Posted: 1/10/2026 11:32:41 PM EDT
[Last Edit: sharkman6][Edited]
|
I published this elsewhere under the title Voltigeur. This story is meant to bridge some gaps between The Spartan's Ashes and The Spartan's Inferno. Vive L'Empereur Part I The air armada lifted off from ships in the Atlantic. They flew east into a clear night sky that sparkled with glints and gleams of the cosmos. The air armada caught the coast at the mouth of the river Seine and then followed its weaving path east. As they approached their destination, speakers inside the Griffin transport aircraft came alive with music and song. Gonna tell Aunt Mary about Uncle John He claimed he has the misery but he's having lots of fun. Oh Baby, Yesss Baby. As one, the Spartan Knights inside the transports stood up and made their final preparations for the raid they were about to launch. The newest Spartan Knight in the task force, Lance Corporal Stevens, shouldered his heavy backpack and approached his team leader, Sergeant Espera. Espera fiddled with his helmet. The music continued to play over the aircraft's internal speakers. Well Long Tall Sally, she's built for speed, she got… Everything that Uncle John needs Stevens leaned in toward his team leader's ear and asked, "Why do they play this song?" "What?" Espera asked back. He had to shout to be heard over the music. "Why do they play this song?" Sergeant Espera knitted his brows, as if to say the answer was obvious and Stevens was stupid for asking. "To let us know we're about to insert. " "Yeah, I know that," Stevens replied. "But why do they play this song?Why do they always play this particular song?" Sergeant Espera shrugged and said, "Cause they do. Who cares. Get your gear ready. " For this mission, Stevens was part of a three-man assault and rocket team. Sergeant Espera was the team leader and carried a variety of radios and the targeting equipment for their rocket launcher. Corporal Vickers was the gunner and carried their rocket launcher, a weapon with the nickname of Ivanhoe even though it looked nothing like a crossbow. As the junior man, Stevens carried everything else. This included spare rockets for the Ivanhoe, a satchel charge, a bag full of assorted demolitions, a sledgehammer, a Halligan tool, and bolt cutters, along with his rifle, helmet, armor, and personal equipment. It amounted to a backpack plus a second bag like the kind for carrying hockey equipment, plus all the gear on his body. Stevens struggled into his gear and donned a pair of thick leather gloves. As he did, he looked around the Griffin transport. All the other knights had similar loads: weapons, radios, ammunition, explosives, tools, medical equipment, and water. A couple of men even carried collapsible ladders. The operation was a raid and was supposed to be quick. Per the plan, they weren't supposed to be on the ground for more than an hour. But everybody in the raid force, even Lance Corporal Stevens, knew that military operations don't always go according to plan, and the City of Lights was no place for a Spartan Knight to be caught unprepared or underequipped. As the Spartans struggled into their gear, their commander, Lieutenant Colonel Wong, took up position in the center of the aircraft. The old officer didn't look scared, but he didn't look thrilled to be there either. He carried just as much equipment as everybody else, only his was mostly in the form of radios. His back bristled with antennae. The battalion sergeant major, Garcia, stood beside Wong. Garcia looked the way he always did: angry and unsmiling. As the music wound down, Wong shouted and addressed the Knights inside the transport. "Alright, you heard this before, but you're going to hear it again. Third battalion did an operation here in the City of Lights over a year ago. They hit the museum next to our target. And it was like walking into a buzzsaw. "The City of Lights isn't like the other cities in Europa. They've got their pride and a sense of independence. The Voltigeurs fought hard and reconquered their city after The Protest. They're not going to just let us walk in and rob them. They'll start fighting the moment they know we are on the ground. And once they figure out what we're up to, expect the whole city to come alive and try and stop us. Our one big advantage is we've got Morning Stars in direct support. That's a lot of firepower, but it's no reason to get sloppy or complacent. And it sure as hell isn't an excuse to move slow. "So, stay sharp, do your job, and move fast. Speed, more speed, and violence of action. The sooner we get what we came for, the sooner we can get out of here and go home. " The music wound down and then stopped. One of the crew chiefs shouted, "Two minutes out!" The men inside the transport lined up near all the exits in a predetermined and rehearsed order. Some would go out of the cargo ramp. Others would go out the doors on the side of the aircraft. Stevens and his group were going out through the Hell-Hole, a trap door in the center of the Griffin's floor. As they lined up, members of the aircrew connected a thick rope to an attachment point on the cargo bay's