It was the harbinger of the Second Chevauchée: They still call the previous one the Great Chevauchée—not the First Chevauchée. Lawrence had no intention of letting Jonathon get away with it.

  Nothing remained of Sounion. Only a crater the size of several city blocks marked its demise.

  A green exclamation signal flared on his upper cockpit. It buzzed.

  “13th MAV, you’re a launch,” the carryall operator said. “This is your premium one-stop drop to hell.”

  “Go,” Lawrence uttered to his team.

  The over-shoulder underbelly straps released them and with afterburner countermeasures from the carryall, the team lunged toward Zeta’s surface. Laz guns and shields brandished, thrusters at maximum dive speed.

  The team avoided the intense anti-air fire on their descent. His cockpit swayed sharply, and at times Lawrence feared he passed out from the excessive g-forces.

  They weren’t alone: they were accompanied by innumerable Shinra teams. Some carryalls braved a deeper plunge and one wasn’t so lucky—he saw the spark of a laz thread whip through one. The carryall operator and the Shinra MAV it carried were a blink and no more.

  He counted his stars for how grateful it was to have a brave carryall operator, but not too brave.

  Sweat blanketed his face like a cold wet towel, but he cursed the inability to clear it away.

  Plasma threads danced like searchlights, neutron bombs went off festively. But one after another they were silenced.

  Lawrence grunted, he pulled the accelerator lever back to a more bearable speed.

  He stabilized the K?mpfer with leg and backpack thrusters, then a slight tremor as he landed on Zeta. The multiple quakes as the others landed behind him.

  Overhead, a squadron of Star Monitors deployed carryalls bundled with MTs and supplies: no losses this time. The horizon rumbled as the fleet laid waste to enemies beyond Lawrence’s compass.

  A notification blinked, Lawrence tapped a button on his armrest to see the Yilan’s Commander. The man held a cabled receiver to his ear but slammed it on his chair’s arm when he saw Lawrence.

  The Commander spoke first: “Second Lieutenant Mengde, we need to silence an emplacement east at your location, LB-7-2-1.” He gave a pause as he looked across his team, just as Lawrence processed his order. “Where’s Jasmin’s Team?”

  Lawrence wasn’t prepared for this moment, but regardless said: “Jasmin’s dead, sir.”

  The officer stared at him. He reclined in his chair; hand over mouth.

  He straightened up, “Where’s the rest of your lot?”

  “No idea, sir, but I’ll find them now,” Lawrence said.

  “They’ll handle themselves. Focus on the turrets, we need Utah beach expanded.”

  Lawrence looked at the various sub-monitors in his field of view. “I think they have the situation under control here.”

  “And Schwarzenberger can handle things on her own. LB-7-2-1, get on it, lieutenant.”

  Lawrence wanted another word in, to maybe mention the vulnerability with a rookie like Frank out there, but the transmission already cut. He slumped in his chair, and watched as some mechanics finished up what little maintenance they could do justice to their K?mpfers—being field prototypes and all. The crew gave thumbs up once finished and darted off with their rocket belts.

  He wondered if he should’ve had them procure a longer-range rifle, but for now the shotgun remained his armament. If he was lucky, he might grab something bombastic like an over-arm bazooka at least.

  Portrait windows of the others appeared on his screen.

  “What’d the big man say?” Luke asked.

  “We’re heading out, I’ll send the coordinates in a bit,” Lawrence said, he tapped his left armrest. “Stay sharp, Utah’s secured but there’s no telling when things get ugly.”

  “Any word on Schwarzenberger?” Boris asked.

  “No,” Lawrence said, “she’s on her own, they all are. Commander Buttermilch wants us to take out some guns, pronto.” He met eyes with Boris briefly but looked away first.

  Just before he departed, he equipped an MT bazooka and supplied the warhead rods on his skirt’s back, but obtained no additional mine straps. The others did the same.

  Lawrence steadily accelerated and the others followed by example. Utah’s parameter was huge and it was only getting bigger. If they can succeed in splitting Zeta or destroy its atomic engines, it’ll be game over for Jonathon and his cronies.

  As he reached the crater’s edge, he used it like a ramp and made flight, but kept his profile low enough to the surface. They remained a wedge formation they remained this way as the distance from Utah climbed.

  When his system made a fuss, he slowed and touched down as the cockpit absorbed the sudden landfall. He paused the team at a cliff.

  “Wellington,” Lawrence said.

  “Yes sir,” his voice rumbled.

  “Take Atrides with you,” he gestured to the left. “Don’t let him go cowboy on us now.”

  “Of course boss,” Boris said.

