CHAPTER 10
“Hey.”
Something jostled Noah’s feet. He shot partway up from the plumbing-pipe-and-plastic-strips cot he’d fallen asleep on. He blinked gunk out of his eyes and felt aches through his muscles. The dugout was surprisingly comfortable for one as exhausted as he was.
Mason smacked Noah’s boot again.
“Up. We’ve got hot chow coming and you don’t want to miss it,” Mason said. The other Flanker section sat on the opposite side of the bunker. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and clustered in the high corners. The sliding bunker door was partly open, letting in semi-fresh humid air from outside. Twilight shone through the gap.
“Huh? How long was I out?” Noah sat up.
“Longer than anyone else,” Besco, another Flanker, said from the other side. Saluan, his battle buddy, leaned against a corner, snoring quietly. “Are we setting a precedent that getting shot gets you more nap time?” he asked Sergeant Rochelle, who was in the back of the bunker fiddling with the pipes of a toilet that had seen better days.
“Don’t get shot,” Rochelle grumbled.
“Yeah, I’d rather have pulled a guard shift.” Noah pressed at the sore sports.
“Chow.” Sergeant Corre slid the bunker door open and ducked under the entrance. His Cataphract armor was almost tall enough for his head to scrape against the ceiling. Behind him came the rest of the squad’s Cataphracts; Boyle and Leroi carried a green plastic supply chest between them. Herve, the last Cataphract, locked eyes with Corre and posted himself on guard outside.
Herve closed the door.
“Alright, men.” Corre’s Cataphract armor opened with a hiss of hydraulics. The armored plates covering the front of his body hinged open and he stepped out of the suit. His bodysuit was soaked through with sweat; a cloud of salt from dried sweat ringed his collar. “Our first official meal on Dahrien. Gentlemen, please dismount.”
Boyle and Leroi followed suit. Boyle started towards the toilet, his steps short.
“That thing working?” Boyle asked Rochelle.
“It’ll flush but—don’t you dare shit where we eat!” Rochelle moved to block Boyle.
“I’m gonna piss in the next thirty seconds and you get to choose where I’ll do it.” Boyle put a hand against the bunker wall.
“Doesn’t your suit come with a piss tube?” Rochelle tossed his hands up and sidestepped away from Boyle.
“Damn filter’s shot!” Boyle got to the toilet and unzipped the front of his bodysuit.
“This is such a magical moment,” Saluan said. “I can’t wait to have my grandkids at my knees asking me how I spent the Great Dahrien Action and then I describe this very moment.”
The sound of fluid striking linoleum sounded through the bunker.
“I’m starting to think my uncles lied about the Alliance War,” Besco said. “Because all they talked about was the ‘recreation stations’ and the hooch fermented in plastic tubs that they drank on Colima.”
Corre put a hand on the supply crate, glaring at Boyle until he finished relieving himself.
“Why talk about rec sections?” Noah asked. “The tent back at training had board games, a broken holo and other wild excitements.”
“Bit better equipped on Colima,” Besco said. “Very entrepreneurial staff of local ladies, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” Noah said.
“Anyone else need to tinkle before we eat?” Corre snapped. “Hold it until we’re done eating. Can’t believe they built a shitter into a bunker, but it beats using empty ration packs.”
“Another riveting tale for the grans.” Saluan swung a fist across his chest.
Corre opened the chest and removed a shrink-wrapped bundle of cylinders.
“Cataphract batteries for two days of operations.” Corre handed them off to Mason. “Combat loads for Flankers and two mortar shells, and chow.” The sergeant hefted out an olive-drab can as long as his arm and twice as thick. He twisted the top off and crinkled his nose at what was inside.
“What’ve we got, Sarge?” Besco asked.
“Looks like some sort of local bread.” Corre handed over a pack of flatbread laden with moisture to Boyle.
“They call this bread?” Boyle shook the pack. “It’s not even leavened. What a waste of flour. They could’ve given the ingredients to me and—”
“You haven’t even washed your hands.” Mason snatched the flatbread away. “You think we want the runs already?”
