Chapter Eight

a word to Rowland. They all listened, though he could see the tension in their shoulders and feel the vibrations in the air as their ears twitched and their eyes darted over to watch his replies. The fact that they were all cramped together inside the armored confines of a maddis a PC made it easy to read the room. Roland wasn't a hundred percent sure if the young mrk had been put up to the task of questioning him, or if Sardar was just an inquisitive soul. Roland smelled

a light drizzle of nervousness waft off the boy. He'd caught several glances between Sardar and Bigsby, but neither of those facts were proof of anything. Nervousness was a perfectly natural reaction to hanging out in a cramped metal box with a guy you'd just been trying to murder. I remember pieces of it, Roland replied, fucking somebody in the Lincoln bedroom, stealing liquor from the kitchens, shooting in the ball, returned the White House bowling alley. Sardar shook his head.

That's fucking loco. You're like a history book. I bet I read about ship you did back in high school, probably, Roland said with a shrug. He had about nine clear memories of his life before the shack on Camelback Mountain, and none of them felt very historic. Can I get your autograph? Man, Sardar asked Bigsby the posthuman Rowland had been about to arm club in a submission a day ago.

Shook his head and groaned in embarrassment. One of the women he'd buried in his collapsed hovel grunted out a laugh. Her name was Nadine or something with an inn. Anyway, she and her partner Asime were both close assault specialists like the rest of the crew, except Tardar. They'd been cold to Roland ever since he'd beat the living hell out of them. Something occurred to him. Hey, I got a question for you, he said to Sardar. Yeah, your crew has been real pissy to me this whole ride.

Roland nodded at Biggsby. How exactly did you guys expect that fight to go down? Sardar pursed his lips. He seemed at a loss for a second. Then he said, Jim framed it as just a standard guilt team action. We've done that sort of thing a couple of times. Last year there was this crumbed out Nazi in Idaho, so he tricked you. Then Roland interrupted, convince you this was just another assassination when all he really wanted to do was get my attention. Roland looked around and realized

the rest of the transport was glaring at him. Biggsby spat on the ground in front of Roland's foot. We'd devised you if he'd given us another minute. Roland just laughed and turned his eyes back to Sardar. It's clear you and the other guy, he gestured at the young man next to Sardar, are the only smart bastards in the unit. Since you didn't get back up when I beat you, down. Sardar squirmed a little, clearly uncomfortable me and pedro He gestured to the other man, We're just engineers.

We don't go toe to toe with the with whatever you are all this conversation, the most he'd had in years, made Roland feel uncomfortably lucid. He rooted around in the tattered old backpack he'd brought with him. It contained one rusty Mateba auto revolver that he'd found under the floorboards of his collapsed shack, and five point oh eight seven kilograms of assorted narcotics, mostly opiates. Roland remembered how fun it was to watch things explode while high on oxy.

He pulled a pillbottle out of the sack, delauted, and poured half of it into his mouth. Roland swallowed, then guzzled the second half. Jesus said, will the man he'd stabbed in the throat with a piece of wood yesterday, this is the guy who kicked the ship out of us. I am sorry about that, Roland said. If I'd known we were going to wind up sharing an a PC, I probably would have just choked you out. Mortar fire incoming. Roland's hindbrain ran the calculations estimated it at around eight

miles out. He sat up straight, since his focus towards the sound of the fire. Bigsby and Asim reacted the same way. They clearly splurged on the good ears. The rest of the team didn't seem to have heard. They're shooting ahead. As Amy said, sixty millimeter mortars. Get up, folks, Biggsby added, as he pulled his own S thirty barret assault rifle from its resting place on the wall behind him.