  “I’d never!” Luke piped in. Lawrence wanted to smile, but this wasn’t exactly the time for fooling around.

  Lawrence readied the bazooka as he crept closer to the cliff. But they stopped—ducked just as plasma flicked from beneath the cliff—and again. Lawrence focused on where they were aiming: A squadron of Star Monitors and two of them went down as a trail of smoke followed. Swarms of Liberty pods barely escaped the jaws of death.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “What are you—!” Boris’s surprise snagged Lawrence’s attention. Lawrence didn’t give the order, but Luke already jumped at the opportunity, literally.

  Luke had spun and fired off a bazooka round as he disappeared below.

  His startled scream made Lawrence act fast. He accelerated over the cliff to follow suit, he executed his roll perfectly and with precision.

  Most of the emplacement was gone, only melted bunker foundations and the few stragglers who tried in desperation to fire off one last shot off the somehow operational gun. Lawrence’s K?mpfer was squarely in front of it and he didn’t hesitate in firing off a bazooka round.

  He reoriented himself as he landed, the force absorbed by the seat stabilizer.

  Luke was engaged in melee with four Tacoma. Always the reckless kid!

  The skirmish happened too close in proximity to consider the bazooka, so he attached it magnetically on his lower beck. It was shotgun time.

  With the double-barrel gun in his right hand, he vacated the shield onto his back with the other.

  He grasped the chromium hilt and charged in, leg thrusters at full power. The azure blade beamed fervently as he kicked up astro debris.

  The Tacoma swung to deflect. The plasma sparks were brief, yet Lawrence flaunted the gun.

  He didn’t wait for the targeting system: he didn’t need it. He gambled on the blind fire and relied on close-range firepower. “Parry this,” Lawrence sneered.

  The upper torso and head were blasted off. Lawrence reversed rapidly out of detonation range.

  The loss of one of their own forced the survivors to regroup.

  Tremors rocked his steel cradle as squad mates parked to his left. Their naginatas poised for an opening.

  “Trying to one-up me aren’tcha?” Luke said. His transmission fizzled in and out.

  “You know it,” Lawrence said. “But wait for the order next time.”

  “And wait for more seamen to die?” Luke countered.

  The respite was cut short as the Imperium trio renewed their assault. They worked up a buildup of solar gust which compromised visibility. Silhouettes muted by the haze.

  Lawrence feigned a retreat and told the others: “Stick together, I’ll bait them any way I can.”

  The affirmative responses eased any worry he had about Tominosky jamming.

  Lawrence deactiviated his naginata as he steered through the harsh canvas. He guided himself with the hacking of teal and burgundy blades, but the third Tacoma likely took his tactic.

  “Not good,” Lawrence murmured, “I need to lure him from flanking.”

  Warning systems cried and he did an emergency side-dash as the smoke was cleared with a radiated maroon slash.

  Lawrence didn’t click the photon on.

  The enemy Tacoma swung overhead: Lawrence sidestepped out of the way.

  And just as Lawrence did, he swung his naginata in a side arc but the Tacoma overcommitted to a parry.

  The photon blades clashed; the laz sparks overwhelmed Lawrence—he jerked in his cockpit: shielded his eyes in surprised anguish.

  The blades melded together, then Lawrence was forced back with a powerful counterforce: stability warnings pounded his skull.

  The Tacoma’s melee assault never relented but Lawrence didn’t know how long he could keep him distracted from the others. He needed to neutralize this pilot quickly if he hoped to rush to his team’s aid. His mind raced like a cheetah for the next best course of action, but his reflexes were too focused on keeping the Tacoma at a pole-arm’s length away. He needed a good opening to unleash the shotgun’s wrath.

  If he had a dagger, he could’ve ended this in a heartbeat. But he didn’t. Engineers could come up with everything, but a panic short sword wasn’t one of them.

  Lawrence didn’t keep track of how far he edged away from his team. Lawrence backed off, the naginata kept trained on him.

  “Come on, come on,” Lawrence said, the visor flipped to rid accumulated sweat. He needed him to make the first move, sooner than later. If he got too far…

  This bullfight reached its climax. The Tacoma sped up, sword prepared for the thrust. Lawrence drew a deep breath in the span of time it took for the enemy to enter his immediate range.

  Lawrence did nothing. He waited for that window of opportunity.

  And it came.

  Right as the Tacoma straightened its arms; the strike unleashed, like an archer as he let go of the notch—the sword’s tip appeared closer in his peripheral vision.

  Now! Only then did Lawrence act. He let his weapons float and jerked the joysticks fiercely.