“There’s egg . . . loaf?” Corre used an aluminum ladle to scoop out a rubbery mass of off-yellow eggs. Grey bits jiggled in and around the substance.
“Not this shit again.” Mason tore the plastic open and handed the bread to Noah. “I’m not that hungry. Yet.”
“What is it?” Noah sniffed at the bread and noted a distinct lack of smell.
“Reconstituted faux egg powder with bits of mystery meat rubber disguised as sausage,” Mason said. “That was all I ate for months on my last deployment because some loggy screwed up the req and none of the other units were willing to trade their food for our cache of egg loaf. Hey, Sarge, let me guess, white rice in there too?”
“Rice.” Corre held up a smaller sealed case.
“You’d think the unit we replaced would be a bit more accommodating,” Saluan said. “Instead they shat all over the place.”
“Eat it now, taste it later.” Corre doled out rice and egg loaf to a pressboard tray and handed it over to Noah. Noah peeled off a spork on the underside and poked it into what were labeled “eggs.”
Once everyone had a tray, Corre looked around the squad.
“Prayer,” the sergeant said.
“Donan usually led us,” Mason said. “He was in the junior priesthood.”
The room went silent.
“Saint Robin.” Corre said and bowed his head. “Lord Above. We are less without Private Alexander Donan. We ask that you judge his duty well done and worthy of a soldier’s rest at your side. We thank you for the courage to defend the Hegemony and thank you for protecting Noah Tallec. We thank you for this meal. I beg that your hand be upon us as we stand between the innocent and the wicked. If we are worthy of your mercy and peace, give it to our families and our honored dead. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” the squad intoned.
Noah took a bite of the egg loaf and chewed quickly. The texture was like rubber, with cold gooey bits of “sausage” that had a salty crunch at their center. The rice was better, but not by much.
Saluan wolfed his egg loaf down and burped.
“How?” Rochelle looked at his soldier with disgust.
“Hunger is the best sauce.” Saluan shrugged. “You want yours?”
Rochelle looked at his tray, conflicted.
“So what about the other bunker?” Mason asked. “It’s our assigned sector and our responsibility, but we need to hose that shit bucket down before we can man it without getting whatever diseases those assholes left us.”
“Lieutenant Govrien has the firing points half-manned.” Corre took a nibble of his eggs and passed the tray to Saluan. “Which is why our point’s empty for now. The enemy tends to attack at dawn with the sun at their backs so stand up will be at least an hour before then. We can stay in this bunker until the other’s clean.”
“Jailhouse rules for the shitter,” Boyle said. “Poop a little, flush. Poop a little, flush. Don’t let the smell build up. Wait.” He sniffed the air. “That’s a chem toilet. Okay, so we’ve got our water ration and—”
A siren wailed in the distance.
“Fuck!” Leroi tossed his tray aside and hopped back into his Cataphract armor.
“What? What’s going on?” Noah snapped to his feet and tapped the bottom of his magazine to cycle a bullet into the chamber.
Corre touched an earpiece and a small holo screen appeared over one eye.
“Incoming drone swarm.” Corre canted his head slightly as more information came through. “Trench defenses are coming online . . .”
A high whistle carried through the bunker. Sudden thunder shook the walls and the light flickered on and off.
“Figured they’d have screamers,” Mason said. “Hate those things.”
“Lieutenant wants our firing point up. Tallec, you’re still on the cycle.” Corre’s helmet clamped down over his face. “Leroi, you’re with me on shield.”
“Moving, sergeant.” Noah slapped a hand on his visor and slid it down and over his face. He gave Mason a fist bump on the shoulder and moved toward the door. Corre and the other Cataphract stacked at the door, Noah behind them.
A blast against the bunker sent a thin crack through the ceiling. A mechanical groan rumbled overhead.
“Herve, shield the squishies.” Corre gripped the thick handle on the bunker door.
“Easy work, Sarge.” Herve stepped close to Noah.