ceiling. Then they opened the trap door. On the sides, the doors opened, and in the rear, the cargo ramp lowered. The clean, brisk night air rushed inside. Stevens could taste it. The cool of it felt refreshing against his skin. He felt the aircraft slowing, and he could feel and hear the Griffin's four engines rotate, transitioning the mechanical beast from forward flight and into a hover. "Thirty seconds!" Somebody shouted. From his position in his line near the rope, Stevens could see out the open doors on either side. Outside, the top of the city blurred past: mansard roofs made of zinc, ornate ironwork, and intricate stonework that glowed palely in the moonlight. Looking forward, Stevens could see into the cockpit and out the windscreen. Ahead of them, another Griffin transitioned into a hover. "Ropes!" At each of the exit points, Spartan Knights heaved the rope bags out of the aircraft. Each rope had a weighted core, heavy as an anchor. This was a necessity given the significant downwash produced by the Griffin's four powerful engines. The bags tumbled downward, spilling out their line as they went. Stevens heard something smack against the fuselage of the Griffin. Metal-Striking-Metal. They were being shot at. He heard the electric whiz and scream of a point defense cannon firing back in reply. "Go! Go! Go!" The knights inside the aircraft grabbed their ropes and slid down. The queue of knights ahead of Stevens moved quickly. The interval between ropers was barely a second. Stevens was new, but he wasn't untrained. He had done this countless times in the Knights Course the year before. As the knight in front of him slid out of sight, Stevens took up the rope. He grabbed it with one hand, then the other. He hooked one foot around the rope, then he stepped out, spun himself in a quarter-turn, hooked his second foot around the rope, and slid down and out of the hell hole. He slid fast, weighed down as he was. When he neared the street, he spread his legs and bent his knees. He landed square on his feet, let go of the rope, and ran aside as fast as he could lest the next man land on top of him. Even so, he felt the boots of the next Spartan Knight brush against his helmet. On the street, nothing was clear. The noise of the aircraft drowned out all other sounds. The propwash limited visibility to only a few feet. Dust and trash swirled and eddied in great clouds. He had a vague sense of the other Griffin aircraft above and Spartan Knights running to their positions. Stevens ran forward a few feet and saw an arm wave amid the dirty haze. The arm held a pericope for the Ivanhoe. It was Sergeant Espera. Stevens ran to his team leader. Above, the Griffins groaned and howled mechanically as they transitioned back to forward flight. Their human cargo delivered, there was no need to stay and every reason to go. "Here," Espera ordered, pointing. Stevens followed him to a street corner, his bags and gear bouncing heavily against his body as he ran. Behind him, he heard the Griffins fly away. As their engine noise died down, he also heard gunshots crack and pop. They came individually. Just single shots fired intermittingly. But they were being fired at. Stevens knew the intensity would only increase. They got to their position, a niche in a stonewall that was once a storefront. Corporal Vickers was already there. He was kneeling with his submachine gun in his shoulder and at the low-ready. The Ivanhoe was on the ground at his feet. Something else was there too. In a nearby ally, sprawled between piles of trash, lay a dead body. It was dressed in rough-spun clothing: coarse wool, linen, and hand-crafted leather. At its side lay a rifle. Sergeant Espera tapped his helmet, which keyed out one of his radios. He began talking to somebody in urgent military-speak. Vickers scanned the rooftops, his weapon at the ready. Stevens unslung his bag of tools and demolitions and set it on the street. Then he removed his thick leather gloves and clipped them onto his gear. The palms of his hands still felt hot from sliding down the rope. Without taking his eyes from the rooftops, Vickers ordered, "Stevens, grab that fish-gun. "With his free hand, Vickers pointed back to the bullpup rifle beside the body. Stevens grabbed the gun. It was a Pre-Protest weapon, a black, bullpup, military rifle. Stevens felt cracks in the weapon's polymer frame and their crude repairs. He felt fiberglass patches and ragged lines of glue made from ash and melted hooves. He engaged the safety, removed the magazine, and then worked the action. A live round tumbled out. Stevens inspected the chamber to be sure. Satisfied the weapon was unloaded, he fed the single round back into the magazine and brought them both to Vickers. "Just stuff 'em in your bag. When we get back home, we can trade them for booze or something. " "I'll check the body for more ammo," Stevens offered. "Knock yourself out, just make it quick," Vickers said. Stevens searched the body. It was still warm. All around it were pockmarks. One of the Griffins' point defense cannons had taken the man down with a burst. In a pocket, Stevens found a