“Vet one actual, we are about to reach the stairs and take out that MG; watch your fire,” Conor said calmly over the radio.
“Rodger, we will adjust our fire,” Rokoyu replied, his thick accent even more pronounced through the radio.
Conor peaked around the corner and watched as the streaking hell of bullets and blaster fire aimed at a group of soldiers at the main entrance of the palace slackened, having been redirected to the hundreds of rebels in fighting positions outside.
That brief reprieve breathed fire into the MG teams; they popped back out of cover and resumed raining hellish fire on the veterans, taking cover behind the palace's bastions.
The MG troopers had set up a well-defended position high over the main fight that streaked into the vast front lawn and gardens. They had sandbags, shield units, and even an APS to knock grenades out of the air at the top of the grand staircase. They even had toppled a statue of the empress to use as hard cover on one of their flanks.
Their overwatch position had done well in cutting down many of the veterans and Lost Ladies who had taken up arms in Eivaley's name enough so that Eivaley's forces were currently being routed.
Rokoyu had done his best to keep his forces moving from cover to cover and take control of the machine guns, but they were found to be lacking. They had done well and had cleared nearly 300 meters of open ground, kicking, screaming, and stacking rebel bodies the entire way. Now they had been stopped dead in their tracks after a few rockets disabled one of the two mech-walkers they had liberated from the local police department and vehicles they were using as mobile cover.
Additionally, the guns cut several of their teams down like a scythe through grass. According to Rokoyu, they had lost nearly a platoon worth of troopers when the guns opened up on them. Their deaths were precisely why Conor and his team were prioritizing their destruction.
These MG positions were the linchpin of the rebels' defense of the main gate. Without them, their base of fire would be removed, allowing Eivaleys' forces to take control of the battle's momentum.
Conor looked over to Cur’sh and Vitul. The two of them were loading their grenade launchers behind a pillar in the large room. They were as stoic as ever, yet their joviality was still fully displayed. The two argued subvocally about who would get to smoke the machine gun with Conor and who would target the other high-priority location.
As they could see, the enemy had two positions in the area: the machine gun was one, and the other was through a set of double doors on the far end. They were not sure what was in there, but several of the enemy had brought wounded and ambulatory fighters through there. They assumed it was a rallying point or a CCP. Either way, whoever was in that small room would soon be met with a hail of shrapnel and fragments.
Once they had loaded and trained their launchers on the targets decided by their little argument, Conor nodded and aimed his own toward the back of the machine gunner's body.
The ambush began like a well-choreographed dance. All three sent grenades into their targets. Time seemed to slow momentarily as they watched their eggs arch through the air.
Boom! All three launcher rounds went off simultaneously, creating widespread panic among the troops, who only expected contact from their front, not a well-timed assault from the rear.
Conor's round found its mark and slammed square into the back of the soldier on the machine gun, only adding to the visceral devastation of his attack. Bone and armor, along with burning frag, ripped through the soldiers. Arms were ripped off, heads turned to vape, and those lucky enough to survive were showered in the gore of their once faithful friends.
Before the survivors recovered from the shock and attempted to rally, Conor and Cur’sh unloaded on them fully cyclic. Bullets tore through them, splaying their guts out on the defensive positions. They kept up the fire even as the soldiers tried to crawl behind their dead friends, desperate for any sanctuary in this hell.
It did not matter how much they screamed or begged; all of the rebels would die here tonight. Both kept up the fire and mowed down the soldiers, running and fighting alike.
At the same time, Vitul bounded forward and tossed multiple frag grenades through the doors he had already lobbed a 40mm through. He paused behind a desk and trained his weapon on the door, waiting for targets to emerge.
Just as grenades were built to do, the introduction of those deadly metal balls flushed the soldiers out of the room like a covey of quail fleeing a ravenous hound.
Those troopers were in surprisingly good order as they flowed through the dust tossed up by the grenades exploding behind them. They raised their rifles and attempted to shoot at Conor and Cre’sh. It was a good thing that they did not see Vitul only a few meters away, training his muzzle on their chests.