Noah felt smaller than usual with the Cataphracts towering around him. Hegemony squad tactics were designed around the Flankers spotting targets and keeping enemies from outmaneuvering the Cataphracts while the Cataphracts eliminated the threats through overwhelming and precise firepower. Both elements were designed and intended to support and protect each other in battle.
As more explosions sounded through the trench line, Noah felt less confident with the protection his Cataphract squad mates could offer.
Noah leaned to one side and looked at his brother. Mason was tense, his weapons tight in his hands as the rest of the Flankers moved to the walls.
“Trench cover’s up,” Corre said. “Moving in three . . . two . . . go!”
He flung the metal door open. The handle hit the frame an instant after the crump of a suicide drone slammed through the trench. The blast wave rocked Noah against Leroi. Leroi put his knuckles against Noah’s back and pushed him out the door and into the trench.
Turrets and point defense gunfire rattled across the trench line. Tracers cut over the slice of sky Noah could see. Wire fencing had extended over the top of the trench, casting interlaced shadows across the front wall. A dark shape darted overhead. Noah froze as a drone looped high into the sky then came back, heading straight for him.
“Get in there!” Corre clamped onto Noah’s shoulder and yanked him into the fire point. Noah’s feet didn’t touch the floor before he hit the control panel and fell hard, half on and half off the seat. Corre slammed the door behind Noah.
He had a moment to catch his breath before the attacking drone detonated into fire and shrapnel. Jagged metal sliced through the door and sparked off the concrete around them. A fragment struck the side of Noah’s armored boot, sending a nasty sting up his leg. The bit of metal rattled around the bottom of the firing point, then sizzled amidst a sticky puddle of brackish water.
“Shoot something!” Corre shouted through Noah’s earpiece.
“Moving.” Noah kicked at his boot and noted that while it hurt, his foot was still there and not even bleeding. He banged his fist against the controls and most of the holos sprang to life. The machine gun housings overhead snapped open and the auto-targeting systems went to work. Noah tapped at circling reticules on the holos and the guns churned out quick bursts, downing most of a pack of incoming kamikaze machines.
A larger signature was detected, a glide bomb that could’ve been launched from dozens of miles away. The computer projected its flight path over the trenches and deep into the city. Noah prioritized it in the target queue and shared it with the rest of the firing points with a flick of his fingers.
The point defense guns went silent for a moment, then went fully automatic as the glide bomb came into range. The machine guns rattled the tiny compartment until the bomb sailed right over the trench line. None of the other firing points had concentrated their firepower on the target.
“Ah . . . Sarge? The synch software’s not working. Can you de-conflict with the other—”
Wa-boom!
The ground shook as the glide bomb detonated in the distance. Noah flinched down, his shoulders high and tight as static washed across the holos.
“You worry about what you can shoot, not what everybody else isn’t shooting. God damn it, cut the water supply before we drown in shit water!”
“Fine, I’ll just save all our assess with this glitch—”
“Hot mike!”
Noah grimaced and stopped transmitting. Another wave of kamikaze drones appeared in the holos. He checked the ammo reserves and rubbed his thumbs against his hands. The magazines were nearly empty, and if he engaged the next wave of targets, he might not have rounds ready to shoot down another glide bomb. The enemy likely knew exactly how fast the firing points could fire and reload and if they timed their attacks just right . . .
“I’m overthinking this. Or underthinking. But if there’s more coming then . . . damn it!”
Noah slid a thumb up a holo and the machine guns withdrew into their armored housings. His mouth went dry as the system lost track of the incoming kamikaze drones. One crashed into the dirt just beyond the trench line, its rotors clipped by a lucky shot from another firing point.
Another went into a terminal dive and exploded against the dome of his position. The overhead tap light shook off its housing as the warhead broke the reinforced concrete-and-steel shell above him. More drones fell into a cluster around his firing point, each explosion beating him lower and lower until he was crouched under the controls against the scuff marks around the bottom.
The assault ended and he glanced up at the holos.
Two glide bombs were coming right for him.
“Shit shit shit!” Noah swiped up on the arming screen and only one machine gun came back online. The other was a pulsing red in the holo, the housing damaged from a direct hit. Noah jabbed two fingers into the screen, targeting one of the glide bombs. The still-functioning machine gun burst into staccato life. Chugging out rounds that sailed toward the flying bomb.