second magazine and a handful of loose rounds. He tossed those into his hockey bag. The ripping sound of a machinegun firing made Stevens pause. Espera tapped his helmet one last time and said, "Roger. Out. "Then he turned to Stevens and Vickers. "Grab the rocket launcher and all the other stuff. They need us up the street. " "Drop your visors. Go to AR," Espera added. Stevens already had his visor down, but he tapped a toggle on the side of his helmet. His helmet's visor cycled through several different views: night vision, thermal, and a combination of the two. Stevens kept clicking until the icons and avatars of an augmented reality popped into view. Stevens saw a compass rose, blue boxes marking the location of the other Spartan Knights, red diamonds indicating potential threats, and triangular icons marking waypoints. "Proceed to the Delta Point," Espera ordered. Espera led the way. Corporal Vickers followed, his submachinegun in one hand and his rocket launcher on his shoulder. Stevens brought up the rear, his rifle, his gear, and the tools bouncing against his body with every step. They ran down their alley and up another. The streets were narrow, cobbled, with uneven stones polished smooth by centuries of traffic. Above, the buildings loomed close, their facades a mix of timeless elegance and post-collapse grit. The stonework glowed ghostly. The plaster exteriors were often peeling away to reveal the passage of time. The windows were tall and narrow, sometimes framed with wooden shutters. Once painted, they'd long ago faded to gray. More often, the windows framed inky dark depths, each one potentially hiding a gunman lying in wait to kill Stevens and his compatriots. Stevens ran on. Stevens passed a hand-painted sign that advertised a boulangerie in elegant, flowing script. Stevens didn't know what a boulangerie was and didn't have the curiosity to wonder. Stevens did possess an understanding of the deep and rich history of this city, but he didn't possess the sentimentality to think about it. He wasn't a romantic. He was practical. He knew being practical kept you alive. He kept going to the Delta Point. He passed a rusted bicycle rack and an ancient black car whose faded chrome badging declared it to be an Opal. Espera led them up one last alley. The Delta Point icon loomed large in Steven's heads-up display. At the end of the alley sat the hulk of a Renault sedan. It had not so much as a shard of glass left in any of the windows, and the tires had rotted off decades ago. The car now sat on rusting rims. Vines of ivy wound in and out of the spokes and around the dented body. Beside the car knelt two Spartan Knights. The first held a rifle with a grenade launcher mounted underneath. He was clearly waiting for Espera and his rocket team. The other looked despairingly at a tangle of unspooled fiber optic line at his feet. Just as Stevens and his team arrived, the sound of a machine gun firing ripped through the night. The machinegun was close. "Glad you're here," the one with the rifle/grenade launcher combo said. "The Voltigeurs have a medium machine gun up the street in one of the buildings. Probably an old FN by the sound of it. It's nestled deep in one of those apartment buildings. That gun's got the other half of my squad pinned down and the Griffin's can't spot it for targeting. " "Can you get a drone up?" Espera asked. The squad leader jerked a thumb at the knight standing over the unspooled fiber optic cable. "They've got a jammer going. The drone channels are crowded out. Craig here was supposed to plug the fiber optic cable into his drone before we took off. But he didn't. Instead, he learned that trying to set up your gear, in the field, at night, under fire, is suboptimal. " The one named Craig looked up from the rat's nest of unspooled wire at his feet. Then he looked back down at the mess and tried to make sense of it. Stevens couldn't tell if Craig was embarrassed and ashamed, or blissfully naïve in an adolescent way. Stevens had only been in the unit a few days, but he already knew Craig's reputation. It wasn't good. He also knew he didn't want a similar reputation. "You know where this fucker's at?" Espera asked. "Yeah. He's deep in that gray stone building on the fifth floor, where the two streets come together at a point. We can see his muzzle flashes deep in the shadows when he shoots. I can put a laser on him for you. Or some tracers. " Espera shook his head. "No need to do it the old-fashioned way. We'll use the periscope, that's what it's here for. Think you could put some fire on him and get him to fire back. " "We'd love to," the squad leader said. He tapped his helmet to key out on his radio. Espera unslung the periscope from his back and turned to Vickers and Stevens. "Get the Ivanhoe ready. Stevens, prep two more rockets. Let's not take any chances. Vickers slung his submachinegun behind his back and fiddled with the Ivanhoe. The machinegun ripped off another burst. Steven's ears filled with radio chatter underlaid with hisses and static. The traffic was urgent. "Third platoon just took a casualty," Stevens announced. "Yeah, I