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FARUQ
My vocal cords strain as I call out to the splayed form of my little sister high above on the wall of ice. What have those fiends done to her? Is she even still alive?
“Sheikh, we must fight!” Captain Kahleit shouts.
The blue streak of a plasma bolt cuts the air between us.
I throw myself against the ground as another rips past. Gasping frozen air into my lungs, the wind and sleet sting my exposed face. Time seems to stall and lose its meaning, the battle blossoming around us. My people, the Kahangans, and resistance fighters are cut down in full measure by flying projectiles and plasma bolts. These mad Gracile titans show us no quarter. They do not differentiate between our ways, our skin color, or our beliefs—we are, all of us, beneath them, worthy only of death.
Then I see her, rising from the snow. Talons of fear clutch at my heart shattering its icy facade as I watch Mila stand, defiant in the face of certain death. Bolts zip past her, missing their mark again and again. It’s not possible she will survive this.
“Mila!” I cry out.
For a moment, the whiteout obscures everything, the terrible possibilities of her fate driving my mind toward insanity. Then, through a break in the sleet, I see her again. How can this be? With a scream she charges forward, her weapon—the tubular one Denni had once given her—thrust upward into the air.
A flood of memories assaults my senses, sights and sounds and smells. Mila and I fighting together side by side against the forces of the Gracile Leader. Shared purposes, destinies intertwined. The visage of this fearless woman strikes a chord within, the immeasurable depths of my own weakness and selfishness laid bare. A stroke of anguish courses through my heaving chest.
What sort of man have I become who would refuse the only ones I ever loved?
A roiling wave of nausea causes my mouth to flood with saliva. And then, Kahleit is there, dragging me to my feet as my men begin to run.
“Onward, Sheikh! We will show them all the nature of our fortitude.”
“Yes,” I manage, dragging my ice-covered sleeve across my mouth and swallowing back the bitterness.
Pulling my arm free, I run toward the towering wall of ice before us, the only way in a narrow pass filled with armor-clad brutes, and beyond a hoard of ragged men. Are those Rippers?
An ear-piercing blast followed by a growing whine intercepts my thoughts. I wince, scrunching my brow as I focus on the source of the growing cacophony.
A repurposed Creed strike-ship rises from behind the towering wall, its suspended plasma cannon pivoting to lock on us. My men scream and shout, running, falling, and diving for anything that may provide them cover. I just run, vision blurred, tears streaming down my cheeks. We’re doomed.
With a crack like lightning, a blue bolt fired from the strike-ship tears its way through the ranks of the Kahangans. Their screams distort as their bodies come apart, bursting into gray clouds like the handmade confetti poppers Kapka forced everyone to fire off at his parades. The human ash hangs there for a moment, dissipating into the ranks of bawling survivors.
Another bolt looses from the massive strike ship, this time rending some of my men to dust.
A Kahangan rocket-propelled grenade screams upward, loses its thrust, and drops over the wall.
That’s it. I’ve seen strike ships taken down with these weapons before. “Kahleit,” I scream. He looks up at me from behind a bush. “Fire all of the rockets.”
“But Sheikh—”
“Fire them all at the strike ship. That’s an order.”
Kahleit makes it to a knee, then swings an arm overhead. “Loose the rockets! Fire upon the strike ship!”
The men pull the launchers forward, casting confused looks at each other.
“Fire!” Kahleit screams. “All of them.”
The men jolt to action, a barrage of rockets firing off from different positions, whining into the air in unison.
“Follow me,” I shout, rising and running once again. I draw the golden wheel gun from my waistband and forge ahead, the rallying shouts of my men ringing in my ears.
