Masoul (Harmony War Series Book 2) (22 page)

              Mark opened up with his E-12, the recoil thudding into him as he let out quick short bursts centered on red halos in his vision. Even without atmosphere he ‘heard’ the battle through the decking, grenades went off amongst the rebels as rounds thudded into the sprayed barriers.

              It was hell, it was brutal and terrible, and it was the biggest adrenaline rush that Mark knew to get. It was his drug, what he had trained for and lived to do for most of his life.

              This was where warriors lived.

              His gun jammed he ripped the bolt back, there wasn’t time for anything fancy as he ducked behind the wall for cover.

              A round came tumbling out and he was shooting again.

              “Ammo out!” Dashtund Tal said, as the last back thudded into the deck. Mark and the other shooters pulled back, the door closing them off from the rest of the platoon.

              “Shit,” Lieutenant Tamm said on the channel that linked Mark’s section and the bridge staff together.

              Mark was looking to his tactical overlay, seeing that two of his people were now yellow instead of green.

              Niemi and Bale had been winged by shrapnel from the rounds, their wounds were minimal, they were already looking after themselves, their fire team looking to see if they could help in any way.

              “Fucking shit, looks like they have the fourth of July going on in there,” Dashtund said.

              “Fourth of July?” Ko asked unable to stop himself.

              “A celebration held before unification by America, not the continent, the country,” Dashtund said. Not even trying to drag out the answer, they were all tired and feeling like shit.

              Though none of them were going to complain, half the reason they felt like shit was because their Platoon brothers and sisters were fighting for their lives just centimeters away.

              “Reinforcements are on their way, we just need to hold out,” Wen said.

             
Sounds so simple,
Mark thought, checking his gear.

              “Alright I want everyone ready to go, if those reinforcements come in behind the rebels then we’re going to have to be the anvil they smash these bastards into,” Mark said, most would have felt shivers go down their spine at the quiet violence in his voice, the bridge staff did, the troopers nodded in understanding, feeling a little violent themselves.

              ***

              “Fuckers,” Alexis said, jumping for cover as Rebels fired down the corridor her platoon was walking up.

              She wasn’t down for long, rolling, and getting her gun around the doorway she was hiding in, her gun bucked as grenades made the deck vibrate.

              It felt like a bare quiver but a glance around the corner showed Alexis the truth.

              She’d been advancing up a corridor that looked identical to any other in the ship.

              Black decking, grey walls fluorescent white paint on the walls stretched the length of the ship, broken up every twenty meters with crossing corridors and hatches leading to all manner of rooms from quarters to lifts.

              The crossing corridor’s corner the rebels had been shooting from was gone, the wall shredded and melting from the grenades impact.

              Alexis saw her fellow troopers up and walking towards the corridor, their weapons up and scanning for targets.

              She flowed with them, her gun pointed at the corner.

              A rebel stepped out, a dozen E-12’s opened fire turning them into a pulped mess.

              Several more stepped in from behind them, a grenade hit the first in the chest, the troopers firing into the mass.

              The explosion was silent but it blew most of the ground to shreds, they hadn’t even stopped as E-12 rounds hit them.

              The Troopers put them down with prejudice. Someone got to the corner before Alexis, they thumbed a grenade, whipping it down the corridor, there was a slight sensation in the broken decking.

              Alexis and other troopers stepped into the corridor. E-12’s hit the dozen or so bodies on the ground.

              They’d been hiding behind the corner, probably waiting for the troopers to appear.

             
One grenade and a bad day turns to your last,
Alexis thought grimly as they moved onwards.

              The fight to get to the bridge was a long one with over ten thousand troopers, the equivalent of a full force, spread out across decks heading from controlled areas to clear up to the bridge, making a supply line to their rear.

              Troopers moved up, weapons trained wherever a threat might present itself. It was slow work, sealing the hatches as they went, ready for any rebels they might run into.

              “Sixty meters and three decks up and you’ll be at the bridge,” Nerva said through the Force’s earpieces.

              The troopers picked up the pace without racing forward.

              ***

              Mark watched the red and yellow dots moving around in the corridor just meters away.

              Too many black dots littered his HUD.

              All of their extra ammunition had been pushed out to them.

              “Mark we need your section, leave a fire team to cover the bridge and get the rest out here,” Wen said, his voice wet and catching, his yellow blip telling the rest.

              “Understood,” Mark said, cutting the channel.

              “Mcnara, Dominguez, Ko, hang back, rest of you on me, the rest of the platoon needs us,” Mark said.

              His troopers rose or moved from where they’d waitedHunger, fatigue, it was all washed away with a pull of the trigger and the whizz of incoming rounds.

              Adrenaline powered them and training dictated their actions.

              Weapons  and kit were checked by practiced hands.

              They weren’t happy, they weren’t sad, this was their duty and their brothers and sisters were out there.

              “Troopers till the end,” Mark said.

              “Fuck ‘em,” his section responded, if you weren’t a trooper, you weren’t anything.

              Dominguez and Ko stood at the hatch, Dominguez’s hand over the hatch’s control panel.

