An Occurrence at Black Comet Bridge

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The situation on Ymir has grown beyond desperate. Despite the air and ground effort, Bragg’s fleet had been annihilated thanks to the deafening Mark-Max. Grounded, the 1st Cavalry had circled its Armadillos near Black Comet’s bridge, and began helplessly bombing the outskirts of the city. Nobody wanted to admit it yet, but the rebels were doomed. As giant burning debris kept falling through the thin atmosphere, the Techno armada had seized control of the orbit over the red clouds; and would soon take back the satellite.

“How are we doing, Lieutenant?” Captain Stuart asked from the shadow of a stone stele once the welcome arch of a surrounding plantation. Meanwhile, a medic drone looking like a flying spider crab silently inspected the deep wounds streaking his throat.

“Bragg’s fried. His entire fleet is raining on our scalps,” Miles replied. He stopped in front of the officer, sipping the last drop of warm water from a flask he found on a dead radiowoman.

Stuart swallowed, looking up at the furious skies. From the Separatist squadron only remained a glinting field. “Terrible. Terrible yet ethereal…”

“Stop moving, sir,” the drone ordered, fumbling inside one of his drawers while maintaining Stuart on his stretcher with one of his long arms. “Your throat has been punctured.”

“Leave it be,” Stuart hawked.

“B—but, Captain—” stammered the automated medic.

“Buzz off. At once!”

“Very well.”

Offended, the robot floated towards the commanding tent as a sniper bullet whizzed over his multi-eyed head.

“Red? My corn cob…” Stuart asked as he slid shaky fingers towards his pants pocket. “Please…”

Miles handed the smoking pipe to him after filling it with bluish tobacco.

After lighting it, the captain took a deep puff. Wisps emerged both from his throat and from a hole in his shredded space suit. “Amusing…” he coughed.

“Not the best kind of amusing, sir…”

Stuart smiled, whooshing the fume away. Pierre and Apache arrived at that very moment, coated in blood and oil. They saluted the officer before taking cover beside Miles behind the stele.

“Enemy sappers are moving up to rig the bridge with plastic, Captain,” Apache uttered, taking off her helmet to brush her short blond hair.

“Lieutenant Shrimp. Apache. Red…” The captain coughed again, closing his eyes. “I made a terrible mistake taking you with me on this foolish crusade. I—”

“We won’t hide from you that we would have liked an officer less inclined to suicide, sir…” Apache snorted.

“Shut up, Annie Lennox...” Pierre warned her.

“She’s right…” Stuart went on. “Anyway… Bragg’s gone. Vronsky’s gonna finish the job—take the plantation, nonetheless. Retrench in it. And surrender the town and plantations to Admiral Toto—once the Technos have repaired their fleet above. I know Vronsky. I know him well. He’s a—a man of honor.”

“We’ll get killed before raising any white flag over that fucking city…” Pierre mumbled.

“You have to surrender. You—” Stuart began.

“Surrender?” Apache gasped, turning to her fellow pilots. “That’s your option, snuffies! I don’t want to end up on the T. M. S. Warren on Mercury’s orbit. Those prison barges ain’t exactly summer camps!”

Stuart suddenly stood up clutching the collar of Apache’s flight suit. “You stupid fool! Shush your darn pie-hole for a second and listen to me, girl!”

Apache loudly swallowed as Stuart lay back.

“One last mission...” he resumed. “There are some charges in the A-01—use them. Blow up the bridge. That way, Vronsky won’t slaughter two regiments to briefly hold a moon—a moon rendered worthless by Bragg’s stupidity.”

“Following your orders right away, sir,” Pierre uttered.

“Good. That makes you Captain, Shrimp…” Stuart joked, giving him his own blood-coated silver bars with a shaky hand. “After that, move along the gully… to an underground entrance circled in red.”

“What’s there?” Pierre asked.

“It’s a sewer—a sewer that will lead you to the old colonial customs house. T’was a smuggler’s base before the war. There will be a ship. An Orel. You’ll be able to escape—if you’re astute enough.”

“How do you know that, sir?” Miles asked.

“You’re not very observant, Red…” joked the captain, collapsing on his stretcher but still smoking. “Are your new optics as bad as your heart?” he rasped, poking Miles’ buzzing chest box. Coughing more than laughing, he then brushed with his fingertips the stone tablet behind him. On a slab was inscribed the name of the meadow surrounding the city: Stuart Fields. “I’ll stay here with my son, if you don’t mind…” the captain went on, closing his eyes. “Go. Save the men. Save the Cause or whatever you believe in. But for now, please, save the men…”

“Has he gone insa—” Apache started before being pushed by Pierre.

“Show some respect!” the latter scolded her.

Miles breathed, looking at the pipe which stopped fuming. “He’s dead…”

The patriotic pilot paused, looking at the sorry late captain. She resumed yelling half a second later: “Blowing up the bridge? Our butts are gonna be court martialed for sure!”

“Didn’t you hear the captain? It’s over!” Miles’ wizzo groaned. “Ain’t no court for cold meat!”

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His pilot came to the rescue. “The war’s over for us.”

“Fucking A. I will live. I’m going back home to Ballou! It’s up to you being sent to slaughter or the Warren. I wonder how you will defend your fucking Cause once turned into a pool of blood for worms for feed on or recycled into nutrigel on Mercury!” Pierre then spun to Miles. “Red?” There’s never going to be too many of us piloting an old smuggling ship through a probably very pissed off Techno fleet.”

“Why not…” Miles replied. “If Apache can’t help us. Maybe Shujaa would? Where is she?”

“Still M.I.A…” Apache said.

