Double update today, yeah. Whoo
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Rastin Kittur grunted loudly as he helped lift the oversized Mortar into the open bay of a King Raven. His back popped, a staccato sound like a machine-gun being unloaded into a crowd.
"Geez, these things weigh a ton!" complained Kai Tettonai, a South Islander and Bravo Section's only untrained Medic. He had a rather large head; his helmet barely fit him.
Kittur realigned his back with a sharp twist to the left, relieved to have offloaded the massive ordinance that they'd carried all the way from the armory two blocks away. "Just be glad we have one of them," he said, voice muffled inside the padded helmet. "It's going to prove invaluable."
Kai put up his hands. "You don't gotta tell me, Rastin. I'm as ready to bring hell with the thing as you are. Gonna be a big fight, right?"
"The Lieutenant seems to think so," grumbled Howerd Sandell, a lanky beanpole of a Gear who was known as much for his titanic strength as for his sour melancholy.
"Calling it now," said another man, Carol Graham, as he loaded spare mortar shells into an enormous duffle bag that was already splitting at the seams. "Ten, no, twenty sh*tloads of grubs."
Kai snorted loudly.
Frowning, Graham turned to his NCO. "What do you think, Sarge?" he asked.
Rastin was still taken aback by just how young Graham looked; he couldn't have been older than seventeen, even if he was six feet tall and weighed in at almost two hundred pounds. Of course, all replacements these days were like that. They didn't even fit their armor.
"What do I think?" repeated Kittur. "I think that you're a frigging optimist, that's what I think."
He cast a glance at the Mortar, its enormous bulk taking up half the leg room in the helicopter's troop compartment. Yes, twenty sh*tloads was being optimistic if Command was handing out these things.
But he couldn't let himself think like that. Once he started then he'd begin doubting himself, his men, everything. And when a man filled himself with doubt, he couldn't help but lose his sanity or his life. He needed to be confident, or he wouldn't be coming back from this mission. It was as simple as that.
Climbing into the Raven, Rastin planted his boots firmly on the floor and grabbed one of the handholds above the door. "Ready to go?" he asked his squad, yelling as the rotors began to pick up speed.
The Raven was packed full with five Gears; they might have been able to fit a couple more if not for the Mortar and its ammunition. All of the men nodded, obviously ready, and a few yelled in their helmets. Kai strummed his Lancer like it was a guitar.
Satisfied, Rasting slid the bay door shut and motioned for Howerd to do the same on the other side. With the doors closed it was much quieter, and there was less danger of getting shot or being thrown out. After a moment, the Raven's door gunner, who was also apparently the crew chief and co-pilot, reached back and gave Bravo Two the thumbs up. In the cockpit, the pilot yelled something obscene and engaged the controls. The Raven lurched into the air, rotors whining, and for a moment Rastin's guts levitated in his chest.
Norman hated flying. King Ravens were exceedingly loud and made a big, presentable, black target for anything in the air or on the ground. The only plus side was that they were nimble, and in a pinch they always had a few large guns to fall back on. That wasn't enough to save your ass if the Locust started using Anti-Air, but a good chopper pilot went a long way. Bravo One had ended up with one of the good pilots, fortunately.
"Welcome to COG Air," joked Janvier, sitting on the floor with his legs dangling over the edge like he was just asking to be flung out. He was staring intently down at the ravaged city of Ephyra flying past below them, and at the taller buildings on either side that the Ravens were using for cover.
"Where's the inflight movie?" grumbled Frank Ito, one of the younger veterans in Bravo Section. He sounded almost serious; Norman had to do a double take before he realized the man was ribbing the Raven's crew.
The pilot, an older man who'd flown birds back in the Pendulum Wars, seemed insulted. "What, is my Raven too old-tech for you, private? Don't make me kick your sorry ass out of that door!"
But apparently he was joking too, because Frank was smiling when he pulled his helmet off. He jumped up, leaned into the cockpit, and shot back a threat that turned out to be some sort of in-joke between the two of them. The pilot and crew chief started laughing uproarously.
"Keep your helmet on, Frank," snapped Acheson irritably when the younger man returned to his seat.
"Sorry sir," acquiesced Frank, slipping his head back into the bulky piece of hardware.
Norman reached up to his own helmet and checked to make sure that it was secure. It was, but he still felt terribly uneasy. That was probably because he was flying, and about to get dropped into the most threatening situation in his life. Yeah, he'd fought grubs before. But Control's reports were getting worse by the minute. The grubs had brought the big guns, and they weren't showing any mercy.
