First Contact - Chapter 974: The Shadows of Twilight

“We’re halfway there. Take my hand and we’ll make it, I swear.” – Braun von Jovian, Warlord of the New Jarsey Cluster, “Maintaining My Faith”, Smokey Cone Press, 3181 PG

PV2 Trekmawlka stared at the grav lifter, going to wipe her mouth and just clonking her forearm off the front of her helmet.

“I’m not sure about this,” she said softly to Bit.nek.

“Can you fly it at about a hundred feet or thirty-five meters?” he asked.

“Yeah. I mean, I have to disable the nav-comp so it doesn’t stick with the traffic computer, but I can,” she said.

Bit.nek nodded. “All right. We’re going to run for it. I’ll hotwire it, you disable the nav-comp,” he put his hand on her shoulder and crossloaded the waypoints and the map. “Follow this route.”

“We’re going back to the drop pod?” she asked.

“We need that creation engine,” Bit.nek said. He waved everyone over.

“Magic band commo only. Keep your brain box gagged. Queriable transponders only. Don’t fire until I say. If you get into it, use your cutting bars or just CQC. Go for the head or ripping off limbs. Your power armor makes you about fifty times as strong as any of the walking dead,” he said. He pointed at the grav lifter. “Trekmawlka, you’re in the front. That’s a bench seat, take the passenger door. I’ll go in through the driver’s side and hotwire it,” he pointed at the back. “The rest of you, pile onto the flatbed. Mag-lock your boots to the trailer.”

There were icon flashes.

“As soon as it’s started, I’ll get in, you punch it. Get elevation up to about thirty-five to forty meters, move fast, get us there. When we get there, land it in the box,” he looked at the others. “As soon as we get there, attach the anchor to the drop-pod and use the winch to pull it onto the flatbed.”

The others nodded.

“Use the grav-pods off the sideboards to make it easier to move. Grab any boxes of weapons left out,” he told them.

Icon flashes and nods.

He knelt down, motioning at the others. They copied him and they stared that grav-lifter.

“Ready…”

Icons flashed.

“Steady…”

–nervous–

“GO!”

Bit.nek launched himself into mid-air, tucking and rolling through the top of the arc. He slammed down into the dirt, one knee down, fist slamming into the ground. The Icarus system blew dirt up around him, but he kicked off and ran for the grav-lifter.

The others tried landing on their feet, or landing running. All of them stumbled, two of them ate shit and went face first into the dirt, scrambling up.

Bit.nek’s breath was loud in his ears as he sprinted. He got to the side, to the door, and pulled it open, remembering at the last second not to just rip the door off like he used to. He reached up, tore away the plastic, revealing the computer components and the wiring.

–downloading schematics– 299 said.

“Got it,” Bit.nek said, reaching in and grabbing a handful of wire. He quickly used his fingertips to strip three, jiggered them for a moment, and snapped at the ignition switch with his index finger.

The grav-lifter began growling.

Trekmawlka ripped off the side door and scrambled in. Her knee caught the dash and caved it in, paperwork falling onto the floor.

“Dammit,” Bit.nek said.

He jumped over the grav-lifter, picked up the door, and slammed it into place. He used his hand to grab the metal and crush it together before hopping into the back.

The last two were running for the truck. They got on and Bit.nek slapped the top.

“GO GO GO!” he said.

The lifter wobbled slightly as it raised up. It banked slightly, slid to the side, then jumped the fence, the ass end slewing around and about tossing two people out.

–fast– 299 said.

“Done it under fire a few times,” Bit.nek admitted.

–scary–

“We’ll be OK,” Bit.nek said. “Fab me up some warbler rounds.”

–warbler–

“Template’s in the armor memory. Load something in loud, multiple voices, good bass,” Bit.nek said.

The grav-lifter was roaring over the heads of shamblers, the sound of the grav-pods echoing off the sides of the buildings.

Deaders were all turning toward the sound, shambling after the lifter.

“There’s thousands of them,” someone said softly.