The first target lost a wing, nose diving into the ground. The bomb blew up, sending a plume of shrapnel and dirt that enveloped the second glide bomb. The other target wobbled, then lost altitude.
It bounced off the dead zone that was No Man’s Land and arced back up . . . then straight for Noah’s firing point and the bunker with the rest of his squad.
“Brace! T-take cover! Something!” Noah ducked back under the controls and realized he was about to die like an idiot, cowering under a plywood shelf, hoping that would protect him after the concrete and steel armor of his firing point failed.
There was a dull thud against the firing point.
Noah peered over the desk. One of the camera’s views was full of the nosecone of the glide bomb. Crude red and white rings of a target were painted on the tip along with a scrawled message in the local alphabet.
Noah carefully—very carefully—deactivated the remaining machine gun.
“Sarge . . . got an unexploded ordnance situation here.” Noah snapped a pic with his helmet optics of the holos and sent it to Corre. “Can we call in the engineers?”
“Saint’s bones, Noah . . . don’t even fart,” Corre said.
“All puckered up,” Noah said. “If it’s okay, I’m just going to shut off the holos. Attack seems to be over anyway . . . no more sky tracks.”
“No, keep your sensors active and transmitting for the rest of the line. Just don’t look at it,” Corre said.
“Heard.” Noah took a magazine from his pouch and set it over the holo lens projecting the image of the several-hundred-pound warhead resting a few yards from him. The holo was snuffed out. Only one screen remained up, casting a dull light over him.
“I haven’t even been on this planet for a full day,” Noah lifted his visor and rubbed his face, “and I’m ready to go home.”
“Hot mike,” Corre snapped.
Noah nodded slowly.
The vault door to Noah’s firing point opened with a squeal of metal on metal. A Cataphract mitt wrapped around the edge and pushed it aside. The door was wrenched open just enough for Noah to squeeze through.
The buzz of insects and humid air rolled into the firing point, along with the stench of stagnant sewage.
Mason knocked on the door and looked inside.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Ugh, what happened?” Noah put the back of his hand against his nose, then closed his helmet and activated his air filters.
“Insurgents managed to blow up the sewer system.” Mason waved his brother out. “Not sure if they were targeting it or if it was a shitty stroke of luck.”
Some of the drone screens over the trench were mangled and blown out towards the ground. Bits of electronics and plastic casing were scattered about. Part of the trench had collapsed into mud and concrete fragments.
“Did we win?” Noah asked.
“Shh!” Mason pointed toward No Man’s Land and where the glide bomb had landed. He motioned for Noah to follow and the squad followed Corre to a communication trench leading away back towards the city. Leroi took up the rear behind Noah, stalking behind the soldier. The squad turned into the other tunnel and a weight lifted from Noah’s shoulders.
Leroi tapped Noah hard on the back, then pointed to the top of his helmet. A gash had been cut in the top. Leroi turned a mitt over and gave Noah a bit of jagged shrapnel the size of a pinky finger.
“I’ve got a new scar thanks to you,” Leroi said. The report of small arms fire and the infrequent explosion rumbled in the distance.
“Sorry?” Noah held the shrapnel up and examined the edge in the low light as night settled across the city. Dried blood stained the tip.
“Somebody’s got to take care of you squishies,” Leroi said.
“You know where we’re going?” Boyle asked over his shoulder as they walked through the next empty trench line.
“No? I figure if I just keep following everybody I won’t go wrong,” Noah said.
“A veteran already,” Boyle chuckled. “Flags have broken through the lines on the northeast side of the city. We’ve been re-tasked to keep them from crossing the river and getting into the soft underbelly.”
“What about back there?” Noah waved toward No Man’s Land. “Isn’t the brass worried about the Flags coming over the wide-open fields?”
“Temp minefield got drone-dropped after their attack fizzled,” Boyle said. “They were dangling keys at us with the swarm while their infantry broke through the other part of the city. Guess the intel weenies figure the big push won’t come through here.”
