2000
Three LAS wing attack craft closing fast, low. The Ward’s targeting AI had them locked up and firing solutions plotted before visual confirmation was possible. Safely ensconced in the chest of the HE-V, Leo Fowler, looking skyward, sees the long barrel cluster terminating the HE-V’s right arm rise into view. He is still, strapped comfortably into the smart gel chair, and grips a pair of control sticks. Only the thumb and two fingers of either hand move. He triggers the gun for a beat, half a second, a moment before the first craft appears and the barrels swing to the next attack path before the last of the muzzle flashes has vanished.
1933
The one in the lead jinks right as it rises over the office stacks, each building a partial mosaic of broken glass. The LAS wing pilot’s preemptive evasion did not save him. About half of the burst’s 30mm HETC rounds stitch the flank of the aircraft. Flames flicker from the damaged fuselage, and the wing shears away from the airframe which then corkscrews into the side of another building before exploding. Before this drama has concluded the acquisition tone sounds again over Leo’s helmet. He fires again, depressing the trigger for a half-second as before.
1871
The second LAS wing sideslips more violently than the first; only a few rounds nibble the side of one engine nacelle and it howls past overhead, trailing smoke. The third, right behind, also escapes unscathed. Leo lets them go; ground threats close in on the cordon from the west and southwest, and already urgent engage orders come from command. The 67th North Horizon Corps strike force is plunging headlong into the ruins of Ann Arbor, and showing no quarter to any in their way. No quarter to him or his compatriots in the Sable Cadre that had shot down the huge spaceship that both they and the 67th now seek.
The Ward’s cueing system comprehends and tags each new threat, AI sprite dancing from one tank to the next on the backup display’s blue wireframe map. That cockpit provision is there should his helmet’s composite holographic panorama fail. Leo turns and jogs to intercept, the Ward athletic, agile and responsive to his inputs.
He sees everything he needs to see: every element of the tactical situation is beamed directly into his optic nerves by the helmet, the combat AI curating the data stream from the HE-V’s sensors, alarms and instruments. The ammunition supply for the high-speed rotary cannon on the right arm glows a reassuring blue in his mind’s eye.
Leo is notified that the tanks have certainly detected him despite the ECM system’s aggressive spoofing. Two heavy tanks advancing on a line. No way to ambush, then. Speed would have to suffice. He slips between the vehicles, effortlessly flanking and chewing open one with two long bursts until it stalls and thick smoke boils from its interior, the Ward never breaking stride.
1340
He leaves the other tank for his allies and seeks more vulnerable targets behind the frontline. The glowing ghost light of the helmet had for some time comforted Leo strangely. He felt it might hypnotize a person, musing it was because he had spent so long in his Ward’s cockpit. It had been 450-some miles from Ft. Knox to Ann Arbor. Weeks of cautious travel through the unknown. The South American Security Confederation had sent his team on their doomed and distant mission to that old fortress. Unaccountable, hidden defenses had shredded them all and their transport, save for him. There would be no rescue. He was marooned.
Go north. Michigan. That is what the wandering mercs had told him. The Sable Cadre was recruiting, bringing law and order back to a land of chaos and confusion. Any who could serve would be rewarded, honored. Leo had made it. Their offer was true, and he and his advanced HE-V were welcomed gladly. Despite their admirable goals, many of the Cadre’s fighters were neither honorable nor admirable. Many rough men were led by too few professional soldiers.
Professionals akin to the tenacious and disciplined 67th... A whining chime sounds in his helmet: an insistent call for indirect fire support. Allies were pinned down elsewhere, overrun imminent. He approved the targeting solution preload and soft-launched his last brilliant missile without slowing. The missile streaks away vertically and dives like a meteor half a mile away, armor-defeating warhead destroying the enemy HE-V harrying friendly infantry.
Reaching an intersection he turns on a dime and takes a side street into a dense sprawl of buildings, toppling a long-dead power pole. External mics relay the muted din of all-out war to his ears with perfect clarity. He crouches behind a larger building and awaits a pair of oncoming infantry fighting vehicles. Just beyond a flimsy, four-story commercial frontage they arrive, slow, stop, and disgorge their delicate cargo.
The mics relay shouted orders, boastful oaths, and the staccato sound of boots on pavement. Leo jerks one stick hard-right and stabs two pedals. Maneuvering thrusters ignite explosively, instantly propelling the Ward through the building and into the street, demolished masonry flying. The smart gel padding of his chair re-firms, crushing G-forces abating as quickly as they arrived.
The shock inflicted by his hasty ambush is total. Before his HE-V’s weight has settled on the tormented pavement the rotary cannon is up and spitting shells. Four men are cut down before any can turn to run.
1302
Leo nudges the targeting system onto the shell trap beneath the lead IFV’s turret. Its autocannon barks twice, striking his Ward’s hip assembly, but after a second of sustained fire an internal explosion blows open its hatches.
1169
Squads scatter to the left and right. Leo shifts, aims, fires again. Across the street now. Again.
1094
Seven foot soldiers tallied. More return fire from the surviving IFV. Leo’s feet move across the pedals like an organist’s. Evade, then dash forward past the wreck, off-line and inside the autocannon’s minimum range. The vehicle’s driver panics and floors it, toward him. Another infantry squad trailing behind with missile launchers. A longer burst now, to be sure the shrapnel will get them.
1018
Leo sidesteps the clumsy, tracked troop hauler and stomps the hull over the driver’s compartment, pinning it. The Ward is animated by phenomenally powerful linear motor bundles, and with this strength Leo grips the autocannon barrel at the mantlet with the left manipulator and lifts. The turret pries away with a peal of twisted metal and a sputter of sparks. One hapless crewman tumbles out and down into the empty socket of the turret ring. Leo levels the gun and fires a short burst into the opening before dropping the turret.
981
He pans and casts his sensors into the structures lining the street. All quiet, the remaining troops likely hiding. The ammo counter is now a serious yellow. The fight is young, yet. Best to be conservative from here on. Leo’s thoughts brighten with sudden recognition: the helmet’s glow makes you feel a little like you do when you’re going home.
Another order: 67th forces just annihilated friendly heavy weapons teams a little further ahead. Even now their elusive power-suited infantry are slipping toward the crash site. Leo’s AI directs his attention to three nearby enemy HE-Vs; two Fennecs and a Shepherd. Those odds were not good. He’d have to do this exactly right, no mistakes. The Ward slipped away into smoking Ann Arbor, toward the next set of targets.
Illustration by Florian Mellies