The funk was that as Amy cocked an eyebrow, her left ear twitched, her tan, lean face flushed red with excitement. I don't recognize that one me either, Biggsby grunted. The other post human looked to Roland with clear frustration. You recognize that, Roland did. It's an M one forty two, he said, Mobile rocket Artillery antique U S military issue. Will looked over to Bigsby, confused, I've never heard of anything like that in the sdf's armory. It's not the SDF,

Roland explained, slurring his words more than a little. The opiates had just started to hit. Holy sh it, I loved allotted. He thought that's in coming can't you tell, he said, not a not from this distance. As Ame answered, she glanced awkwardly over to her partner, need put a hand on her thigh and squeezed. Could you not be monstrously fucked up when we're about to go into battle, Biggsby asked. He seemed angry. Roland debated, offering one of

his handfuls of pills. He decided he'd much rather save them for later. First off, I didn't sign up for battle, he explained, as he popped and chewed a pair of morphine tablets. Second, we still got about almost eight miles before we hit the front. Plenty of time to sober up. Eight miles, asked Sardar. The Richardson line is fifteen miles out. More mortars crumped in the distance. Roland heard blossoms of heavy machine gun fire too, and the hums of dozens

of assault drones. Hey, Biggs, the voice of the APC's driver crackled over the vehicle intercom. There's a lot of craziness coming in from the main s d F channels. It sounds like a major assault. The martyrs have pushed all the way to deep Ellum. Some of the field commanders are talking about a full retreat, Jesus shitting christ Will, Bigsby, and Nadine all cursed at the same time. Roland thought it was cute. It tugged at his heart strings a little.

He missed being part of a close knit team. Some of his stronger memory fragments involved really good times he'd had during and after the war. He remembered blowing up an armored school bus with a guy named Mike, throwing rotten oranges at a government sniper with Jim. His brain also brought up snatches of late night drinking sessions and watching cartoons on an old projector in the desert. When he closed his eyes, he could smell the burning man's

anita smoke of their camp fire. Payne tugged at his heart, but he was jerked out of his revereree by the sound of an explosion. It was big and close enough that everyone in the APC heard it, even though Roland's hindbrain put the distance at over seven miles away. V. B. I, E. D. Bigsby, and Asime said at the same time, real big One, as Ame nodded. Roland could tell that the explosives rigged vehicle had been an E series Mercedes truck. But he didn't bring that up. No one liked to know it all.

Biggsby's mouth opened and closed, the telltale sign of someone having a subvocal conversation through their deck. Roland could have read his lips, but that would have been rude. Instead, he looked over to Sardar. If the gig is called an account of war, you want to get ship faced in Austin with me? The kid blinked, then replied, I mean, of course, but I'm pretty sure boss Man's gonna want us to do the job, even if it's hot out there. Roland growled a little without thinking and start a cringed.

I did not sign up to defend against an active invasion. I'm here to funk up property, not people. Jim says, that's still the plan. You funk up the property, Biggsby grunted. My fam and I are here to funk up the people. A red hot cherry of anger bloomed in Roland's heart. That wasn't the deal, he said, and Jim knows it. One of you call him and loot me in on your screen. I'll set this right. Call him yourself. Spat Bigsby, he can't Startar pointed out, he's got a dead deck,

no signal at all. True, Noll, why the hell would you go null? As Am started to ask, Bigsby interrupted her, it doesn't matter why this ascopters null. I'm on with Jim and he says you're under contracts. Still, we'll make sure you don't have to cack anybody. For a moment, Roland focused his attention outside the little a PC. His hind brain coalated the bursts and vibrations that echoed out

around the battlefield. It compared them with his peda bites of stored combat data and the last map of Dallas he downloaded before severing his deck. In a couple of seconds, he had what his Heiden brain assured him was an accurate projection of the current fighting. It didn't look good for the defenders, and what if it's too much for you guys out there? Rowland asked, you can expect my ask to murder a bunch of strangers to get you and your fam home safe. Bigsby rolled his eyes. It's

a bunch of fucking martyrs. Maybe they caught the SD off with their pants down, but they'll loose steam soon enough. Those savages are all baseline sapien. We got chrome on our side. Roland shrugged. If you're wrong, I'm gonna take one of your nipples home with me, just a heads up. The other post human's face turned to purple. It grew purpler still when Sardar laughed at the remark. Sorry, Biggs, it's fucking funny, man, it wasn't a joke. Roland shared