“Would you mind at least covering us while we run to your death?” Pierre asked the angry woman.

“Of course, Captain.”

“Thank you, Apache…” Pierre offered his hand, which the woman shook. In it she found Stuart’s insignia. He then turned to Miles as she grabbed a Barrett half stuck in the dirt: “Onward, l’ami!”

“I follow you.”

Pierre leaped from their position into a trench before Miles could do the same. As the last pilot of the Bunch scouted the ghostly walls in the distance, the two men sprinted to Armadillo-01 equipped with a massive spade supposed to knock the city’s gates over.

“Get the charges, I’m looking for my rifle I left yesterday!” Pierre ordered, shuffling the dirt.

“Roger that.”

“Let’s get to that Orel quickly!”

Miles made his way into the vehicle, which smelled of burning corpses and blood. Of the two pilot’s seats, all that remained were the charred metal structures. Of their bodies, nothing. It was a miracle to uncover the box Stuart spoke about unharmed. “Got them.” Unfortunately, it was stuck in the middle of the empty shells. “Shit.”

“Found a detonator too?” Pierre asked as he glanced at the walls behind the debris of the ramparts. There, robotic sappers were deploying mines and firing positions.

With a kick, Miles tried to blow the meager lock but was first unsuccessful. “Wait.” Using the melted grip of a gun, he popped the bloodstained cover, revealing a half-dozen blocks of C4 with short-range detonators. “Got them all. Now what?”

“The moat must be ten meters high,” his wizzo said as he headed for the back. “Piece of cake with negligible gravity. Come!”

Pierre jumped out of the vehicle and ran towards the gully. Miles tried to go after his friend, but a whistling warned him of an inbound rocket.

“Pierre!” Miles yelled.

As the blast pulverized the tank, the WSO was blown into the precipice. Fortunately, Miles grabbed him by the collar, then pulled into cover against a charred Walker nearby. A veritable deluge of metal and fire happened next.

“Is that from our side?” Miles shouted over the explosions.

“What?” Pierre cried, deaf as a bat.

“Who’s shooting our fucking asses?”

“No! Those are orbital strikes!”

“What?”

Pierre insisted, his mouth stuck at his friend’s ear: “Orbital!”

“Orbital? But they’re shooting at their buddies over there!” reacted Miles, glancing at the plantation that was being blown to bits.

“That makes no sense!” Pierre noted. “Is it now worth blasting up the bridge? Or shouldn’t we just leave once the rain passes?”

“What?”

“Stop yelling! I can’t hear shit!”

“I don’t know—watch out!” shouted Miles as he jumped on top of Pierre.

An explosion threw them over the parapet. They violently landed among rubbles and dead bodies. There, another shell sprayed its share of shrapnel and dust around.

Peter screamed. A rock as wide as a fridge had just crushed his leg.

“Fuck!” Miles yelled. “You can move?”

Peter yelped, inspecting his flattened knee. “No… Hand me that.” With a trembling finger, he pointed to a piece of concrete with a bent metal frame sticking out.

“The—the fuck…” Miles stuttered.

“I know. It sucks. But you’re going to have to carry me to the Orel. I’ve decided I ain’t not dying here. I ain’t not dying here.”

“No… the fuck is this?” his friend corrected him, pointing with his chin to an outline in the dust enveloping the bomb’s impact crater.

“What? Is that a dude?”

Indeed, Miles quickly discerned legs, arms, shoulders and a head. As he straightened up, the dark shape had taken on the form of a person. It had begun to move in their direction.

“Hey, man! Are you hurt?” Miles asked what he thought to be another survivor of the bombing. He then immediately looked around for a gun, for it could also be a Techno.

But out of the cloud emerged a metal man with skin as bright as chrome. Miles immediately recognized the gait of an MK, but the android on the battlefield possessed the fine features of an androgyne. As it left the crater, its torso and scalp convulsed to build some kind of ancient armor from antiquity.

“What’s going on? I can’t see! Was that a Martian?” Pierre asked before poking his head over a steel beam. “Merde! What the fuck is that? A Tin Woodwoman? Slay this fucking thing!” He then stuck his bended gun into Miles’ hand.

Meanwhile, the chrome androgyne gestured, before its forearm slowly changed shape to that of a rifle.

“Toss me a detonator instead…” Miles murmured.

Pierre immediately looked up and pulled the device from his pocket. Dodging a shot from the chromium amazone by ducking behind the rock that crushed his friend, Miles grabbed the detonator and planted it in the plastic bread. Setting a short timer, he then waited patiently, his thumb on the arming system—his face two inches away from Pierre’s.

“The hell are you waiting for?” whispered Peter. “Oh fuck!”

A shadow covered them, the walking threat had poked its head above the rock.

“Catch this, tin-can!” Miles jumped up and threw the charge. The robotic warrior caught it in flight and brought it closer to its face. The blast of the explosion blew the boulder that had crushed Peter, who screamed.

“This hurts so fucking bad!” the man shouted.

“Let’s get out of here before more come!”

“You’re the one blowing up pebbles over my—wait… more?” As he ran, Peter looked up at the sky. The techno-fleet had disappeared, leaving a strange single saucer made of chrome. “What the hell is going on, Red?

His friend onto his shoulder, Miles dashed across the ravine. On the crest of the moat and the ramparts, new chromium figures started chasing the combatants, strafing them indiscriminately. On either side, all were falling—Technos and Separatists alike. Both armies were trying to escape the apparent slaughter.

“It’s raining fucking killer robots!”

“No shit, Sherlock!” responded Miles as he veered to a rock recess. Behind some fossilized seaweed, he had just discovered the entrance to the tunnels Captain Stuart mentioned earlier.