Echoes of the Storm

Chapter 5

Son of a... This hurts.

Blaster fire echoing across the hills and cannons booming in the distance magnified Tic's pain. How could it hurt to open your eyes?

Skyfighters whooshed overhead. He was flat on his back, the vibrations of heavy equipment rattling his body. Or was that just blood rushing through his pounding head? One thing he did know—he'd been hit. His chest burned, screamed. The pain...

What happened? He'd been running across the tarmac...running from Riga troops landing on the far side of the airfield...running up the ramp of a troop transport that would take him off world. Then...nothing.

Clenching his fist, Tic smacked the ground. There was something else. No, someone else. Emilio Berg.

Colonists save me. They knew. Knew he had worked undercover. What had Berg said? Norse should have taken care of you. Norse? Norse was supposed to be on his side!

Tic's eyes flew open. Maggie... She'd been there.

I wanted to tell you, Maggie.

She had to be shocked and angry, but wouldn't let Berg see her as anything other than professional. She'd be burning up inside.

You must hate me. That thought hurt as much as the blast wound. Maybe it was good she thought he was dead.

He tried to push himself up onto his elbows.

"You must lie still," a metallic voice said.

A medidroid with Corona insignia hovered over him.

"What happened?" Tic asked. "Where am I?"

"Lie down, sir." The medidroid paused, analyzing data from its memory banks. "Records indicate you took a hit—"

Tic grabbed the droid. "Where. Am. I?"

"I got this, M-4," a human voice replied, coming to the droid's aid. "We're about three kilometers from the spaceport, Lieutenant. Everything's under control." A cannon roared, a half dozen blasts shaking the ground. He tilted his head and glanced skyward. "Well, almost everything."

"Help me up." Tic winced.

"You're not going anywhere, sir. I'm sure your unit's doing just fine."

Antiseptics, rubber gloves, and the smell of blood answered his next question. He glanced at the collar insignia on the man's uniform. A medic. He realized someone had slapped a medibracelet on his wrist. This was a field hospital...if you could call pallets under old oak trees a hospital.

"You're probably right, Sergeant. Just help me sit up."

The medic nodded and helped Tic upright. A quick count and he noted about two dozen wounded and a second medic.

"Have I been here long?"

"We found you at the edge of the airfield about fifteen hours ago. Pulled you out during an intense firefight. What's your name, sir? I'll add it to your records."

Fifteen...

"The invasion?" he asked, ignoring the medic's question.

"Pretty much over I guess."

"I don't remember crawling—" he mumbled.

"I'm not surprised considering that blast to your chest, sir. You're one of the lucky ones." The medic paused a moment, chewing on his lower lip. "Lots of fighting. We've been treating wounded soldiers and every hour flows into the next when it's busy like this, if you know what I mean. And they keep coming in. Those damn Riga soldiers just don't know when to quit." Blaster fire sounded in the distance again. "See what I mean, Lieutenant? Why don't they give up? They're stranded on Torredo. They're losing this battle and have no reinforcements, so why are they still fighting?"