“Pohko, make sure the magazines are fully charged, we don’t need a repeat of Lima. Wuver, you’re coming in third, your rating spiked well enough last month. Yarri, I need you on Angel’s current, his wings won’t keep the friskier ones away. And Zuture, for the love of God, tell Aeshil to stop reck’ing backup.”
Oluma turned the mic in her pod off as her team sent back their simultaneous confirmations. She pulled her twin trick guns from their holsters and, in under 15 seconds, loaded Zenaye and Lou, set the coordinates for the launch, and dialed in the needed frequencies to Sutra Company for the livefeed broadcast.
She watched as the readiness-indicators for her team lit up one by one: Pohko and Wuver were first, then Angel and Zuture a minute later. Oluma cracked her neck as the anticipation built in her. Finally, Yarri’s switch came on.
With each indicator green, she relaxed her nerves and activated her mic again, “Alright, team, going live in 5, 4, 3, 2—”
The countdown was cut off by the sound of her pod ejecting from its port in the tower, a flash of violet and pink illuminated the cockpit; showy lights for their more than eager audience.
Oluma saw the count-down timer adjust itself to wind current, temperature, and terrain before designating a specific ETA: less than 40 seconds and counting.
She checked the livefeed to see just how many people were tuning in this time.
“Whoa.” Angel’s voice beat her to the punch and awe. “125 million!”
“That’ll be sure to shut Blotter up.” The playfulness in Zuture’s voice could barely hide his nervousness.
“We’re going to be famous!” Angel again, this time his youth showing. “Everyone in Pacifa is going to know us after this!”
“They already do, Birdboy.” Yarri cut in, her age hidden beneath layers of frigid ice. “Just don’t clip a wing this time.”
“Hey! I know you did that to—”
Stolen story; please report.
“Cut the chatter, Team.” Pohko’s hoarse voice interrupted the back and forth. “Act like you’re here to do a job, and get it done. On you, Team Leader.”
Oluma couldn’t help but smile. Pohko knew how to reign in the distractions even when she couldn’t. “Alright, I’m sledging today. Pohko and Wuver, you’re cleanup.”
The affirmations were instantaneous.
“Angel and Zuture, you’re our showcase, Yarri, you’re cover.”
The next round of okays.
“Alright,” Oluma bit her lip, it was dry. “Showtime in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2—”
On cue, Oluma was ejected from her pod, the propulsive seat set for her wedge maneuver. She was still in the air as she heard her pod crash into the red sea beneath her. Twisting her body, Oluma revolved in the air several times, catching her balance as she struck the ground, and bringing Zenaye and Lou from their holsters and into her hands.
The sound of Oluma tearing through the mutants was like a thunderstorm every half second. Her black and purple powersuit made her a dot amidst the red torrent, but she was as powerful as a black hole.
Wave after wave of ravenous monstrosities crawled, charged, or stumbled for her, pulled in by an insatiable hunger. She blasted away extra appendages, double heads, gelatinous bodies—turning every misshapen feature into an additional target.
It was hard to tell when she was reloading since she always seemed to be firing. The guns in her hands moved seamlessly, pointed in almost every direction at once. Each twist she made, every roll, every trigger pull was deliberate, no shot was wasted.
Soon, the thunder settled, and she was all that stood within a 100-meter zone—another wave of mutants on the way.
Oluma caught her breath, wiping away spots of blood that splattered onto Lou. She swore, knowing she’d have to shine him at the Tower, but that for now he’d have to stay like this. She sighed and switched coms on.
“Area clear, clean up and perimeter move in. You have…” She checked her ocular implant’s reading, “One minute before showtime. Get here.”
Ten seconds later, Oluma felt the rumble of Wuver and Pohko’s pods crash in the distance behind her. She heard the sharp hiss of pressurized air as they were ejected and landed a few dozen meters in front of her. Oluma watched as Wuver took the left and Pohko took the right, clearing out the remaining mutants either too fast to wait for the pack or too weak to do more than crawl.
The process lasted no more than 20 seconds.
“You left us a couple more this time.” Pohko teased, her voice missing the edge it had before.
“Maybe I’m getting rusty, huh?”
“WRAOWREGHHHH”
Wuver let out a metallic warble to draw their attention
“I know,” Oluma responded, surprised by Wuver who was usually perfectly silent. “Poh, form on me; Wuver, you’re leading.”
Oluma got Pohko’s confirmation as Wuver moved into place in front of them. There they stood, two women and a 7-foot-tall warmachine ready for battle, except this fight would look a lot prettier.
After all, that was the job.
“Showtime in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1."