Chapter 303 (1/2)

Mo'owa'alkr backed up, shaking all four hands out, stomping on the pedal to flush the weapon with coolant, before stepping back forward and grabbing the four handles of the rotary barrel plasma cannon. He held down the triggers, the barrels howling, and raked the six barrels worth the firepower across the front of the Precursor machines coming straight at his fighting position.

Half of his men had fled when the Precursors came over the horizon, running off as they threw their rifles to side.

Mo'owa'alkr knew that it wouldn't matter. If he couldn't stop the Precursors here then there would be nowhere to hide, they'd sweep into the city two miles behind him, first killing every living being in the suburbs before moving into the city center.

Many of his fellow Lanaktallans kept claiming they would head for the shelters, shooting their way in if they had to.

Mo'owa'alkr knew that the Precursor machines would just dig their way down to the shelters and kill everyone inside at their leisure.

The weapon was beeping, overheating, warning him he was supposed to only fire ten seconds out of every sixty, but he ignored it, sweeping the barrel across the nap of earth line. The heavy plasma machinegun rounds caused the Precursors to explode in mid-air.

The ground ones were advancing, and he was out of missiles, drones, or fire and forget rockets.

He was even out of grenades.

He was the only one left in the fighting position, everyone else either fled or dead.

THERE IS ONLY ENOUGH FOR ONE

roared into his head and he blinked, knowing his rear left eye, blind as it was, was leaking blood again. His helmet's psychic screens were turned up as far as he could manage, the only reason he was able to withstand point blank assaults on his very mind.

He could see that the fire from the positions to the right and left of him was starting to dwindle, his fellow Unified Military Council soldiers either dying or abandoning their positions.

Or, like Mo'owa'alkr's Position Most High, rocking back and forth, giggling, and eating his own fingers.

Mo'owa'alkr knew he was covered in sweat, his armor's internal environmental systems having given it up after three straight hours of combat.

He kicked out with his rear left hoof, kicking the ”I AM IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE!” button, knowing it wouldn't do any good, but training demanding it as his ammo-hopper reported he was down to less than 10% of his ammunition, less than two minutes of fire at the rate he was burning through ammunition.

Without even bothering to check, Mo'owa'alkr knew that he had no rifle. He had been assigned an static emplacement and was a heavy gunner, he had no use for a small arm according to the best military theorists.

He wished he had one.

The only small arms weapon in the fighting position was the Most High's pistol, and it was out of ammunition after the Most High had used all six rounds to shoot three of Mo'owa'alkr's fellow soldiers.

He kicked it again as his ammo fell to below 10% and he saw that the Precursors had sent the big boys. The massive ones rolling on treads or hovering on huge graviton pods.

Mo'owa'alkr looked around, stepping back and shaking his hands as he stomped the coolant pedal again. The lights flickered in his fighting position, the radar screen came on, fuzzed several times, then came back. He saw the empty missile launcher do a function check, same with the targeting system for the empty launcher. The point defense system rebooted, flickered through a function check, then, to Mo'owa'alkr's relief, began firing again.

The Precursor machines were still coming, artillery and rockets fired by the machines slamming near his firing position.

He kicked the pedal to lower the fighting position just as a small cobbled together looking drone zipped into his fighting position, hovered for a second, and tried to dart out, banging against the suddenly slammed closed shutter.

The Precursors were less than a mile out.

”Ow, my head!” The drone squeaked from the floor.

Mo'owa'alkr looked at the little drone. It was painted and colored with Unified Military Council colors, but had a Terran Space Force logo on the fan drive shafts. It was about as wide as his chest and had optical sensors and what looked like more sensitive sensor strips on it. The drone clicked a few times, clattering on the ground, the fans whirring.

It went still.

”Um, little help?” the drone asked. ”Crap, I can't see now.”

”Identify yourself,” Mo'owa'alkr ordered, lifting up a hoof.

”Recon Warboi 66892a,” the drone said. ”Terran Aerospace Force.”

Mo'owa'alkr raised his hoof higher, intending on stomping it, panic filling him. He had heard the terrifying Terran battlecry almost three days ago but nothing since then.

”Wait, wait, we're on your side!” the drone squeaked. ”Don't stomp me!”

Mo'owa'alkr lowered his hoof slowly. ”What are you doing?”

”Seeing who's alive and who's dead,” the drone answered.

”He's an artillery scout,” the phased radar array computer said.

”Hey, 98425!” the drone said.

Mo'owa'alkr looked from the screen of the radar array to the drone and back.

”Hey, 66892,” the radar system said. ”Hey, Lanaktallan dude, flip him over. We need to pass data to 227 Field Artillery.”

Mo'owa'alkr frowned. ”Is this some kind of trick?”

”No. It's war. If you want to live, flip 66892 over so I can pass him my data and he can pass it to MILINT,” the radar set said.

I must be going mad, Mo'owa'alkr thought to himself. But he bent down and flipped the drone over. It whirred and lifted up, the fans spinning so fast they looked transparent.

”Why doesn't he use graviton?” Mo'owa'alkr asked.

”I'm almost invisible to Precursor sensors,” the drone said, bobbling. ”Oh, man, your EM shielding is on.”

Mo'owa'alkr kicked the fighting position lever and it rose up, the shutters grinding up.

”Thanks!” the drone said and buzzed out.

”Damn, this computer's so thin it makes my ass feel fat,” the radar said.

Mo'owa'alkr grabbed the handles of the plasma gun and brought it back into aim. The plasma gun suddenly yanked out of his hand.

”I need that for point defense,” the radar said.

”Hey! I'm the one fighting here!” Mo'owa'alkr said.

”I'd duck in about ninety seconds,” the radar said. The gun swiveled slightly and started firing single spaced shots.

”Why?” Mo'owa'alkr asked, frowning again.

”See those little pillars of blue smoke in front of the Precursors and the red in the Precursor's lines?” the radar asked.

The gun fired four more spaced shots.

”Yes,” Mo'owa'alkr said, squinting outside. There were dozens of them, roughly a hundred meters apart from one another.

”Ranging shots,” the radar said. ”Our little buddy is out there giving live feed to the gunners of 227, who's going to wipe these guys off the map.”

”There's too many,” Mo'owa'alkr said. ”They fire back at the artillery.”

”Yeah, well, Terran Army,” the radar said. ”Ten seconds. Might want to duck.”

THERE IS ONLY ENOUGH FOR ONE!

DIE ALONE!