They only squirted out a few random shots that whizzed past Conor's head before Vitul slaughtered them one by one as they exited. Each burst of his M45 sent them collapsing to the ground. Bullet wounds seeping blood peppered their bodies, making them look like they were blasted by shotgun fire.
Only the last one out of the door was actually hit by a buckshot. When Vitul's magazine ran dry, he pulled the trigger of his underbarrel and blasted the man in half.
Conor had no idea Vitul had a CQB 40mm round, but he was glad his friend had brought one. The CQB round was nearly a hundred four millimeter ball bearings; its effectiveness was shown in the man clutching his chest, which now resembled raw hamburger meat.
They all fell in on the door after dead-checking the troopers with anchoring shots to the head; not many needed them, but still, it was good practice to ensure the soldiers were not playing possum.
After they cleared the room, having found it to be nothing more than a sitting room the soldiers were using as a staging area and CCP, they moved toward the machine guns, needing to move things along because their allies were still under fire by those outside.
“Get on the gun,” Conor barked, throwing the corpse of a soldier off one of the emplaced weapons.
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Crur’sh quickly hopped on the gun and worked the action, ensuring it was loaded and still functional. While he was doing that, Vitul kept their rear covered, and Conor began deconfliction procedures with Rokoyu; neither side wanted to accidentally shoot their own while attempting to clear out the enemy troops between their positions.
“Vet one actual, we have cleared the machinegun nest at the front doors. We are going to engage the soldiers between us. Sit tight and watch your fire,” Conor calmly ordered.
Once Rokoyu confirmed his troops were down and in cover, Conor and Cur’sh got to work. To call what happened next a slaughter did not give it credence.
Cur’sh lacked night vision and could not see the targets clearly in the dim glow of burning wreckage and starlight, but with Conor's multispectrum vision, he could see the enemy as clearly as day. Conor, using his target tracker, guided Cur’sh's deadly fire to each group of soldiers huddling behind cover and shooting toward the veterans across the lawn.
Hateful burst after burst lanced forward, annihilating the rebel troops and splattering them across the grass. They were shooting fish in a barrel. Each group was picked apart as tracers skipped off their bodies and cover.
Only the final position they laid into seemed to know where the attack came from. When they spotted tracers bouncing off their ally's positions, they turned their weapons toward Conor's team's position.
Their rifles barked in defiance of death, attempting to force Cur’sh to stop firing through sheer violence of action. Usually, Conor and Cur'sh would have just shifted fire and buried their enemies in hot lead, but these troopers were accurate, freakishly so when their circumstances were considered.
Rounds bounced off the sandbags and cracked overhead. Conor and Cur’sh ducked just as tracer fire streaked through where their heads were a moment ago.
The hellish whistle of bullets overhead screamed the warning the troopers wanted them to understand. "If you get up, you will die."
Instead of popping back up, attempting to engage, and putting themselves into unnecessary danger, they did what all good troopers would do—they called for help.
“Actual, we have eliminated all the enemy save for one dug-in position to your ten o'clock. Can you clear them out? They have us pinned well and good," Conor asked calmly. There was no difference in his voice now versus when he asked a servant to refill his glass with liquor. There was no need to be panicked; his friend had him covered and would deal with these fuck after all.
“That's not a problem. You scratched our back; now we will scratch yours; stand by; I'm putting Peekala on it,” Rokoyu laughed over the radio.
Conor had no idea who Peekala was, but he communicated the update to his team, and they waited. They expected the sounds of machine guns and rifle fire to echo through the night, silencing those rebels with judicious efficiency. Instead, a slow thumping arose from the battle. It started nearly impossible to hear, but it gradually grew to a near-deafening thooming; it was so loud their teeth rattled with each thump.
The fire suppressing them lifted but did not stop. The sounds of screaming and frantic gunshots still filled the air. Conor peaked over the sandbags, and what he was gave him pause.
Hundreds of soldiers slowly moved through the trees. Their white thermal signatures flowed across the gap between the walls and the palace like deathly specters. They were all efficient and wasted no motions. Women and men alike assured the enemy positions were clear, and they moved to accomplish whatever task Rokoyu had given them.