“Are we going to catch a break at some point?” Noah asked. “We just got here.”
“Yeah, we just got here,” Boyle said. “And before that we were safe and happy on a ship or we had our feet up back home. You think the old hands here care that much about us?”
“How bad’s the attack?” Noah asked. “Just light infantry?”
“Corre heard some snippets about tanks, which doesn’t make any sense. How’d they get tanks this close to the city without anyone noticing? I swear the brass at division don’t know what the hell they’re doing,” Boyle said.
“So what’re we doing?” Noah asked.
“Left foot right foot. Maybe they’ll convince the Flags to piss off before we have to do it for them. Least I’ve still got some of that local purchase jerky from the food drop.” Boyle pulled a small pack out from inside his flak jacket and passed it to Noah.
Noah took a sniff and popped a hunk in his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds and swallowed a bit, then spat the rest out.
“Why does it hurt?” Noah squeezed his eyes shut as tears began. “It burns. It burns!”
“Yeah. Burns on the way in and the way out. Weird cuisine they’ve got here. We need to introduce them to cheese and proper baguettes,” Boyle said. “Maybe we bring some of those murder peppers back to Bretton and start something new. Open a restaurant and challenge people to eat a pile of poutine with the spicy and give them a shirt if they can do it.”
“Pretty sure they’d throw us in jail for that.” Noah rinsed his mouth with water from his shoulder tube and opened his helmet to wipe his nose. “How long is my mouth going to hurt?”
“My gums still sting since chow. You’ll be good in a while. Frickin’ Saluan’s loving this stuff. And the cops back home won’t throw us in the clink for the spicy spicy. Unless we stole it. And then tried to sell it to an undercover officer. On camera . . . assholes. I am one hell of an idiot. There’s the lieutenant.”
He pointed to a pile of supply crates at the back of a gravel parking lot.
Lieutenant Govrien was in a Cataphract suit, speaking intently to Sergeant First Class Malo with his helm up and open. Three Flankers near them had a supply case open, blocky objects in their hands.
The platoon command post was little more than the crates and the comms specialist, the junior-most soldier in Cataphract armor with antennae and a foldable sat dish jutting up from his shoulders and back. The other three squads from the platoon converged on the lieutenant as they came in from the trench line.
“Red platoon,” Govrien’s voice hissed with static through Noah’s earpiece. So much distortion so close to the officer could only mean the highest levels of broadcast encryption were being used. “Order of march is second squad, followed by first, third and fourth. We’ve been re-tasked to take up defensive positions on . . . Novachik Street.”
A map of the city with a blue rectangle over a civilian neighborhood next to a highway appeared on Noah’s visor.
“Soon as the battalion’s in place, division’s going to recall the units holding the Flags back in the slums,” the lieutenant continued. “Flankies, pick up Shrike units and bolt on to your Cataphracts. Black air’s in effect across the city. It flies, it dies. Do not employ Dagger drones or the point of origin’ll get flagged for artillery.”
“It’s that bad?” Mason asked.
“Shut it,” Corre growled. “Boyle, grab Shrikes and get them loaded onto our hard points.”
“Moving.” Boyle and his two Flankers trotted over to the supply point and took the blocky objects from the waiting soldiers. They returned to the squad and screwed the equipment onto the upper right shoulder of each Cataphract.
New alerts appeared on Noah’s visor as the Shrikes came online, blinking on each wire diagram for the Cataphracts.
“Black air’s been called,” Mason said to Noah. “Shrikes are passive sensors, they pick up any airborne EM sig—or even enough air disturbance—and they’ll launch counter-drones. They suck power though, gotta have them on the Cataphracts.”
“Why aren’t we carrying reloads?” Noah asked as the squad continued down a dark avenue towards their next position. The boom of artillery and endless beat of machine gun fire carried from distant plumes of smoke. Fires cast a dull red through the gloom, embers of hell waiting for them.
“Probably don’t have enough,” Mason said.
“Enemy armor reported at the breach,” Govrien continued. “All Flanks, pick up Pikes. Five per soldier or as many as you can carry.”
