hurt, but
Altman stood over him –his fists balled and ready for a subsequent blow.
“Get
over it.” Were the only words the Lieutenant had to offer.
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