The veterans and Lost Ladies' abilities showed Conor that Rokoyu had been preparing for this for a long time, likely years. They all had the same armor, uniforms, sealed helmets, and a healthy mix of weapons: machine guns, rifles, shotguns, blasters, and snipers.
That old romantic must have had multiple caches of weapons around the veterans center. Considering this militia was wearing gear that many warlords around the galaxy would pray for, he had to wonder what else the sly old dog had hidden around the capital.
The soldier's gear and training were impressive, but what really made Conor and Cur’sh gawk was the mech that was currently demolishing the troopers who had been laying hate at him.
It stood four meters tall and was as black as night. Its sleek, no-nonsense design had no waste or flare, save for the wet paint on its side, which looked like a pin-up of a burly Kurltara male.
Conor did not question that bit of personal art. He had seen plenty of stuff like that in his years; soldiers and pilots alike prefer to personalize their gear; the stollen mech was much the same. Besides, he had something more important to focus on---Peekala's ability behind the sticks of that piece of wargear
Peekala roared over the mech's loudspeakers, calling the soldiers, which she was training on traitorous mongrels. Boosting rockets erupted on the rear of the mech chassis, forcing the mech forward, nearly gliding over the ground.
As she surged through the trees, her chain gun began firing. Throaty barks roared through the night as bullets the size of Conor's thumb ignored the cover they were behind. The rounds ripped them in half, blasting through the destroyed car they clung to life it would save them. That weapon was built to destroy light tanks and aircraft; that it deleted their cover was not shocking.
Sparks flew from the metal as the bipedal walker rushed forward at a full tilt, its gyroscopically stabilized weapon as steady as stone. Peekala closed the hundred-meter gap in the blink of an eye, crushing the car with a foot as one of the soldiers helplessly fired at the towering mech.
With the arm without a weapon, she picked the trooper up by the chest, uncaring that she broke his arms and forced the rifle he wielded through his armor and into his guts. The reason she did not care was evident when the pilot simply crushed the man like an insect.
"Fucking scum," Peekala spat, throwing the man's corpse to the ground.
“They are pretty amazing, eh?” Rokoyu asked, walking up the steps toward Conor's position.
Rokoyu had his rifle slung and wore armor similar to Conor's, light yet shielding his vitals and nothing more. He clearly emphasized wanting all he could carry to deal with threats. His vest had dozens of mags, grenades, and a few pieces of what Conor thought were bricks of high explosives. The man even had a single-use rocket slung over his back.
Now that he was close, Conor could see an interesting detail on the man's shoulder. Sewn onto his shirt was a small ruby-red patch. It had a simple depiction of the graveyard where Burlai and Stitch were buried in front and center; on its borders were the simple words in effervescent white Eivaley's Guard, we were saved, not chosen.
Conor did not comment about the patch. Once, the ghostly warriors flowed past them, and he could see they all had one; he knew there was no point in him even joking about how guarding Eivaley was his job.
“Yeah, she is pretty amazing,” Conor agreed.
Conor had seen plenty of mechs in his life, but those were slow, lumbering tanks designed for urban fighting. This one, however, was quick, light, and clearly controlled by someone who was not shy about using their weapons to the best of their ability.
It took him a moment, but then he realized why this mech was built how it was. Livayie was built around a desert that stretched on for hundreds of kilometers. Any tech for their military, police, or even civilian use needed speed. This one certainly met those needs.
"Hey, now, warrior, don't let those eyes drift," Rokoyu laughed, giving Conor a half-hug. "I know she is a beast of a woman, but you are spoken for."
"Hey, I can still appreciate a woman doing something well without me cheating on Eivaley," Conor replied, patting Rokoyu a bit more forcefully than needed.
If the rough treatment troubled Rokoyu, he did not comment. Instead, he stepped deeper into the palace to protect himself from fire.
“Now then, my friend. What is it you need us to do?” Rokoyu asked, gesturing wide to encapsulate the hundreds of soldiers he brought ready to do as Conor needed.
“Let’s see where we could use you guys,” Conor said before keying his radio to contact Eivaley and give her a status update.