“It’s worse than I thought, come on.” Mason slapped Noah on the shoulder, and they ran over to another open crate and were given plastic-wrapped packs of cylinders with plastic handles. The Pikes were heavy, and Noah had to recruit his frame’s strength to carry a pack under each arm.
“I’ve never used these live,” Noah said.
“Same as the sims back home, but they will dud on you.” Mason ripped the packaging open and handed the grenades over to Boyle’s Flankers. “Throw it straight at the target, they can point detonate if the sensors fail. The anti-tank warhead can cut through Cataphracts so don’t let the enemy get these. Which is generally good advice for anything we’ve got.”
“How’d . . .” Noah fumbled with the grenades and almost dropped a pack, “how’d the enemy get tanks into the city?”
“The how and why don’t matter,” Mason said. “They’re here. They’re gunning through the slums on the outside of the city. They’re comin’ for us. We better stop ’em or Mom and Dad’ll get a ‘regret to inform you’ form letter from the Hegemony because everyone’ll be dead if we don’t hold that position.”
“Oh.” Noah handed off a pack to Mason.
“Did I tell you what an idiot you are for volunteering for this mess?” Mason asked.
“Not today,” Noah said.
“Noah, you’re an idiot for—”
“I get it. I get it.” Noah kept three Pikes for himself and attached a ring on the bottom of the handle to his chest rig.
Noah rushed up a concrete stairwell that reeked of the spicy local cooking and decaying trash. Bright graffiti marred the walls as he came up to the fourth-floor landing and put one hand on the emergency exit door. Mason flanked the other side.
“Covered,” Boyle said from the stairwell, his weapon trained on the door. Two more Flankers were behind him, weapons aimed up and down the stairwell.
“Moving.” Mason grabbed the door handle and flung it open. Noah caught the door and pinned it behind him as Mason entered the floor. Noah cut around the corner, scanning for targets. The hallway was unlit, the only light coming through the windows from distant fires burning through the city.
“Clear,” Mason announced. “Get into the apartment and set up the observation post.”
Boyle went to a wooden door and put his palm against it. Noah did a combat peek around the side of a window. A four-lane highway with a dirt median cut through the city, running close to the building. On the other side, rows of slums made of old construction material dotted with sturdier buildings extended out into the night. Fires raged uncontained, putting out enough smoke that the smell seeped through his helmet.
“Heartbeats inside,” he said. “One adult and three kids at least.”
“Damn it, they said the whole place had been evaced,” Mason said.
“Frag it?” Besco asked from the emergency exit.
“There’s kids in there,” Boyle said. “Maybe they didn’t get the word.” He moved to the hinge side of the door and reached over to knock hard. When there wasn’t a response, he knocked harder.
“Hegemony forces!” Mason yelled.
“Do they even speak Standard here?” Saluan asked.
“Bet they speak frag grenade.” Besco tapped the explosive device on his chest rig.
“Shut your mouth before I—” Boyle jumped back from the door as it creaked open.
“Hashan! Hashan ui tal!” a woman squealed. A pair of hands stuck out over the door’s threshold.
“Out!” Boyle snapped the light mounted to the front of his carbine on. The woman was painfully skinny, wearing a baggy shirt and pants, her hair covered by a cloth. Noah couldn’t determine her age, as she looked like earned a living doing manual labor and the light in her face kept her eyes shut.
A child mewled in fear, clutching her leg.
“Go go.” Boyle lowered the light slightly and pointed at the stairs.
The woman broke into rapid-fire language, waving her hands in front of her face.
“Hey!” Mason banged the stock of his carbine against the wall, then turned on his own light to illuminate the emergency exit.
The woman sobbed, then nodded quickly. She picked up two toddlers and hurried out, a third child clutched to her belt. The boy gave Noah an evil look as his mother led them downstairs.
Boyle and his fire team slipped into the apartment.
“How’d you do that?” Noah asked Mason.
“It’s all in the tone. Transcends language.” Mason shrugged. “Letting them go was probably a mistake.”
