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IN THE YEARS BEFORE the ril-galas, New Madawaska had been considered a backwater, a small, resource-based colony that had been populated by the same dozen family groups for generations. It was the butt of so many jokes that the term "Madawaskan Cousin-Fucker" was regularly employed due to its universality by drill sergeants in the Commonwealth Army.
However, the resource upon which the tiny colony was based was food. Food crops and livestock. Before the ril-galas, the colony’s production had paled in comparison to that of St. Andrew’s Landing and Flamborough, but Flamborough was now behind enemy lines and St. Andrew’s Landing was nothing more than a smoldering ruin.
As fate would have it, the cousin-fuckers had become one of the most strategically important colonies in what was left of the Commonwealth.
And so Regimental Sergeant-Major Freyja Sigurdsson of the Royal Vaxjo Light Infantry found herself engaging a group of ril-galas foot soldiers in a cornfield, within sight of a one-hundred-strong herd of bison. And a chicken occasionally darting in and out of the cornstalks around her feet.
"How much further?" she said, neither lowering her 33A1 assault rifle, nor wavering in her straight-ahead gaze. At her side, the German Shepherd named Jaeger slowed his pace slightly, but kept his ears perked and his head low in a stalking stance. The two had been inseparable since Von Daniken’s Landing.
"Fifteen metres," said Tangaroa, after a quick consultation with his wrist-mounted tracker.
"Moving?"
"Negative."
Sigurdsson swore and lowered her rifle slightly, a grinding whirr coming from both mechanical arms as she did so. The pinkie finger on her left hand began to twitch.
"Shit."
"You okay, Sarge?"
"I’m fine," she said, raising her rifle again. A popping noise accompanied the movement, but she wasn’t sure where from.
Of course, she wasn’t fine, not by a long shot. After her arms had been severed – by a physician and out of necessity – they’d been replaced by cybernetic limbs. The cybernetics lab connected to the medical facilities on Erindale Station were second to none – they had the most skilled physicians and technicians, the most advanced prosthetics, everything one could possibly need to get back up to one hundred percent. In fact, it had been on Erindale Station that Sigurdsson had had her right eye replaced with a multi-function piece of cybernetics several years prior.
Erindale Station was the perfect spot for her to land after losing both arms in the climactic battle on Von Daniken’s Landing.
Unfortunately, Erindale had been turned into an orbital slag heap by the ril galas long before Sigurdsson had lost her arms.
Smelling smoke, Sigurdsson couldn’t tell whether it was coming from somewhere up ahead or coming from one or both of her cut-rate cyborg arms. The fight on New Madawaska had gone on longer than expected and the new arms had proven to be significantly less durable than Sigurdsson had been promised.
Shoving the thought aside, she pressed on, slowly pushing her way through the dying stalks of corn, doing her best to be silent as Tangaroa maintained his position behind her. The rest of their team had already been at the rendezvous site of Fort Deering several kilometres to the south when word came in that their commanding officer, Major Benjamin Ingram, was missing. Thankfully, he’d been carrying a tracking device like Tangaroa’s and so they could pinpoint his location with reasonable accuracy.
Suddenly, Jaeger stopped, a short, low growl rumbling in his throat. Sigurdsson quickly held up a closed fist signalling Tangaroa to stop. He did, even before seeing Sigurdsson’s signal. They had both learned to trust Jaeger’s instincts.
A further signal showed that Sigurdsson would move forward on her own to check things out. She could see, as she moved forward, that a sort of cleaning opened up ahead, though it was less an actual clearing and more a section of the cornfield that had been trampled enough to have a certain range of visibility. And at the centre lay Major Ingram, face-down in the broken stalks.
"I need cover," she said, the collar-mounted comm microphone automatically piping it through to Tangaroa’s earpiece.
There was a soft rustle behind her.
"Go."
One of the things she really liked about working with Tangaroa was the total lack of any unnecessary communication.
Slinging her rifle over her shoulder, she dropped down on one knee beside Ingram and gently rolled him over onto his back.
"Goddammit."
The lower half of his face and part of his upper chest were missing.
"Bait," said Tangaroa.
Sigurdsson nodded and stood, but as she was unslinging her rifle, something large burst from the cornstalks to her left. Too close to use her rifle, she simply lashed out with her left arm, catching the ril-galas soldier heavily in its manta-shaped head with her forearm. Sigurdsson felt nothing, but the ril-galas reeled and a piece of Sigurdsson's arm broke off, exposing the wires and hydraulics beneath. A jet of liquid squirted from somewhere around her elbow as Tangaroa double-tapped the ril-galas soldier in the chest.
"Go, go, go!" she yelled as she raised her own rifle and began scanning the stalks for other enemies. She could hear them moving around, but none were visible. Firing random shots into the stalks, Sigurdsson had to simply rest the barrel of her rifle on the wrist of her left arm – evidently, the impact had damaged the arm to the point that only her thumb was still functional. "This is Sigurdsson to all ground units. Major Ingram is KIA. We are returning to base camp with hostiles in pursuit – repeat, hostiles in pursuit."
"This is Hartwood," came the crackling reply. "We’re setting up snipers for support – lead them in, Sir, we’ll take care of it."
Rather than responding, Sigurdsson and Tangaroa fired a final barrage into the cornstalks then turned and ran, Jaeger leading the way. They could all hear the crashing of the enemy in pursuit, but none looked back.
Jaeger was the first out of the cornfield, taking off like a rocket over the open swath of grassland that separated the cornfield from the walls of Fort Deering. Tangaroa and Sigurdsson came next and immediately after them, a trio of ril-galas soldiers.
Moments were all it took. The booming of the ril-galas canons, dirt and plant matter exploding all around. Spitting out a mouthful of soil, Sigurdsson didn't dare look back. And then the sharpshooters from the walls of Fort Deering engaged. The comforting pop of their rifles brought hope, and with each pop, the barrage from behind lessened.
As soon as Sigurdsson and her group were inside the walls of the fort and the doors had closed and been secured behind them, a medic ran up to Sigurdsson.
"Sergeant, I can-."
"Later," she said, pushing him aside and making a direct line to the communications bunker. Her left arm hanging limply at her side, still leaking what she assumed was hydraulic fluid, she used her good hand to activate the connection to the Commonwealth Navy carrier in orbit. "Captain Himura, this is RSM Sigurdsson, do you copy."
"Yes, Regimental Sergeant-Major. Go ahead."
"Your bombers are clear to start their run, Sir."
"Understood. Good work, RSM Sigurdson."
"Thank you, Sir."
Closing the connection, Sigurdsson left the bunker and, like many of the soldiers in Fort Deering, headed to the top of the walls to watch dozens of Commonwealth bombs fall on the one ril-galas outpost on New Madawaska that the Army had been unable to crack.