heard it too, Stevens. Let's worry about this first," Espera said. Vickers brushed past the kneeling Craig and climbed up onto the hood of the wrecked car. "Better move away," Vickers said to Craig. Craig looked up. He looked joyously comfortable in his unawareness. Stevens wondered how the man ever made it through the Knights Course. Every unit gets one. For Group 3, Craig was the one they got. Stevens grabbed the man by the collar. "C'mon," Stevens said gently. "You don't want to be close by when that thing goes off. " Espera got the periscope off his back and fiddled with it. He tapped it against the side of his helmet, and the periscope made a wireless connection to the heads-up display built into the helmet's visor. Standing on the hood of the French sedan, Vickers fiddled with the Ivanhoe in a similar manner. Stevens prepped two rockets for follow-up shots. "We're all connected," Espera announced. He pushed the end of the periscope out into the street so it faced in the direction of the enemy machine gun. Espera didn't have to look through the periscope. Everything it "saw" was projected onto its visor. That data was also transmitted wirelessly into the rocket. "Whenever you're ready, have your squad send some fire his way. " The squad leader tapped his helmet and spoke. Seconds later, the night air erupted with the cracks of rifle fire. It wasn't heavy. Rifles snapped off outgoing shots in ones and twos. After a moment, the enemy machinegun fired a burst in return, then another. "Keep it going," Espera said. As he spoke, he gently maneuvered the end of the periscope so that it might get a better "look" down the street and at the enemy. Rifles kept snapping. The enemy machine gun let off another burst. "Got it," Espera said. "Locked and tracking. " "I've got a tone," Vickers announced. "Good connect. Locked and tracking. " "Kill it," Espera said. "Roger," Vickers replied. He raised the rocket launcher and aimed it up and out of the alley. It wasn't aimed at the enemy machine gun. It wasn’t even aimed down the street toward the enemy machine gun. It was just aimed up into the night sky. "Rocket!" Vickers rolled the 'R' in rocket as he shouted. He depressed the Ivanhoe's trigger. The rocket made a muffled pop. It was far less impressive than anybody might expect. The rocket left the tube slowly, slow enough for the human eye to easily track. The rocket moved almost lazily. It went up and out, twenty, thirty meters from the tube. At forty meters, the rocket came alive. Its motors kicked on. A white hot jet of flame spat out the back of it. Smaller jets spat out of the sides. The rocket screamed upward into the night sky, then pivoted ninety degrees. It literally turned a corner, headed up the street towards the enemy machine gun, and disappeared. Seconds later, Stevens heard the rocket explode. The machinegun didn’t fire again, and Stevens knew it would never fire again. Even so, they weren't taking any chances. "On target. Put another one in there," Espera ordered. Stevens had another rocket armed and ready to go. He removed the safety devices and then tossed the long and deadly tube underhanded. It wasn't big, only 40mm around. It was long but not heavy. Vickers snatched it out of the air and loaded it into his weapon. All around, Spartan weapons kept peppering the building. Vickers raised his rocket launcher again and aimed into the sky. "Locked and tracking," Espera said, still holding the periscope. "Good connect. " "Kill it. " "Rocket!" Vickers rolled his 'R' again, and he fired. The second rocket imitated the first. It left the launcher lazily, got to a safe distance, then came to life with a mind of its own. It made its ninety-degree turn and disappeared again. Stevens didn't see its entire flight, but he didn't need to. He could imagine it: The rocket speeding up the street. The rocket locking onto the target fed to him by Sergeant Espera's periscope. The rocket slamming into the enemy machine gun nest and exploding. "Another one," Espera ordered. Stevens tossed out one last rocket. Vickers caught it and repeated the drill one more time, as smoothly and as quickly as before. It looked like he'd done it hundreds of times, and indeed he had. After the third rocket exploded, the squad leader spoke. "I don't think that machine gun is firing again. " "I hope not," Espera said. Stevens gathered up the discarded safety pins and the rocket dunnage at his feet. He tossed them all into his hockey bag. As he did, the squad leader walked over to Craig. "You, Craig! Get that damned cable un-fucked. We're going to need that drone. " "Any idea what's going on inside the tomb?" Espera asked the squad leader. "No idea," he answered. "But things are getting hot by the old military school. It seems like it is still active. Third Platoon's taking some heat. " Just then, the headsets in everybody's helmet came alive with radio chatter. "Alert! Alert! All raid force elements. Stay east of phase line Hawkins. Stay east of phase line Hawkins. We've got fire missions coming in. " Stevens turned to Corporal Vickers. "Morning Stars?" He asked. "Naw," Vickers said. He loaded