In the Red Cliffs
520 kilometers fromChaves, Colorado, Isabella System
05/04/70, 02:22:18
"Have to keep moving,” she said to herself in between ragged gasps, the 45-year old woman stumbling over her own bruised, swollen,frostbitten feet, reopening the gashes covering her arms and legs onthe sharp rocks of the mountain range bisecting Colorado's twilight zone.
Kiri Johansdottir, Senate Vice President of the Republic of Colorado, before she'd been kidnapped by rebels fifteen years ago, didn't dare look back, didn't really have to, she could hear the helicopter flying overhead, the DFC soldiers and their advisors...their handlers...in the pass directly below and behind her small group of escapees.
She stumbled again, falling to her knees this time, Kiri cursing her clumsiness, as she struggled to her feet, blood running slowly down her arms and legs from even more reopened wounds, her head and eyes throbbing, face and hair dripping with sweat, and it was so very hot,in spite of being in the mountains.
None of that mattered...the ones who had held her and the five other women with her captive were drawing closer to them by the second, she had to keep moving further up the trail, to the pass where the medship from Hammarskjold was supposed to meet her with a shuttle to get her offworld and safely home.
Jen and their child should've been with her, she should've made more of an effort to find them in the weeks following their escape from the Democratic capital of Chaves, instead of just cowering in the woods and running.
Kiri cursed that thought as well, choking down her tears, clamping down on the guilt she could not afford to feel right now, as she forced her trembling, feverish, rubbery legs to keep moving forward.
Forced herself to think of nothing else.
“...do your duty!“Lieutenant Dann screamed at him, as he aimed his M60 rail machine gun dead at the little piece of vog—no more than six or seven—standing in front of him, its eyes saucer-wide, staring up at him, pleading for its life.
“'Evil sometimes wears a pleasing face, Marine!“ Lieutenant Dann reminded him, the little procreator's pleading taking on a seductive tone, as it rubbed up against Jomol,the veteran Federated States Interstellar Marine squad leader feeling something stirring within him, as he began lowering his weapon.
Until he caught a glimpse of the chainblade in its right hand, the Abysar hunter pushing the filthy procreator away from him, firing burst after burst of deuce and a half, the degenerate thing screaming luridly,before it exploded in a greasy, bloody mist....
Aboard Federated States’ Ship Lewis B. Puller
In orbit,1,000kilometers above Colorado, Isabella System
05/04/70, 02:24:56
“...live-fire exercise is about to commence,” the Skipper's voice boomed over the 1-MC, as the lid of Sergeant Jomol qeeg-Briathu's coldwire chamber hissed open, the machinery slowly reviving him from the induced coma and the coldwire virtsim, med bots removing electrodes and wires from all over the Federated States Starmarine's body, as the winged, grey-scaled, draconian Abysar stretched,climbing out of the coldwire chamber onto the deck of the harshly-lit sim room, his every joint cracking and creaking, as he started walking towards the chambers holding the remainder of his squad.
Even as the others were on their feet, and snapping to attention, an alarm screamed fromthe chamber holding Private Logan, med bots opening it up, one ofthem droning,”subject has expirienced an unrecoverable error,”over and over, as it and the others removed the downrate's corpse from the chamber and dumped it in a bodybag.
The Abysar hunter, qeegmailhu of the Briathu bloodline, felt nothing for Logan except the contempt any hunter, of any sentient race,should feel for a filthy downrate so degraded in sentiment that he was incapable of emerging from virtsim willing and determined to fight the enemies of His Great Cause to the death.
His reassignment in the life to come was nothing more or less than the judgement meted out for his sin and weakness by his anointed President of the Flag, Martin James Crowe, Leader of the Free Worlds of Lamar.
Without even asking, Jomol knew his six surviving men shared his sentiment, just by looking into their hard, cold eyes.
“Atten-hut!”Master Chief Gunnery Sergeant Charles Freeman snapped out, as he strode into the sim room, Major Christopher Harper in lockstep with his MarDet's top kick, Jomol falling into place beside his squad andsnapping to attention.
Both the Major and his first sergeant spoke into their Links, reviewing images and scrolling lines of data floating in front of their right eyes, Harper turning to Freeman for a second, the master chief gunny nodding his smoothly-shaven head, before wheeling about on his right foot to stare the Abysar hunter in his dark eyes.
“You're a man down, Sergeant. Explain!”the company's top kick barked.
“Sir!”Jomol replied,”Private Logan expirienced an unrecoverable errorwhile in coldwire, Sir!”
“Mmm, hmm,”Freeman remarked, nodding his head, waiting a few beats, before adding,”and, according to the Lieutenant Dann AI program, you hesitated precisely 3.3 seconds, before prosecuting your last target.”
“Sir!”Jomol barked out. “No excuse, Sir!”
“Damn straight there ain't, Marine!” Freemanreplied. “No excuse whatsoever in failing to prosecute the enemies of His Great Cause!”
Freeman then added,”I had hopes for you, boy,” before taking precisely two steps back, the Major deciding,”Private Jomol char-Briathu,you are reduced to the 25th percentile of society,effective immediately. Sergeant Halfacre, pending further review, you are promoted to the 50th percentile of society. Assume command of your squad!”
“Sir!”both Jomol and newly-elevated Sergeant Geoff Halfacre snapped out.”Thank you, Sir!”
“MarDet,to the squad bay, on the double!” Freeman then shouted out.
“Sir!Yes, Sir!” Jomolshouted in chorus with the rest of the Puller's128-man Federated States’ Starmarine detachment, as they turned on their heels and hustled by squads to the core lift.
