The Fringe Wars

3.1

He checked his wrist comm. Eight minutes. He tapped it to open his team's channel. "Be ready for ducks in eight."

Birk moved to the window, where two old style rifles were propped. He brushed off broken glass, picked up both weapons, and handed one to Critch.

Critch checked the gun to make sure the explosion hadn't damaged it. Satisfied, he gave Birk a nod. "Stay low. For some reason, Throttle likes that ugly mug of yours."

"Your mug is so ugly a vig would run squealing from you," Birk replied drily.

Critch grinned and turned from Birk, and jogged across the warehouse floor. The spot he'd picked earlier was now blocked by the burning tail of a gunship, and so he went a few windows down. He moved into position and waited. He checked his comm every few seconds. When it was time, he reported out, "Ducks in two. Eyes peeled."

Critch hated waiting, but so much of every battle was waiting, with short bursts of insane chaos. He felt at home in the chaos, when everything was reflexive, when he didn't have time to think or second-guess himself. It was the time after the battle he hated most, when his mind replayed snapshots, and the second-guessing began. Not that he'd ever admit to others that such thoughts crossed his mind. To the torrent army, he was scar-faced Drake Fender, fearless torrent marshal and cold-blooded killer. His unwavering drive gave them confidence. And if the torrents were to have a shot at taking Rebus Station, they needed every bit of confidence they could get.

He heard the vans before he saw them cut through the smoky street. The CUF had sent three vans this time. Three squads of droms.

"Sitting ducks," Critch announced into his wrist comm. He took a step back from the window, settled down on a knee, and adjusted his scope on the first van coming to a stop outside.

The droms poured out of the vans, using long clear shields as protection. The shields were designed to ward off photon blasts, and could hold up against small caliber gunfire. Today would be the first time the droms on Terra would experience fire from sniper rifles.

He found his target. His finger moved to the trigger. A drom to the right of his target fell, and the others looked around, confused. The gunshot had come from Critch's side. Birk. Critch didn't fire yet. Instead, he waited until he slowly exhaled before he pulled the trigger. His target went down immediately.

He moved to his next target. By now, the remaining droms realized their shields and body armor weren't protecting them, and they ran for cover. Critch kept his breath steady and smoothly tracked his running target. He fired, and another drom fell.

By the time he'd made his third kill, there were no more easy marks. The remaining soldiers had found cover and were now returning fire. Critch reloaded. Unable to find a target, he ran through the warehouse to get a better angle. He saw Birk was taking fire, and so he rushed up to a window to find the source.

There.

Two droms were firing nonstop photon blasts from the warehouse across the street. Critch squinted and then lined up his sight on a drom's shoulder. The round would likely result in a wound rather than a kill, but if he didn't take the shot, the droms would hit Birk out of sheer quantity of blasts, rather than by skill.

He fired. The drom disappeared behind the wall. Then a barrage of return fire came in Critch's direction. He dropped to the floor, grunting when he landed hard on his rifle.

The sounds of engines drowned out the gunfire, and Critch scowled. He'd planned to have the three squads taken care of before more ships arrived. Their odds had suddenly dropped. He heard the gunships fire, and he wondered if the pilots knew if they were firing at torrents or at their own droms.