another rocket into his launcher, slung it across his back, and then took up his submachinegun. "They'll call out 'Hammer Fall' if they're going to do a Morning Star strike. That'll let everybody know to go laser-safe on their visors, so they don't go blind. This is probably just an airstrike. " "Hey," Espera called out. He had one hand against the side of his helmet, a sure sign he was talking on the radio. "They need us over at third platoon's positions. Let's move. " They all turned and headed back the way they came. As they ran, new pips and icons appeared in Steven's augmented reality view. Somebody had already established a rally point to head to, and a route to get there. Nobody had to pull out a compass or consult a map… as long as the communications systems and the helmets worked. They ran past their original position and the dead man who had the bullpup rifle. To the east, Stevens saw massive stone buildings and Spartan Knights scrambling around them. One, Stevens knew, was their target for tonight. He didn't need any icons or augmented reality to tell him that. But the rocket team didn’t head east. They headed west. They rounded a corner and stepped out onto a broad street. Ahead, they could hear gunshots echoing off the buildings. There were a lot of gunshots. The radio headset built into Steven's helmet crackled again. Third platoon had another casualty. "Shit," Vickers cursed. Sergeant Espera led them down the street. They moved quickly, in a single file, their weapons pointed out. An arm reached out of a doorway and waved them in. It was a Spartan arm. Espera led them all into a shop that might have once been a café. A three-man team of Spartan Knights was already there. One wore the stripes and chevron of a staff sergeant. Another had his arm in a sling. The sling was bloody. The staff sergeant spoke. "We've got casualties pinned down and under fire. We're bringing in a Griffin to give us some close air support to bring them out. " "Where do you want us?" Espera asked. "I want you to blow a hole through one of these back walls. We're going to bring them through that, then back to the casualty collection point. We could use some help with the casualties. "No problem," Espera said to the Staff Sergeant. He turned to his team and said, "Okay. Let's blow a hole through this wall." The three-man team headed into a back room. Sergeant Espera knocked on a stone wall with his hand. They had a device in their bag that could take X-ray images. It was a helpful device for determining what would be the best explosive charge for a specific application, but Espera decided he didn't need it. Instead, the veteran sergeant rummaged through their big duffel bag, reaching around the bullpup rifle they'd picked up. Stevens watched as Espera pulled out a large pre-made explosive charge, and he smiled. The bag he had to carry was going to get lighter. Espera began placing the charge on the stone wall. "Go wait in the other room and get ready to help with the casualties," Espera ordered. In the other room, the air control party was busy coordinating with the Griffins above. Stevens crept close to them so he could hear them talk into their radios and look over their shoulders at the tablets they all held. "Copy Slack-Jaw. All friendly forces are south of the phase line I just designated," one member of the air party said. "That's right. It's labeled on the map as… Rew-Dee-Es-Trees, I guess. "The Spartans were working off Pre-Protest maps, and the man struggled through the French pronunciations. He held a tablet. On its screen, Stevens saw a live, infrared video feed of the city being shot from the nose camera on an aircraft overhead. Enhanced reality pips and icons littered the screen, as did squiggling black blobs that represented human beings. Some were friendly. Most were not. "That's right, Slack Jaw. They are massing in that walled compound right next to us. The one mark Eee ColiMil…Mil-a… something. Just suppress the whole thing, Slack-Jaw. …Yeah, just level it. " On the screen, Stevens saw the Griffin closing in. It crossed the Seine River. It passed over a park. It passed beside a distinct iron tower Stevens had seen before. It slowed and transitioned into a hover. It slowly pivoted, exposing its railgun, which was mounted amidship. "Standby for fire support. We've got a railgun section coming in hot!" Somebody announced. Outside, rifles snapped. Inside, a team of medics unfolded some collapsible stretchers. The air controlman spoke into his radio. Espera and Vickers came back into the main room. Vickers unspooled thick brown electrical wire as we went. Espera held a small, green detonating device in his hand. "You are cleared hot, Slack Jaw," an air controlman said. "Copy. Cleared hot," the radio answered. On one of the tablets, the screen split. Half the screen gave a view from the Griffin's nose camera. The other feed came directly from the pilot's helmet. As the pilot turned his head, that view swung left and right. The nose camera remained steady. From the pair of feeds, Stevens could see the Griffin was slowing and transitioning to a hover. The noise of its