The creature bashed the APC again. The side wall — now facing up — had crumpled like paper.
“Airfield Zulu this is Warhawk Three One Niner. Approaching,” the pilot’s voice said in Mills’ ear.
“Warhawk we have a large hostile on the ground. Can you assist?”
“Roger. I see it.”
“Give him hell, will you?” Mills said into his mic.
“He’s about to have a bad day,” the pilot replied. “I need a clear target. Going to drop ordinance on him.”
“We’ll try and draw him away, Warhawk.”
He looked at Hamilton. “Can you fight?”
“I’ve had worse than this, Sergeant,” she said, wiping blood from her forehead.
“We’ll open the hatch. See if we can get that thing into the open, draw it away from the APC. Then we’ll get back and tend to the wounded.”
“Sarge, I can fight,” JT said.
“Bullshit, not with one arm. Sit tight,” Mills said.
Mills and Hamilton crawled to the rear hatch. He hit the button and the motor groaned. It opened roughly three feet then jammed. There was just enough room to squeeze out.
The two of them wriggled through and wound up ducking near the APC’s roof. They looked up to see the mottled black-grey body of the beast. They were directly underneath the torso. It hadn’t seen them yet. Two tentacles whipped blindly overhead.
“We break for the control building,” Mills whispered.
“I’ll put two grenades in his belly,” Hamilton said with a nod.
“Go,” Mills said, firing upward into the thing’s gut.
Hamilton weaved between two of its legs, paused and ripped off two grenades. They exploded, greenish fluid raining down from the creature’s gut. It let out an angry screech. One of the tentacles swiped at Hamilton. She ducked before it could wrap around her neck.
Mills grabbed her by the arm. The control building was about a hundred yards away.
Mills broke into a sprint. Body armor came in handy, but he wouldn’t set any Olympic records for speed while wearing it.
As he closed in on the control building, Hamilton at his side, something bit into his calf. He was tugged backward and hit the ground. He rolled over to see the tentacle wrapped around his calf. Hot pain shot through his legs as the barbs worked their way into the skin.
The beast was almost directly over him. He pulled his combat knife from his belt. Despite all the technological advances in warfare, a good knife could still be a grunt’s best friend.
The creature lowered its head, giant mouth open and revealing rows of six-inch spikes.
Mills sawed through the tentacle. It remained wrapped around his calf, the barbs holding tight. The pain was like hot nails being driven into his flesh; his gorge rose, bitter in his throat.
Hamilton stepped up and ripped a grenade into the thing’s maw. It reared its head back, screeching again.
She dragged Mills to his feet and he hooked an arm around her neck. She supported his weight as they moved away, Mills hopping on one good leg, the severed tentacle still digging into his calf. He felt woozy. The ground started to tilt, as if he were on an unpleasant amusement park ride. Was the tentacle pumping some sort of venom into his leg?
The airship swooped in. It looked like a big wasp. Every fucking thing out here looked like a bug, didn’t it? He heard a whoosh and then the din of an explosion.
Hamilton threw him to the ground.
Then darkness closed in.
The next thing Mills knew, he was on a stretcher on the ground, a stout female medic wrapping his leg in a bandage. His boot was off and his pant leg had been cut away. The airship loomed next to him.
“You’re going to make it, Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “The colonel sent help when he saw the ship come in.”
“Thanks. You saved my sorry ass.”
“We both helped each other,” Hamilton said. “Good luck, Sergeant Mills. My ride’s waiting. Not my style, I’d rather stay, but it is what it is.”
She reached down, held out her hand. He shook it and when they were done, she trotted over to the airship, where a ramp was lowered to the ground. A group of soldiers and airmen stood nearby.
“What the hell happened?” he said to the medic.
“That Warhawk blasted the hell out of the big ugly. The venom from the tentacle started to work on you. Lucky I got out here when I did. I gave you an antidote. You’re going to feel like crap for a few days, but you’ll live. The colonel will have my ass if I let you die.”
Mills said, “Why’s that?”
“There’s three divisions on the way here. You’re going to be part of the big offensive.”
“How’s my squad?”
“I patched some of them up. A few others didn’t make it, I’m afraid,” the medic said, continuing to wrap his leg.
“Did the colonel say when we move out?”
“As soon as you’re healed. You did a hell of a job, Sarge. At least that’s what I heard. Command has plans for Hamilton. She’s the face of the resistance. Guess she’s going to tour our remaining bases, fire up the troops and all.”
The ground shook and the airship lifted off. At least he’d earned a few days rest. Then it was back out to fight the uglies, and hopefully take back the planet for good.
Invasive Maneuvers
Tim Marquitz & J. M. Martin
I clung to my seat as we hurtled toward the Saaart Worldbreaker.
The raidcraft was dark and reeked of sweat and the woody scent of the traditional Cral whiskey we’d all downed before boarding; a toast to victory or a quick death. My fellow burrowers sat in uneasy silence, crowded against one another, armor rubbing in the cramped confines. We should have been deep within the extinction zone by then, but without instrumentation there was no way to be sure. We flew blind. No windows, no energy signature, no instrumentation, and nothing to indicate the raidcraft was anything different than the thousands of other projectiles sent streaking toward the Saaart ship.
It was better that way.
Just the other side of the flimsy hull that protected us from the ravages of cold and dismal space, a war raged. Saaart cannons would be shredding our offensive as it crept toward the planet Zeti 5, a leviathan swatting at gnats. The quiet stretched on, every tick carrying us closer. We’d know soon enough if we made it or we’d know nothing at all.
I held my breath while we waited, my hands inching toward the bolt rifle magclasped to my belt, fingers sliding along the grip. It was still there, just as it’d been the last time I’d checked. A chuckle slipped out when I realized what I’d done. It earned me a few glares, nerves on edge inside the sleek coffin ship, but I met them with a grin. As the only man aboard the raidcraft with eight spikes stitched to his skull emblem, each spike a successful burrow, these nervous twats could fuck right off. Most of them wouldn’t be coming back anyway.
Before I could get too worked up about their attitudes our raidcraft slammed into the side of the Saaart ship. The front quarters buckled on impact as designed. I covered my ears on instinct as the grapples hooked us to the hull and the laazdrill went to work. Vibrations rattled the craft, jouncing us in our seats, but it was nothing compared to what Shalarouse experienced in the Kevorkian Cradle up front; the suicide seat.
He’d drawn the short straw as we boarded and resigned himself to the glory of being first to board the enemy craft. If he was lucky, there would be no resistance. If he wasn’t, he’d have the honor of clearing our path.
As soon as the drill quieted I tapped the go light on the blast door between our two compartments. The green light blinked twice on our side and Shalarouse went into motion, the hum of the forward door opening right after. Our ship bounced as he stormed the Worldbreaker. There was silence for a moment, and I dared to hope we’d struck clean, then Shalarouse’s blastpack was triggered. I swallowed hard at the sound and pulled my helmet from beneath my seat, settling it into the brackets at the shoulders. Next I grabbed my pack and slung it, ready for the job ahead. The rest of the burrowers followed suit. We were going in hot.