  The K?mpfer clapped the burning plasma blade just before it pierced his torso. His hand damage indicators went haywire, but he ignored them. Quickly he activated thrusters and used all his momentum to yank in the Tacoma. Lawrence’s K?mpfer thrusters counteracted at the last possible second as he let go of the blade.

  Lawrence seized his drifting weapons and fired.

  The Tacoma was reduced to gray scrap as it hurtled away and erupted spontaneously.

  Lawrence shifted gears and skated for the closet engagement. He encountered the fierce back-and-forth as Boris forced his foe back.

  “Step back!” Lawrence shouted.

  Boris performed a back-dash as Lawrence hip-fired the shotgun. He shredded the neck and headpiece, and Boris quickly delivered the final blow.

  “Boy’s over there!” Boris led the way as they came in the nick of time. Or so they thought.

  Despite being outnumbered, Luke dictated the fight.

  “What took you so long?” Luke said, fatigued.

  The remaining Tacomas were back-to-back. Lawrence indicated for them to keep the circle loose, their guns brandished. He still had four depleted uranium slugs in the magazine tube.

  “Mengde!” It was Boris, his voice muted Lawrence’s concentration: “Behind us!”

  Lawrence quickly brought up a rear camera. At first, he didn’t know what Boris called out, but then he noticed the ground rose, or rather on closer look, it wasn’t actually the case. The ground was elevated like a hill. He had focused on the sloped part facing them and that’s what he noticed a window of yellow light shone through.

  “It’s a camouflaged door,” Lawrence uttered.

  “Multiple Tominosky signatures,” Luke blurted, then—“they’re emerging from that gun emplacement—“

  “No,” Boris said, “it’s another one!”

  Lawrence’s radar was a never-ending siren; it bled like wine on white cloth with enemy signatures. He lost count of the dots.

  “A whole battalion?!” Boris’s fear rode on the height of his voice.

  The two Tacomas chanced a charge on Luke.

  “Eyes front!” Lawrence yelped. He spun and unleashed a shotgun volley as they came down on them.

  Boris and Luke took the duo out and raced to reform with Lawrence.

  The two Tacoma they took out hit the floor—their escape pods tore from their backs and cannoned off into space. Nobody wasted shots on them, it was unspoken etiquette not to shoot escape pods. But there were moments when Lawrence’s contempt nearly got the best of him to kill the defenseless killers of Ben Nevis and Side Sidon.

  Lawrence turned gears to urgent present matters. His shotgun’s tubular magazine ran dry. He never stopped moving as he reloaded hurriedly, the other covered him when they could. But still, there was no end to the Tacoma horde!

  “We gotta get out of here!” Luke shouted.

  Their shields were pelted with incredible determination.

  Lawrence hesitated. Does he give the order to retreat, or do they stand their ground here? There was now presently another gun emplacement that needed to be taken out, and already it was active. The decision to launch a beacon flare crossed his mind but wasn’t done. He couldn’t make them fight for false hope.

  He activated his naginata again. The others were forced to do the same, except for Luke. Luke surged forward, gun ablaze; he struck down several enemies. Only once he exhausted his magazine was he forced into melee.

  “Damn kid,” Lawrence murmured. Lawrence and Boris were forced to capitalize on his breakthrough.

  It was a ferocious clash of wills. What Tacomas he engaged were cut down swiftly—they were merely cannon fodder stock, nowhere near the level he previously encountered. He slashed, he hacked through steel, he jabbed through his share of cockpits. But there was no end to them, but he kept the boomstick as reserve.

  The sweat accumulated faster than he could wipe them away. He only had a moment’s rest between each enemy, his body ached from the sharp movements. Lawrence and the boys had quality, but they made up for quantity.

  His arms screamed with each slash-and-hack movement of his joysticks. The occasional dodge with his shield, the all-too-frequent slash of cutting down his enemy. It was mundane, but it still taxed him.

  After the twelfth Tacoma fell, his muscles burned. He had to overexert himself to Herculean lengths to keep up the momentum. Vision blurred, his chest too strained. The sweat splashed over the heights of his brow uncontested.

  He only prayed for reinforcements—but no god answered. It was only them and no one else.

  Lawrence was backed to the wall just below the gun emplacement they had taken out before. Their photon naginatas brandished, shields up, but none foolish enough to confront them. Lawrence lost count after twenty. The three of them were completely pinned down. And just overhead, the new cannons were operational; the plasma pot shots upon distant Star Monitors. What was Lawrence to do?

  Here's a story from a fellow sci-fi writer who I have corresponded with during my time here on RR. I've enjoyed his work, having reread it a couple times in the past, I hope you check it out and support his work.