Ilya woke up on a camp bed and didn’t know where he was. A moment of panic welled up as he remembered the hulking TAG coming into view and the pain in his shoulder just before the lights went out. He couldn’t move his right arm and reached over with the other, feeling the delicate mesh of a medi-silk bandage.
“Careful, the tissue is still regenerating.”
Ilya turned his head towards the voice and saw Kleio sitting on a folding chair, combat boots up on some medical supply box. A canvas wall stretched up behind her, meeting a low ceiling of the same material. He tried to focus on her face, but his eyes didn’t cooperate, probably due to the cocktail of healing drugs coursing through his body.
“Where am I? What happened?”
“You’re in the medical station of our temporary field HQ. And you stupidly tried to take on Joe “Scarface” Turner, a mercenary TAG pilot employed by the Druze. You are so lucky you are alive.” There was no disdain in her voice—at least Ilya didn’t think so—just relief.
Ilya paused, as the memories of the engagement came flooding back. “Is he dead? … Not the TAG I mean … the sniper on the roof. I shot him.”
“He should have been my job. I’ll make sure Amal won’t hand out HMGs like that ever again.” Ilya could now see a wry smile on Kleio’s face. “No.” She paused. “Don’t worry, he’s alive, just like you. He’ll go to prison for a while, I guess. But who knows? Somebody might have a use for him and then he’ll be out for the next battle in no time at all.”
Both were silent for a while. Ilya felt a cool, pleasant numbness in his right shoulder and arm, but various itches and little pains were making themselves known from the rest of his body. Kleio seemed to be studying something on her head-up display.
“I don’t think I’m a good soldier. I forgot to reload in the middle of the battle,” Ilya said meekly.
Kleio looked up. “You are no soldier at all. A soldier wouldn’t have stormed ahead without orders like you did. Don’t try to be one. It’ll only get you killed.”
Ilya thought about that. “What’s next? Did we get what we came for?”
“I guess we did. We also beat the Druze to it and gave them a good kicking. I think they have enough and will hopefully leave us alone. At least if they know what’s good for them.” Ilya thought she didn’t really believe what she was saying.
“But it’s not over yet,” Kleio continued. “Rumor has it Ruby’s stash is guarded by a megabeast and we need something to pacify it. Saladin’s looking for that and you’ll be going with him.”
“And you?”
“No.” Kleio shook her head. “There are no people there, just an automated lab. Not my area of expertise. I’ll be following up on those Druze, to see who might have been hiring them. Make sure they take the hint and leave it be.”
Ilya tried to hide his disappointment. “You … be careful?”
Kleio laughed. “Coming from the guy who has an HMG in his hand for the first time and goes after a TAG right away.” She cocked her head and looked at the young Sascha thoughtfully. “I’m always careful. You better be too.”
Ilya peered through the dusty plasti-glass window towards the facility’s security office. Outside he saw the team’s hacker—a Mukhtar just identified as “Hacker 1” on his tactical display—moving carefully towards it. A halo of data surrounded his hacking device, as he was constantly scanning and manipulating the site’s still-active data network. He was part of that hacker’s combat group, while Saladin was leading the advance on the research lab further east.
“Laboratory entrance breached. Asawira advancing through eclipse field towards data storage.” The commander’s voice was clear and cool.
“Wait.” The Mukhtar’s answer came tense. “Facility access has not been granted yet. You’ll activate the automated defense system.”
“You’re runnin’ out of time.” A third voice over the comm channel, accompanied by the roar of a bike. That was the Kum biker, Zuleyka. “We’ve got company, boss, I can see Druze again. They’ve not given up.”
Ilya’s heart raced. The Druze were back? Kleio had said she’d be going after them, but they had not heard from her. What happened? Was she okay?
“Asawira advance. Don’t wait for security access.” Saladin betrayed no surprise or undue haste, just professional calm. “Hacker 1, focus on removing any evidence of our presence. Let them believe the Druze took the data.”
Saladin knelt next to the ornithopter, his e-mitter gun ready to answer the Contender rifle that had struck the Asawira down just as he was boarding the flyer. A slim, impossibly fast figure had appeared on the rooftop in their flank, and shot the already wounded Asawira. The heavily armored man was dying on the sand, vital signs quickly fading. Worse yet, he had dropped the data pack, and it had fallen into one of the myriad fissures crisscrossing the ground. Retrieving it under enemy fire would now be impossible, at least without risking many more lives.
How had a practically risk-free operation where everything had already been secured turned into such a near-disaster? Lack of intelligence. They had had no advance warning of the Druze presence this time. They—he—had become complacent after multiple victorious skirmishes and hadn’t afforded the enemy the respect they deserved. That would not happen again.
Reluctantly, Saladin signaled both combat groups to break off the engagement, secure the wounded, and retreat. Not that there was much left of combat group 2 to follow those orders, but with a little spark of relief, Saladin saw that the young Sascha was among the troopers still responding. The boy seemed to have a knack for surviving.
As Saladin swung himself into the ornithopter and the flyer soared up, he saw the small figure again, climbing down from the perch it had shot the Asawira from. It looked up, and gave a little wave. Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, O-12 liaison to Haqqislam High Command, saluted in return.