“Try millions,” Bit.nek said. “There was over a hundred million people in this city and the suburbs. You figure two point five percent are still ambulatory,” he shook his head. “Terrans are hard to kill in the best of circumstances. This ain’t that.”

Nobody said anything.

–loaded– 299 said. –what do–

“Watch,” Bit.nek said. He raised his fist with his thumb up, eyeballed it, and fired a 40mm grenade. It arced up, the fairing blew free and the parachute deployed.

The payload started booming out overlapping music. When it got to the ground it started showing flickering grainy holograms of people dancing.

The shamblers turned toward the sound of the music and the movement.

“Clever,” someone said.

“Standard round out there,” Bit.nek said. “Seen an Atrekna get so mad at one it was jumping up and down and screeching,” he snickered. “The timer wound down and blew him to purple hamburger.”

At every intersection the grav-lifter whipped through, he fired two warblers. One down the street to the right, the other one to the left as they rounded the corned. Not back the way they’d came, or along their forward path, but the other two streets.

The grav-lifter hit the corner of the building, tilting and scraping, but everyone held on.

Bit.nek checked the map.

They were almost there.

“TWO BLOCKS!” he shouted.

The grav-lifter narrowly missed a public transit bus, bounced off the top of a cargo vehicle trailer, and ground against the wall to come to stop over the drop-pod inside the hard light box.

Bit.nek looked down, scanning.

Nothing. Just the three dead troopers, four weapon cases, dead shamblers, and the drop pod.

“Grab grav-pods, attach them to the drop-pod,” he said. pointing at two of the four in the back. “You, grab the grav-anchor for the winch, attach it to the top of the pod.”

The three nodded.

He pointed at the fourth. “Jump down and grab the weapon cases,” he ordered.

The fourth nodded.

“Trekmawlka, keep the engine hot, as soon as this thing is loaded and we’re on, follow the waypoints. Remember, you’ll be ass heavy,” he said.

“Roger,” the PV2 answered.

“Dismount,” Bit.nek snapped, putting one hand on the sideboard and vaulting over.

He landed next to one of the armored bodies. They were all face up, having gone down fighting. They were all three missing limbs, two had their chests clawed open, all three had their face shields clawed away.

All three were snapping, growling as the living troops landed next to them.

“Oh, Menhit’s Grace,” PFC Julneerta said, reaching for her rifle and dropping the grav-pod she was holding.

“No, stay on mission,” Bit.nek snapped.

The PFC looked doubtful but bent down and picked up the grav-pod.

“Sorry, brother,” Bit.nek said. He pulled back his fist and drove it into the unarmored face.

The head pulped and me moved to the next one.

Two more punches and he moved back to the first one.

“What are you doing?” SPC Vreftrek asked.

“Something important,” he said. He grunted as he rolled the dead Staff Sergeant over.

He tapped on the armored housing between the shoulder blades, then put his palm on it, tapping it with his fingers.

one two three one two three

He paused.

four taps.

He reached down, pressed his fingers against the emergency release studs, and wrenched open the housing.

The green matnid engineer spilled out, still in hard armor, holding its rifle, the reddish fluid holding shape for a moment before it just went ‘gloop’ and turned into a slowly spreading puddle. The greenie flickered icons and emojis between its armored antenna.

“Get on the drop pod,” Bit.nek ordered. “Get on mission.”

The greenie nodded and Bit.nek moved over to the next dead trooper.

Both of the others were alive but Bit.nek was forced to wrench the housing open.

The winch was pulling the drop-pod up.

Bit.nek jumped up, landing smoothly on the flat bed, and looked around.

The street was full of deaders.

No red eyes, just amber.

But he could feel the wailing, feel the chorus of groans, even through his armor’s kinetic padding. He knew that it was all in his head.

But he could still feel it.

He helped muscle the pod into place, running the cargo straps over it and securing it to the bed. Twice he helped troops get in, grabbing their forearms and pulling them up onto the back.

“GO!” he slapped the roof of the cab.

The grav-lifter howled as it took off, speeding down the road and gaining altitude.