engines grew louder, and Stevens wasn't hearing them through the tablet's speakers. The aircraft was right outside. It hovered even closer; the prop-wash thundered against the building. On the tablet, a pip hovered over a blob of black, the body heat of several human beings clustered together. The radio crackled. "On the way. " Stevens heard a noise outside. It wasn't the deep thundering boom of a canon. It was more of a pop, like the sound of overloaded electrical equipment exploding. The air stunk of ozone. On the screen, a cloud of dust enveloped the black blob of human bodies. There was a pause as the railgun cycled. On the tablet's screen, the target indicator pip danced. It locked on another target. The radio crackled. "On the way!" There came another loud "Zap!" sound and the smell of ozone. Something or someone on the tablet screen that once existed was hit by a tungsten projectile at Mach 7, and it, or they, no longer existed. As the first Griffin cycled its railgun, a second Griffin arrived. It also turned to expose its railgun and fired. Zap! The first Griffin was reloaded now and it fired. Zap! There was pause for two, maybe three seconds. Then the second gunship fired. Zap! And so it went. Each Griffin gunship fired in turn, alternating back and forth in a technique called talking guns. On the tablet screen, stone buildings that had stood for centuries were pulverized into dust. Black, human shaped blobs of heat ran for cover or were obliterated. "We've got them suppressed. Open that hole and let's get our wounded out," an officer yelled. Espera raised his "clacker," the handheld device that when squeezed would send an electrical charge down the wires and into the electric blasting cap which would then detonate the explosive charge on the wall in the other room. "Open your mouths and cover your ears, everybody," Espera ordered. Then he announced, "Fire in the Hole!" Espera squeezed his clacker. There was a loud "crumpfh!" sound in the other room and the air filled with dust. Stevens coughed, as did the others. One of the members of the air party waved his hand, clearing the air so he could see his tablet. "Wait," Espera shouted. He and Vickers scrambled into the other room to check their work. They disappeared into a cloud of dust. Moments later they called into the other room. "We're good. C'mon!" The stretched teams scrambled after Sergeant Espera and Corporal Vickers. Stevens followed them. The Griffins overhead were still firing and making their zap, zap, zap sounds. Stevens overheard a member of the air party say more enemy forces were massing to the south. He didn't wait around to find out what that meant. Instead, he followed the conga line of Spartan Knights heading into the back room. Espera's charge worked well. A hole had been blown through the stone wall big enough for a Spartan to walk through with all his weapons and kit. The first of the wounded were already piling through. These were the walking wounded. Stevens saw bandages on arms and bandages wrapped around heads. A Spartan Knight came through, hopping on one leg. He was being helped along by two comrades and had an arm around each of them. "Stretchers!" somebody called. Two stretchers came from the first room to the next. They were passed through Sergeant Espera's hole. Moments later, they were manhandled back through, each one loaded with a wounded Spartan knight. Espera grabbed Stevens by the shoulder. "Go with the aid and litter team and provide security. Once they get the wounded loaded on the aircraft, you come back here. Use the display on your visor to find us. " Stevens nodded once. In the other room, the walking wounded, the litter patients and their handlers, a member of the air control party, and a couple of other random knights were queuing up. The air controlman seemed to be in charge. "The medevac Griffin is going to meet us at landing zone Dillion. We go down the street, turn left, and there'll be a big greenway. The bird is going to land there. Any questions?" There weren't any. The air controlman was the first out the door, and the conga line of wounded and non-wounded headed out the door. Stevens, shouldering the big equipment bag, was the last to go. They headed down the street in a ragged line, moving as fast as they could under their burdens. The night air was pierced by the cracks of rifle shots and the staccato burst of machine gun fire. Fire danced at several points along the skyline. And above everything, Spartan aircraft circled. Their presence was something one felt more than saw or heard. As Stevens ran, his heavy bag swung and banged into his body, as if it were intentionally trying to trip him up. He wondered if the rifle he'd captured was worth the weight, and decided it wasn't. The men carrying the stretchers began to grunt loudly. The visor on Steven's helmet began to fog, and he swiped the wetness away with a gloved hand. When the conga line of Spartans turned left at the end of the street, Stevens saw an expansive boulevard with a lush greenway in the middle. Amidst the gunfire and wavering firelight, the site allowed him to imagine what this city