"Ready for a fight, man?" asked the newest addition to the squad, a stout little kid with a mop of red hair. Norman thought his name was Smith Tucker, or maybe Tucker Smith, but he'd only just met him a few hours before. All he knew was that he wasn't very fond of the new rook, and he was sure the rest of the squad shared his sentiments.
"You fought any grubs yet?" questioned Torres, bumping the rook roughly with one enormous bare arm. "Have you even seen one yet?"
The kid shied away, answering by inaction. No, he hadn't seen any grubs. He was a gung-ho little sh*t, and Norman had no doubt that he would try to charge the first one he saw if he didn't piss his pants first.
"Keep your mouth shut then," Torres snapped angrily after a few moments of silence on the rook's part. Norman felt himself lose any respect he might have had for the newbie, and almost laughed at the irony of his prejudice.
Janvier suddenly leaned back and slapped Torres on the leg, drawing his attention.
"What is it?" asked the big man, shouting at the top of his lungs to be heard.
"Just look!" replied Janvier, pointing wildly over the edge.
Everyone but Frank and the Sergeant crowded around the open door, gripping handholds or safety straps to look over the edge. Norman, who had a seat by the door, craned his neck to look out.
The first thing he noticed was the sickening drop to the streets below, and for a moment he thought was going to fall out. He already had a white-knuckle grip on the safety handle, but in his brief moment of panic he thought he'd snapped it off. His stomach did a backflip and kicked his guts.
The second thing he noticed was that the streets flying past far below were full of gaping block holes.
"Holy..." began Torres, the rest of his words torn away by the howling wind.
Norman couldn't help but finish the man's sentence.
The bay of the Raven was absolute chaos as everybody tried to get a good look at the streets below. Acheson was cussing a blue streak trying to get everyone in and strapped down, but nobody really noticed. All they could look at were those damn holes in the street.
Janvier didn't feel the same hysterical panic as the rest of the squad. If anything, he felt calmer knowing that the grubs had infiltrated Ephyra. How he could relax in a situation like this was beyond even him, but that relaxation had kept him alive for almost ten years and that was fine by him.
Struggling to his feet against the press of bodies at the door, Janvier clipped his rifle to its makeshift sling and grabbed a safety handle. Somebody put their hand on his shoulder plates as if to steady themselves; when he turned his head he saw that it was Frank.
Frank was one of those enigmas in life. He was always off on "family business" when the squad was on leave, even when everybody else stuck together. Nobody in the squad had family; Acheson may have had a wife, maybe even kids, but they were long gone. Frank never really talked about his family, but they were his reason for abandoning the rest of them every chance he got; some of the guys in Bravo figured that he just went to a prostitute or something, but Janvier had his doubts about that. He'd seen the guy once, sitting on his bunk with his hand in his strawberry-blonde hair, staring at a picture of a little girl with eyes like cute little buttons.
"Are the grubs already this far into the city?" Frank was asking, incredulous. "Isn't there supposed to be granite under here?"
"There's no way they're this far into Ephyra already!"
"Where's the front line? Can you see any bodies down there?"
"Yeah, like I can pick anything out at two hundred meters in a moving chopper!"
The Raven banked right, threatening to tip the squad of Gears out of the bay. Torres, who had been leaning half out of the bay, swore and jumped back into his seat. The veins stood out in his biceps as he gripped the seat, clenching his rifle between his knees.
"Sit down!" barked Acheson, dragging Frank and the newest rookie, Tuck Smith, by the high collars of their armor.
Relinquishing his hold on the metal handle, Janvier grabbed a safety line and clipped it onto his belt. There were no more empty seats, so he grabbed the open door and slammed it shut; Acheson did the same on the other side. For a moment, actually felt almost quiet.
"Keep your asses in your goddamn seats!" the Sergeant was yelling at the top of his lungs, muscled neck bulging. "If we get shot down by Nemacyst, I need you to be able to survive the crash, dammit!"
Janvier slumped against the wall, anticipating that the Sergeant's wrath to fall upon him next. But it didn't come, so he stayed standing and strummed his fingers against the Lancer hanging across his chest.
"So what's the situation, Sarge?" he asked after a moment. "Any radio chatter?'
Acheson had a finger on the earpiece built into his helmet. He was shaking his head.
"Is it bad?" Frank asked, nervous hands on the rifle in his lap.
The Sergeant nodded. "Oh yeah. It's bad. The grubs came up behind the front line."
Janvier frowned. Grubs in front and behind that many Gears spelled disaster. And how had the ugly bastards gotten past the layers of granite the city was supposed to be built on? He was tempted to open up the channel and start listening in, but he wasn't sure he'd like what he heard.