“We can’t have civilians up here. The shooting’s getting closer, isn’t it?” Noah asked.
“Yeah, but she definitely knows we’re up here and she’ll see the Cataphracts on the bottom floor and more of the rest of the battalion. Sure hope she doesn’t have a phone on her and reports our positions and strength back to the Flags,” Mason said. “Ain’t no perfect decisions to make in combat. Just the ones that’ll keep you alive until the next decision.”
“Clear. Mason, take the other apartment!” Boyle called out from the doorway.
Noah and Mason ducked under the windowsills. Mason used the EM sensors in his glove to check for heartbeats and when none were found, he kicked the door open. The apartment didn’t appear to be occupied. The concrete floor and walls were bare. Roaches scurried over cheap plastic dishes piled in the sink.
“Get eyes on our sector,” Mason said as he cleared the only bedroom.
Noah unsnapped a small box off his carbine and pressed it against the windowsill. Tiny staples clutched the wood and held the optics in place. Video from the box flickered on his visor and another angle from the other apartment joined it.
“Don’t silhouette yourself.” Mason pulled Noah away from the window and opened the squad comms channel. “Corre, observation post set. We need over watch on the roof?”
“Negative, you go out there and the enemy will feed you a drone within minutes. Third squad’s already expended half their Shrike munitions,” Corre answered. “Squat and hold.”
“Roger, squatting,” Boyle said over the channel, and it closed.
“That’s it?” Noah looked at a small two-person table against the wall in the kitchen. “Hurry up and wait?”
“You want to cut across that wide open space face-first and see if the enemy’s close?” Mason asked. “Or do you want to sleep?”
“S-sleep?” Noah felt a glimmer of hope. “Really?”
“Yeah, wedge yourself against a corner and get some shut eye.” Mason opened his pouch full of nicotine strips. “Don’t suggest using the bed. Ain’t no body in there since we arrived, but it looks like someone died on it.”
“Finally.” Noah pressed his back to the wall and slid down. “Huh . . . don’t feel that tired all of a sudden.”
“Too much adrenaline for too long. I’m going to tranq you.” Mason flipped open the cover on his forearm computer.
“Huh? Don’t, Dad said those are habit forming and—ow!” Noah clutched his left forearm when something pricked his skin. “How’s that even going to work when I’m so amped . . . up . . .” His head lolled to one side and he began snoring.
Mason turned a chair to face the tiny living space and sat down. He flicked a roach off the table and sighed.
The squad channel hissed in his ear.
“He good?” Corre asked.
“Yeah, boss . . . he’s alright for now,” Mason said. “Any word on when the shit storm’s going to hit?”
“Not yet. Lieutenant’s trying to get some Expedients for the ground floors, but the nets at battalion and higher are compromised. Flags are jamming everything they can. Only reason we can get anything from the colonel or other companies is because we’re on the Hegemony ciphers Bretton was given.”
“The enemy’s in our nets? Saint’s Bones, this is getting worse all the time. Why haven’t we cloned our ciphers with the rest of the city?” Mason asked.
“Good question. You want to go find Jematé and ask him why?” Corre chuckled.
“Forget it. Let the zeros worry about zero problems. We’ll hold down this part of the fort,” Mason said. A sharp crack against the wall jolted him out of the seat. An artillery shell landed nearby, rattling the windows.
Noah stayed asleep.
“Think we took some small arms fire.” Mason examined a fresh fissure in the wall.
“Stray rounds are all over the place . . . wait one.” Corre switched the channel to include every member. A pic grab of a deep red moon in the sky appeared on Mason’s visor. The edge of an eclipsing shadow covered a third of the surface.
“Maybe that’s why they attack when there’s a lunar eclipse,” Boyle said. “Can’t jam a shadow.”
“What if it’s cloudy?” Saluan asked.
“Shut your mouth,” Rochelle snapped. “Anyone wants to take a dump, now’s your chance. It’s one of those weird squat kinds, though.”
“Heads on swivels,” Corre said. “Things’ll get worse before they get better.”
“Same as it ever was,” Mason mumbled.