them both. They hit Dallas proper ten minutes later. Their arrival was heralded by the sounds of car horns, squealing brakes, and frustrated shouts, the songs of a city at war. Flashes of memory from this same city in a different war shot through Roland's mind. They kept him occupied while Bigsby and his squad prepped their combat gear. There was something almost comforting about the sound of men and women

arming for battle. He remembered the way Mike ran through the lyrics of Iye of the Tiger before every op, and the careful way Jim had loaded his pre battle meth pipe. The crump of mortar fire and the boom of heavier artillery grew louder and louder. The sour sinse of Gamma amino butaric acid, cortisol, and epinephrin filled the cabin. Bigsby's team had good game faces, but they were nervous. Biggs the driver's voice crackled over the intercom. I'm seeing

a shipload of hostile drone activity. Sky is fucking angry right now. Might be best at dismountain hit. Roland smelled the fuel burning off in the ache of the hell Fire missile roughly a second before it hit. He knew the archaic munition didn't have the ability to penetrate a man as a PC, but he still warned his fellows, missiles are coming. What Sardar asked? And then it hit. The impact rocked the vehicle on its axles and bounced its hapless passengers into the hard metal edges of the cabin.

Roland bounced with them, although for him the pain of impact was more curiosity than actual discomfort. The driver braked hard. Roland heard and felt as the APEC collided with what sounded like the outer wall of a large concrete building. He smelled blood on Sardar and Nadine. From the sound of the blast and the resulting crash, he guessed the APC's front axle had splintered. Ryan the driver was unconscious.

He'd hit his head hard enough that the trauma nanites in his blood stream had knocked him out while they worked to stop the swelling in his brain. Out out, move it, motherfucker's, Biggsby shouted. There was a hiss as the rear inside exit hatches of the APC fired. Open light streamed into the vehicle. Bigsby was out first, his very large rifle at the ready. Dean and Asime followed behind him. The former had a Juggernaut auto shotgun, the

latter had an IM fourteen sniper rifle. There were no infantry nearby, not yet, but Rowland closed his eyes, concentrated, and after a second his hindbrain guessed that the nearest ground troops were about a quarter of a mile away, six men in Airy's pattern powered armor, followed by fifty unmodified human soldiers, a half dozen technicals, and two drone carriers. The men in the Airy suits were the only thing

that concerned him. Powered armor couldn't make an unmodified human into a true match for a god fucking monster engine like himself, but it could give a squad the firepower they needed to do some real damage. If they could hurt Rowland, they could kill Bigsby and his team. His hindbrain told him that the power armored soldiers would be in weapons range within two minutes, just enough time to roll a blunt He grabbed a blunt wrap and a bag of groundweed out of his backpack and started to roll.

As he walked out of the abandoned a PC, Sardar and Pedro had taken cover behind the vehicle and started to administer basic first aid to their wounded driver. Will was a few meters ahead on overwatch, covering them all with his heavy M ninety four belt fed grenade launcher. The others were nowhere to be seen. Roland heard them though, About fifteen meters west of the stricken transport. He felt them take up firing positions. Should I warn Biggsby about

the armored guise, Roland wondered. He shook his head and said nah out loud. Sardar stared at him. The wheed was dry and slightly yellowed with age. Roland had certainly smoked better, but he'd smoked worse often enough not to complain. He drizzled the crumbled herb into the blunt wrap and rolled it between his fingers. He licked the seam and sealed it. As he watched Sardar shoot a stem capsule

into Ryan's neck, the driver started to regain consciousness. Roland lit his blunt, took a hit, and offered it to the man. Welcome back to the land of the living, he said, with a cheerful grin pop. Sardar gave him a stern look. Is this really the time? The screech of a rocket propelled grenade filled the air outgoing fire. It must have been from a nearby SDF position engaged with the advancing martyrs. Of course there's time, said Roland. We got a solid ninety seconds until they're here. Might