              Mark nodded to her, the section ready behind him.

              “Split to the nearest cover and help as you can,” Mark said, the doors opened, showing the tracer filled air and rolling explosions that shook the deck, opened corridor and melted metal.

              Mark was already moving, running out the door and firing his grenade launcher at the rebels to his left.

              A green went black as they cleared the hatch.

              Mark couldn’t dwell on that as he jumped and rolled through spent casings and used magazines. He hit the defenses.

              He found a murder hole and put his muzzle through it.

              The corridors didn’t look anything like the clean clinical lines from before.

              The corridor went for about a hundred meters in either direction and Rebels were all up and down it. They used corridor corners, open hatchways, holes that had been blown through walls.

              Red halos shimmered behind walls and bodies littered the ground.

              You could walk the length of the corridor, never touching decking.

              Mark took this in with a moment and started firing on the red halos. A few rebels pulled back, gearing themselves up and firing on the defenses with abandon.

              Mark felt pain down his left side, a round had clipped his ribs and plates.

              A red line spread down his side. He laid down, tracers ripping above his position as he grabbed sealant and sprayed it over his wound.

              The pain told him that at least one rib wasn’t broken but had been turned into dust.

              He stowed the sealant in a mag pouch, he felt he might need it soon enough, his rifle going back into it’s murder hole, tracking targets and firing on them.

             
I hope those reinforcements hurry the fuck up,
Mark thought, knowing that his platoon was at their limit and the rebels were advancing down the corridor, using broken walls, decking and bodies to move up.

              It was a matter of time until they reached the line. Mark put them down as he could, but some were too fast, or there were too many of them moving to get a good shot.

              One made it to the barricades, they jumped over only to be hit by a hail of rounds, tossing them back.

              “Close combat!” Wen warned, devolving into wracking wet coughs. His yellow light turned to red.

              “Fire all you’ve got,” Jerome barked.

              The rebels taken by their first man’s heroics were now rushing forward.

              Troopers stopped trying to conserve their rounds and started firing on full auto, lines of tracers tossed rebels back, blood and gore marking the E-12’s impacts.

              The rebels were thick and the troopers didn’t have much ammunition, guns clicked empty on their last rounds, pistols, grenades and melee weapons came free of their holsters.

              Mark saw as more reds and black dots were added, a round skimmed his calf he fell screaming.

              Sealant was sprayed on his leg and his augments worked overtime to fill him with painkillers, hormones, adrenaline and endorphins.

              He got up, his empty gun falling to the floor as rebels crossed the barriers, he grabbed the pistol across his chest and started firing, backing away from the barricades.

              “Pair up!” Wen barked.

              Mark and Jerome went back to back. Mark tossed his empty pistol, staring at the rebels, the gunfire had stopped, even the rebels didn’t want to shoot their own people.

              Mark and Jerome’s hands flicked to their sides, blades dropping into their hands. Mark and Tyler had taught Jerome all they knew about fighting with the deadly blades.

              A rebel came into Mark’s reach their savage blade coming down at Mark.

              Mark stepped into the attack, punching the kid in the face, with his left, stunning them, they didn’t even have time to stumble back as Mark’s right blade stabbed into his neck and ripped out of the front.

              Mark saw the familiar panic, the pumping blood that colored his armor and clothes.

              He was Diablo, he wasn’t graceful, he was savage.

              Two rebels moved into range, Mark kicked, one giving him room as he moved into the second like a boxer. They slashed wildly, eager or scared he couldn’t tell which, it didn’t matter.

              Mark moved in, his blades coming in fast and hard, the rebels didn’t have armor. The blood was only starting to come out of the rebels wounds as they fell, Mark turned and slashed the first opponent’s arm, kicking their knee and driving his blade through their ribcage, getting their heart.

              His blade was out as he spun kicked another attacker in the head, using the momentum to jump to his other foot, the blade in his left hand spun from between his fingers to along his forearm as he drove it into a rebel’s helmet and temple.

              It came free as his right darted into the one he'd kicked in the head.

              Fighting was a mix of reactions, instincts, training and movement.

              A part of his mind felt rather than saw a change in the rebels, along the other barricades the fighting was cruder and some were turning away from Mark’s platoon.

              Interesting, but not useful to him as he stabbed a rebel in the leg, severing the artery. He shoulder barged them out of the way and stabbed the two behind them in the sides.

              A blade sparked off of his armor. The one to his right didn’t go down, he stabbed their leg making them bend in, his blade came up and opened their neck.

              Mark and Jerome touched backs, feeling one another panting as they faced their enemy. Their augments fought to clear out their cryo-addled brains and their helmets forced a mix of air and chemicals into their lungs.

              They didn’t get long to rest. Rebels saw an opening and came at them. Mark and Jerome pushed off of one another and hit the Rebels, trading blows, blades and injuries.

              At that moment neither Mark nor Jerome cared about their own lives, they fought for one another, if they went down then the other might.

              They might be rebels but they had been the head honchos in Masoul, used to their power. They hadn’t fought to live everyday. They expected people to do as they said.