Redoubtable by Mike Shepherd Page A

got to talk to you first,” was the best she could come up with.
    It wasn’t like these were the first irregulars she’d led into battle. She’d had some really nasty experiences with civilians who’d insisted they could stand in the line and fight.
    She’d also saved the planet of her birth with a ragtag and bobtail collection of rejects, reservists, and volunteers.
    With a sigh, Kris surveyed this bunch. Other than eagerness, they had little to recommend them.
    “Corporal,” she ordered under her breath, “take your fire team and spread them out in front of this bunch.”
    “Yes, Commander.” The orders were given and obeyed. “Now what, ma’am?”
    “I’m not sure,” Kris admitted, “but if something goes wrong among our so-called volunteers, I’m sure your Marines will know it before you and I do.”
    “Yes, Commander,” the corporal said, and whispered further instructions into her mike. Her troopers stayed casual . . . but kept their eyes on the volunteers.
    Kris then ordered the sniper to roam around, facing out. “Try to keep us from being disturbed.”
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kris began. “First, I would like to welcome you to the first annual, and hopefully last annual spring battle royal of Kaskatos. If you’re lucky and pay attention, you might live through today.” As Kris talked, she walked up the line of armed men and women, eyeing each one carefully.
    Most of them treated their weapons like toys they’d gotten for Christmas and didn’t know what to do with. Rifles were pointed up, down, or held at the end of arms that just dangled. Pistols and machine pistols dangled the same way.
    “You are my reserve,” Kris went on. “In War College, they teach that victory usually goes to the side that is still holding on to a reserve force when the crisis of the battle arrives.”
    “And you’re gonna know when that crisis shows up,” a guy said.
    Kris didn’t like his attitude. She liked even less that he was bringing up his arm with his machine pistol at the ready. It was fully cocked, and the safety was off.
    Unfortunately for him, Kris had been waiting for something like that. She had her own automatic out and three sleepy darts sprouting from his chest before this optimistic assassin could get his own weapon up.
    He fell backward against a truck; his weapon clattered onto the pavement.
    Suddenly, the Marines were guns up.
    “Guns down, volunteers,” Kris shouted. “Lower your weapons, or I’ll drill every one of you with a sleepy dart.”
    “Why sleepy dart the traitor?” said someone with a machete, and used it to take the head off the guy Kris had darted. People jumped back, many looking quite shocked at the amount of blood that could spew from a human neck once the head was no longer attached.
    “Everybody just stand where you are,” Kris ordered. “I wanted to talk to that puke.”
    “Sorry,” the machete wielder said, and almost made it sound like he meant it.
    “Corporal, have two of your Marines go down this line and see if anyone else has a weapon cocked and ready to start shooting.”
    The Marines did. Kris spotted at least one fellow whose rifle was all too ready; she got her automatic ready for him to go violent like the last one.
    No, this one was just very dumb . . . or ready to act that way to avoid the fate of the other. Once everyone was verified safe, Kris explained herself.
    “I shot that guy with a sleepy dart because I didn’t want to start shooting just then, and I don’t want to start shooting now. The soft pop a dart makes is not going to alarm anyone, and that is the way we want Jackie and her thugs—not alarmed. If he’d sprayed us with his pistol, he might or might not have survived. But Jackie Jackson would definitely know we are at her doorstep. Do you understand me?”
    The blank stares looked a bit more informed. While they milled about, Kris did a radio check.
    “Colonel, you down?”
    “I’m at point X-ray with third platoon,