as well get high. The kid rebuffed his offer. Roland would have been a little hurt if he hadn't secretly hoped they'd turn him down. It took a lot of pot to get him high. One whole blunt was about the right amount for where he wanted to be. Bigsby opened up with his heavy machine gun. A vague worry started to grow inside Roland. The armored martyrs had moved faster than anticipated. Am I going to have time to finish smoking? He was thankful that he'd at least loaded

up on pain killers before reaching the front. The machine gun was joined by the sharp crack of Nadine's sniper rifle and the rich bellow of Asime's auto shotgun. It sounded like she was firing tungsten core penetrators rather than the explosive Dragon's Breath round she'd loaded during the assault on roland Shack. That was probably smart. Are you going to do something, Sardar asked. Roland could smell his fear

wafted off him like a fine mist. He heard the heavy hum of a suit mounted rotary chain gun, and then another incoming fire. A few rounds arced and ricocheted off the body of the a PC Startar and Pedro dough for cover and pulled Ryan with them. Roland didn't move. His hindbrain had plotted the trajectories of the errand rounds as soon as they left their barrels. There'd been no danger, well, no danger to them. By the sound of it. The power armored Martyrs had pinned a Biggsby down. Roland could

smell Nadine's blood in the air. She was alive but injured. Will started to fire and pumped a steady stream of explosives out in a high arch in front of the martyrs. Roland felt as the men scattered. He also felt the footfalls of dozens of normal infantry two hundred meters behind the power armored vanguard. He heard the rich thunk of Recoilis rifles being bolted into the ground. Roland puffed on

his blunt as he considered the tactical situation. Bigsby and his team seemed to have knocked out one of the armored martyrs, but they were alone and unsupported. The STF was in full retreat, and the small squad didn't have the firepower or the chrome to hold off what was coming. Roland did, but he very much disliked the idea of murdering several dozen brainwashed idiots. These kids weren't responsible for anything beyond buying into artful propaganda and law, he promises.

He didn't see them as worse than any other gaggle of armed eighteen to twenty two year olds in the history of war. Hey, Sardar, you got a wrench, Roland asked, what, Yes, Sartar replied, can I borrow it? Um? The young mercenary raised an eyebrow in confusion. It's not a sex thing Roland has shared him. I never assumed it was, Sardar said, then can I have it? Sardar stared at him for a long beat and then said okay. He handed over

his wrench. It was nice, more than two ft long and made from fifteen point four pounds of stamped steel. This is perfect, Roland told Sardar. Perfect for what Sardar asked, wounding, Roland replied, and with that he was off. Roland could break thirty miles an hour at a dead sprint, but with all the painkillers and weed he'd just taken, and that didn't sound super fun. So he strolled along at a brisk eighteen miles per hour, darted by will and zig zagged his way past a few hundred errant rounds.

The armored Martyrs fired to suppress Bigsby squad. Two of the big recoilist rifles fired their giant explosive tipped munitions. Roland reached Nadine and Asame's position. The former was down, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. Her lover fired from cover. Roland felt as one of the explosive rounds arched towards their position. The other was headed towards Bigsby. Roland's hind rain guessed that Biggsby would survive the hit, Nadine and

Asame wouldn't. He jumped forward and grabbed them both while still airborne, and the second before missile met masonry. He threw them back out of the blast radius. He knew the landing would hurt, but both women were chromed enough to survive. After he tossed them, Roland slid to a stop on top of the pile of ruined bricks they'd hidden behind. The rocket propelled munition hit about three feet

below him. The seventy five millimeter round contained a half kilogram of hexagen, enough explosive power to tear a hole in the side of a small tank. It detonated and turned the pile of bricks into a shrapnel volcano. Roland hopped again. His hind brain made it clear that he wouldn't avoid all, nor even most of the shrapnel. Medelin brick tore through his biceps, his gut, his legs, and his pectorals. Most of the shrapnel stopped at the subdermal

carapace that protected his vital organs. A few pieces went further. They tore one kidney in half and pierced one of his hearts. But Roland had multiple redundant backups for every important organ. His medical nanites had already started to purge the foreign matter and repair the damage. When he hit the ground, the battle high rolled in, and roland synapses flooded with endorphins, serotonin, and enough morphine to kill a