–thank you– one of the greenies said. It had the number 703 signifying it.

“Not gonna leave you behind,” Bit.nek said.

–thought was dead– 442 said.

“Just took me a bit to get to you,” Bit.nek answered.

He looked over the side, down at the crowd, and shook his head.

Unlike the other worlds, this mob was made up of Terrans. To top it off, this was a Biological Artificial Sentience Systems world. Genetically altered population that chose to stick with their biomod body and not return to Terran normal.

Neon fur, iridescent scales, swirls and stripes, blotches and spots, brightly colored fur and scales, horns and spikes, plates and crests. He could see dozens, hundreds of different chimeras, all gene spliced with different animals, some extinct.

Muzzles or mouths, fangs or molars, all of their mouths were open. They were all roaring at the sky, at the grav-lifter speeding overhead, black goo spilling over their lips and running down their chins. Eyes going from a white film to a burning amber. Some red were lighting up.

All of them were wailing, roaring, or screaming.

He looked away as the grav-lifter turned the corner, two of the weapon boxes sliding.

“Secure those,” he said absently, looking at the windows of the tall buildings around them. He could see where the macroplas was missing. In some place there was fire damage around the empty frame, in other places, just a gap in the wall.

He wondered how many times some shambler had crashed through the window, a screaming victim in their arms, to plummet to the street below.

There was a loud boom and the side of the skyraker exploded a split second later as the tank round detonated on the ferrocrete. Burning chunks of ferrocrete showered down, glittering shards of macroplas mixed in.

“SHIT!” Trekmawlka yelled, slewing the grav-lifter around.

Bit.nek looked at where the shot had come from.

Two of the crab-tanks were moving down the street, the claws in front of it, pushing the deaders to the side.

“New route!” Bit.nek said, looking down at the case beside him that hadn’t been secured. He crossloaded the waypoint update as he knelt down, undoing the catches.

“What are you doing?” PVT Rennart asked.

“Tanks will rip us apart,” Bit.nek said.

Two rounds went by, one barely missing, coming so close the grav-lifter rocked. One vanished into the distance, the other hit the side of the building.

Bit.nek grabbed the weapon, standing up and hitting the button to bring it live. The autoharness snaked around him and he felt the weapon go live through his smartlink.

“STAY ON MISSION!” he yelled. “Get the pod back!”

“What are you doing?” Rennart yelled.

The grav-lifter turned the corner and suddenly slewed around, a missile shrieking by to explode on the ferrocrete wall of the skyraker on their left.

Another crab-tank.

“Buying you time!” Bit.nek said.

He stepped off the back, one hand holding the weapon up.

“IT’S THREE TANKS! THAT’S SUICIDE!” one of them yelled.

The grav-lifter banked around the corner and was gone.

Bit.nek’s boots hit the ground. He went down on one knee, his fist pressed against the ground, holding up the weapon.

“Spin up our screen. Cover my teeth in glitter. Cook me up API mixed with HEDP, three to one mix, every fourth a tracer,” he said, his head still bowed.

–uh ok we going to die–

Bit.nek stood up, planting his feet. He felt the psychic shielding go live so high that he could taste berries and his teeth felt sparkly.

On his left was a single tank, forward there were two. All of them were pushing the crowd of shamblers in front of them with their claws and dozer blades.

He blinked to set his auto-aim assist to target.

-ready 20 rounds standard ball recycle– 299 asked.

“Naw,” Bit.nek said. He tabbed up a piece of stim-gum.

He ramped up the cyclic rate to 1,200 rounds a minute as he walked forward so both tanks were in a forty-five degree firing arc and the two clear streets were at his rear.

The cracked asphalt crunched under his boots.

“They’ll go quick.”

The mob in front of both tanks was howling, roaring, loud enough he could feel the ground tremble.

“PFC Bit.nek. I am engaging the enemy,” he said over high power omnidirectional magic band.

–oh shit–

Bit.nek squeezed the firing grip.

[Madame Three-Eighteen has joined the server]