looked like back in the day, back in the time before The Protest. The grass in the greenway had grown wild, but Stevens could imagine it mowed and families playing in the park-like setting. On either side of the wild median were broad streets. Once, those streets could have easily handled the city's traffic. Now they only housed rusting wrecks of cars long dead. Beyond the ancient cars ran wide sidewalks that gave way to elegant stone buildings. Graffiti covered the marble walls, spraypainted in bold colors that had faded with time. All of it was written in languages he didn't speak. Some he recognized as the elegant looping scripts of the Mohammedans. Others, he couldn't even guess at. This city was something beautiful, Stevens knew. Something that had been beautiful but then left to rot and ruin. Its inheritors didn't appreciate the gift they'd been given. They'd taken it for granted. They didn't possess the virtues necessary to maintain what their forebears had built. This was the work of the lesser sons of greater men. The Voltigeurs had taken over after The Protest, after the collapse of everything. But their work was too little, too late. They were performing CPR on a heart attack victim, waiting for an ambulance that would never come, hoping their victim would simply get better. The conga line of Spartans moved along a low wall towards another intersection. When the first knight stepped out to cross, gunfire erupted from a building down the cross street. Heavy gunfire. It was something big. Steven's heads-up display alerted that the incoming fire was 12. 7mm. The unlucky Spartan who'd been crossing came apart from the waist down. The following Spartans ducked back behind the low wall. Litters were dropped to the ground. Patients screamed and cursed. Somebody popped up over the wall and returned fire with their carbine. The enemy 12. 7mm gunner traversed and fired on the wall. The Spartan ducked back down. The top of the low wall came apart. Chunks of white stone flew, and pulverized dust rose in clouds. The Spartans flattened themselves on the ground. Stevens got as low as he could and cursed the tangle of gear all about his body. "Get up here!" It was the air controlman. He was screaming at Stevens and motioning with a hand. "Get up here!" The wall kept coming apart. Stevens crawled forward, as low to the ground and as flat as he could make himself, dragging his bag along the way. The air controlman was on his side, calling into his radios and motioning Stevens forward. When Stevens got closer, the control man asked. "Where's your launcher?" "Back with the rest of the team. Back where we came from. " Another burst of heavy machine gun fire raked the low wall. Spartans winced and murmured. The wall was coming apart. "Watch those buildings over that way," the controlman ordered. "Cover me while I do this. " Without waiting for a response, the controlman focused on his radios. Stevens brought up his weapon and watched the buildings, but he kept an ear open to what the controlman was saying into his radio. "You'll see our beacons. We're pinned down behind a wall on the south edge of the street. The heavy weapon is in a building maybe 100 meters south of us. " "Ground, this is Useless Four-One. I see you," the pilot responded. "I see you, and I see the target. Lots o' heat over there on IR. I'm going to bring my section in over the intersection, and we're just going to knock down that whole row of buildings. This'll be danger close for sure, so stay put and keep your heads down. This'll get loud and messy. " "Roger Useless. Ground out. " The controlman turned to the Spartans huddled along the wall and shouted. "Air's coming in. Stay low and keep your heads down. They'll be firing right over us. From his position, Stevens got to see the whole thing. He'd seen Griffin close air support before, in training. But training was nothing like this. It started out with bright lights coming towards their position. It was like a car approaching with its high beams on, only faster, and brighter, and louder. The Griffin’s four engines rose from a roar, to a thunder, to a noise that you didn't even hear, you just felt. With the noise of the engines came the propwash. Artificial winds blew and swirled. Dust and trash spun in dizzying eddies. A Spartan that was a little too high off the ground was blown into the wall and held there by the propwash, arms and legs flailing, like a turtle on its back. The air controlman yelled for everybody to lie flat. Stevens doubted anybody could hear him. The pilot brought his aircraft into a hover just over the intersection. If the 12. 