middleweight elephant. The chemical elation of imminent combat filled his senses. Roland wasn't just high on war. He was tripping balls. Sweet shitting fox, I've missed this. Roland flipped a jaunty salute to Biggsby as he sprinted forward past the man. This time he let his legs pump as fast as they could and rushed towards the five advancing armored martyrs In the quarter second before contact, Roland had his first solid look at the enemy. Their suits were definitely iteration

of the basic aries design. They had the familiar insectoid helmet with its bulbous eyes and heavy nasal sensor blister. The shoulders, chests, growing thighs, and shin were all heavily reinforced. These were breaching suits meant to lead in advance and absorb an enormous amount of incoming fire. The armor was painted the dull yellow of a Texas Grassland Roland could see red and blue on the edges of the pauldron's Republic of Texas colors, but the suits had clearly been

painted over repurposed by their new owners. Two of the men had large white crosses daubed across their chests. One man had a cross painted over his face plate. The paint jobs seemed new. These suits had been captured or handed over recently. Their wearers moved like competent fighters who weren't used to the capabilities of full powered armor. Two of the martyrs had shoulder mounted missile pods with angry looking rockets inside them. Three of them mounted rotary chain

cannons between their targeting systems and reflex augmentation hardware. They could have hurt him if they'd had their ship together, but they didn't, and he hit the point man like a bag of concrete thrown by a gorilla. Roland didn't even bother to swing the wrench yet, He just let his substantial body weight turn him into a post human battering ram. The first soldier hit the ground, Roland atop

him with a whine of pistons and internal motors. He tried to bring his AsSalt cannon to bear on Roland, but the barrel was too long. Roland slammed Tardar's wrench into the man's crotch eleven times in the space of a second. The suit's growing armor was rated to stop a fifty caliber rifle round. It caved in on the third hit. Stop, he shouted inside his own mind, Stop, you're going to kill him. Roland pulled back with considerable effort.

His brain wanted more in every impact fed a few more endorphins into the hopper, but he managed to stop himself before he did a reparable harm. This hesitation made him a target, though One of the armored martyrs shot him four times and ripped deep gouges in his torso. Roland rushed the man and slapped his weapon aside. The drugs flooded into him again. As he swung his wrench up underhanded into the poor fell lose chin, bone shattered

on the first swing. Biggsby fired. Roland felt one of the other armored martyrs go down, knee caps and throats shot out. The two remaining martyrs opted to retreat, but it was a fighting retreat. They bounded backwards and launched a flurry of rockets towards Roland. Discover fire. These he had to avoid. Roland could eat small arms fire all day. Rockets were not small. He shoved the wrench into his waistband and threw himself into an elegant backflip. He may

be wanted to impress Bigsby a little. He landed fourteen feet back from his prior position, and the same continuous motion he picked up two fist sized chunks of concrete off the ground, flipped back again, and launched both improvised missiles at the retreating martyrs. The rockets impacted one after the other in spaces. Roland had been a millisecond before. Shrapnel from the detonations tore at his skin and penetrated

his less critical organs. Roland's hind brain registered at least thirty new injuries, none of them were serious enough that he felt actual pain. He backflipped again, deaf finitely show boating, and landed eight feet ahead of the last rocket and right in front of Bigsby's fighting position. Right as he landed the chunks of concrete head thrown impacted the face plates of both martyrs at around eleven ft per second.

That impact wouldn't be enough to kill men in Ari's armor, probably, but it was enough to break most of their suit sensors and shadow a lot of the bones in their faces. Roland fixed Biggsby with an evil grin as the last two power armored men staggered back, wavered on their feet and collapsed. Son of Biggsby started to curse in a low, odd voice, because I'll be taking that nipple now. Hey, everybody, Robert Evans here. I hope you just enjoyed the chapter

you listen to. I hope you enjoyed the chapters to come. If you would like to read the text version of this book either on the web or on your e reader as an e pub, you can find those on the website a t r book dot com. So again, the free ad free e pub and the text of every chapter will be on a t R book dot com. Thanks