A voice crackling in his ear cut off any further thought. It was Lieutenant Mathieson, a former front-line Gear who'd lost both legs and been promoted to comms officer with a desk job.
"Bravo One, come in. Bravo One, I repeat..."
"We hear you Control," snapped Acheson, probably annoyed that his eavesdropping had been interrupted. "What's the situation?"
"We can't contact kim or the rest of Bravo? Have they been shot down?"
Janvier felt startled, something that he was by no means used to. The rest of Bravo was tailing Bravo One in their own Ravens. They were probably in range for short-range comms. Hell, if he opened up the bay doors again he'd probably see some of them.
The pilot chimed in, having most likely been listening to the conversation on a rigged earpiece. "This is KR-911, transporting Bravo One. KR units 207, 621 and 993 are still following with the rest of Bravo."
Mathieson sounded almost relieved, even if his voice was frayed by static.
"Thank you, KR-911. If you can broadcast short-range to them, please inform Kim that the mission is unchanged, and to proceed with the objectives."
"Wilco," replied the pilot. "KR-911 out."
The comms stopped crackling and cut off.
"Well that was a waste of time," muttered Frank, leaning his head back against the cushioned bulkhead.
"Control's just making sure Kim stays up to date," said Janvier, patting his Lancer absentmindedly. "Wouldn't want Ping-Pong turning back now, would we?"
"I don't see why they're worried," Frank retorted. "When has Kim ever turned back on a mission?"
Janvier shrugged. The man did have a point; Lieutenant Kim possessed a perfectly spotless record that stretched back into the Pendulum Wars. There was a rumor that he'd led a bayonet charge against tanks in the dead of winter, and Janvier could only assume that took some serious stones.
In point of fact, Janvier doubted that Kim had ever retreated under his own volition in his entire career. The guy was as cool under fire as anybody he'd ever seen, possibly even more so. There was a reason why the man held such an esteemed place on Colonel Hoffman's short list of go-getters.
WHUMPFH
The muffled explosion rattled the helicopter, quickly followed by another. The Raven dipped, then righted itself; Janvier was slammed against the bulkhead with an arm in his face. But the dependable bird shook off the blasts, apparently unharmed.
"What was that?" squeaked the rookie, Smith. He held his Lancer like he was about to drop into a firing stance.
The pilot answered the question before anybody could come up with a suitably acid remark. "Roger that, 621, thanks for the assist. We'll keep an eye out for more."
The co-pilot leaned out of the space that connected the cockpit to the bay, his hands probably still on one of the big door guns. "Sorry about the turbulence, folks. Just a couple of stray Nemacyst trailing us. The other Ravens took 'em out before they could catch up."
Smith's adams apple bobbed up and down, his fear as obvious as daylight. Janvier was willing to place bets that the kid hadn't ever seen a Nemacyst, even though the things could get as far as Jacinto.
Of course, kids that saw a Nemacyst usually didn't live long enough to tell about it.
Tuck Smith gulped, trying to swallow his fear. It tasted bitter, and he wished the Sergeant would let him pull his helmet off for a good gulp out of his canteen.
Nemacyst.
He'd heard the word all his life, spoken like a curse by Gears and civilians alike. Pilots seemed to have a special hatred for the things, often keeping track of how many they'd killed since they'd earned their wings. Tuck knew that they smelled awful and tehy exploded, coating everything in disgusting black ink that could poison or kill. He'd heard them at night, seen the aftermaths of the explosions they caused.
But he'd never actually seen one, and somehow, that made him feel both weak and isolated. He could feel the accusing stares the other Gears were giving him. Acccusing him of what? Being inexperienced wasn't a crime; they'd all been like him once.
He looked at Torres on his left. The man was big, with huge, bare arms that looked capable of crushing just about anything. The guy was a real surly bastard, absolutely hated Tuck, and but surely he'd been a rookie once too...
He looked at the man sitting across from him, Norman. The guy was still a rook like him, even if he had seen a little action before they'd transferred him to Bravo. But when Tuck looked at him, Norman just looked away; there was no sympathy to find there, no understanding to turn to. Tuck almost hated him for that, even though it wasn't in his capacity to hate anything that wasn't gray and scaly.
But screw him. He'd be a veteran soon enough. He'd kill a grub, a swarm of them even. He touched the carbide-enhanced teeth of his rifle's chainsaw bayonet and felt reassured. He'd carve up a Locust for himself and then everybody would accept him for sure.
He gripped the weapon with both hands, touching the trigger for just an instant.
In that instant he was changed forever.