7mm was still firing, nobody heard it. The Griffin rotated, exposing its flank-mounted railgun to the target. The railgun fired and emitted an electrical "zap" sound. The air was filled with the smell and the taste of ozone. It burned the hair in Steven's nose and lingered on his tongue. There was another "zap," followed by the sound of the building imploding. Somebody rose to look over the wall, but the air controlman pulled them back down into the dogpile along the wall. One of the medics threw himself over a litter patient to protect them from all the swirling debris. Tiny bits of stone fell on Stevens like raindrops. Though it seemed impossible, the air filled with even more noise. A second Griffin came into a hover, behind and above the first, and just a bit offset. As Stevens watched, the second Griffin fired its railgun. "Zap!"There came more crashing sounds; another building imploding. The first aircraft cycled its railgun and fired. "Zap!"As the first Griffin fired, the second cycled its railgun. In the aftermath of its partner's shot, the wingman fired. "Zap!" And so it went, each alternating shots. More ozone stench. More bits of stone and masonry rained down. Stevens didn't dare look towards the target. He just focused on the two mechanical monsters hovering overhead and working their railguns in tandem. "Zap!" "Zap!" "Zap!" Eventually, one of the two Griffins lifted off. The air controlman's radio buzzed. Stevens saw the man shout into his microphone, but he couldn't hear a word of it. The first aircraft, the one piloted by Useless, began to descend into the intersection. The cargo ramp dropped. The air controlman looked up from his radios and shouted. "He's landing. Right here in the intersection. We're going to load the casualties here. Right here. " As soon as the air controlman finished speaking, the whirlwind of rotor wash intensified. The second Griffin rose, taking a higher position. The first Griffin slowly lowered itself into the street. As it descended, its cargo ramp lowered all the way. As soon as it settled, the air controlman rose to his knees and waved his arm. "Let's go!" The gaggle of stretcher-bearers and ambulatory wounded fought against the vortices, climbed to their feet, and ran towards the Griffin. Stevens rose with them. He stole a glance back toward the building where the 12. 7mm had been. It was gone. The buildings next to it were gone. The whole block was gone. Nothing was standing. There were only piles of rubble that had once been buildings, standing perhaps for hundreds of years, knocked flat in seconds by a volley of railgun shots from two Griffins. It was impressive, but it wasn't worth lingering on. Steven ran after the other men, raising his carbine and scanning the remaining buildings for threats as they went. With a crew chief waving them on, the wounded were loaded into the Griffin. The walking wounded stumbled and collapsed into folding cloth seats mounted along either side of the cargo bay. The stretched cases were strapped to the metal deck. Nobody waited to be told what to do, and nobody wasted a second. Everybody had rehearsed this hundreds of times, and everybody knew that the most dangerous place for the Griffin to be was on the ground: dangerous for the Griffin, dangerous for the wounded, and dangerous for the Spartans on the ground. In less than a minute, all the able-bodied Spartans were back off the aircraft. Less than a minute after that, the pilot powered up his four engines, and in another violent maelstrom of mechanical wind and swirling dust, the Griffin rose up and disappeared into the night. Stevens and the others took refuge along a sidewalk, behind a pile of rusted car hulks that had been stacked on top of each other, perhaps to clear space on the street. The other Spartans tapped at their helmets, cycling through their communications and their heads-up displays to find out what was going on elsewhere on the battlefield. Stevens didn't touch his helmet. He observed the others and noticed they were all covered with a fine layer of white dust, as if a baker had powdered them all with sugar. The white dust was the debris from the buildings they'd just leveled. A figure approached them from down the street. It was a Spartan, and everybody recognized the man by the way he walked. It was Sergeant Major Garcia. "Are any of you fuckers assault men?" The sergeant major demanded. Stevens raised his hand. "Just you? Where's the rest of your team?" Stevens shrugged and touched his helmet to bring up the location of Espera and Vickers. "Forget all that shit," Sergeant Major Garcia said while waving a hand. "The Froggers are jamming our comms. You got any demo on you?" Stevens looked down at the bag slung across his body. Then he looked back up. "Yes, Sergeant Major. " "Come with me then," Garcia said. "Where are we going?" "Into Napoleon's tomb." |
| Nitpicky and curious here. Ivanhoe was a (fictional) knight, and no surprise was known for his sword. I don't recall him having a crossbow or of a crossbow having his name. Correct me if I'm wrong as I don't mind learning something new. Thanks. |
"Positive rights" are neither.
Busy leaving people the F alone.
Busy leaving people the F alone.
|
Alley I'm trying to be an editor (easier to be a critic than a chef) and like your stuff, so I hope me doing that is okay. I may miss some or even get one or two wrong. Some of those above may be from autocorrect. I mostly hate autocorrect.  ETA - Read further. You got it right on the next one, so it's definitely autocorrect. 
|
"Positive rights" are neither.
Busy leaving people the F alone.
Busy leaving people the F alone.