buildings came tumbling down in landslides, dividing the streets into
thirds with great heaps of rubble, closing the enemy into neatly divided
slaughter boxes. The panicked shouts and roars rang across the district and
the enemy ranks broke up, stumbling around in darkness and disarray.
“FULL ASSAULT! GO LOUD!”
The windows along the corridor broke and burst outward in a shower of glass
shrapnel and full broadsides of gunfire rained down from above onto the
streets. The corridor shuddered with the force of 10,000 discharging rounds a
minute; empty bullet cases and magazines clattering on the floor. Bodies
collapsed into folded piles of ruin. Shots were returned. The walls
splintered. The gun butt beat against his shoulder, crosshairs centring on
anything that moved.
The tank guns startled to rotation and as they made to take aim straight lines
of light shot from high to low and burst in flashes of white and ripping holes
into their hulls. The enemy started to break apart and retreat into the
alleys.
“Stairwells!”
“To the streets!”
“Move, move, move!”
Heavy breaths, curses of triumph and
thrilled cackles punctuated the last shots before the squads broke into two and
rushed down the stairwells. They emerged onto the main street just in time to
see the enemy in flight, and tumbling down hills of debris as the volleys of
gunshots cut them down. The assault squads rushed in from the adjoining roads,
hurdling and bounding over the knolls of broken buildings.
The bloodbath filled until the brink of dawn.
Just as the sky became two blending masses of steel blue and rose-red, the last
bodies fell in the streets of District 5. In the rest of Nova Crimea, the sounds
of battle were fading. North Street (“Poretsky Decent” according to the broken
signs over block corners) was transformed into the Styx, a meandering red river
of dilapidation and mutilation. Most of the buildings still stood. The ground
was uprooted and the fog of dust left in the wake of the blitz settled.
Saul stood, gazing out over the scene from beneath the arch of a broken wall. The
clouds rolled in and a light snow coated the corpses white. Soon, the corpses
would be dragged away, loaded into piles and shipped back to the martial world
for strip-down.
In the calm after the storm, scenes from the previous hours repeated in his
mind, and he kept coming back to the martial woman with the sapphire eyes. Her
blood still caked his hands and face. He could still smell her breath as the
blade tore in and feel the snap of her neck through the shaft of the blade.
Now that the heat of battle had dissipated, the thoughts flooded in: the image of the blood shooting out, and the writhing
eyes. He was certain that he had killed many times before. The blood of the
dead coursed through his veins like anemia. So, why did this woman
linger? What fresh hell was it he saw as the life left her eyes? “Proximity
heightens the empathy” the neuralists always said. But, what he felt at that moment
was no amplified sensation of the same small grumble in his soul which
naturally follows the kill -- at least without the neurals. And he remembered,
at that moment, Malachi’s warning, something about nightmares spilling over…
The cigarette reached its last draw and he flicked the
butt away. A single file of East Grid soldiers were marched out of the wrecked
ingress of a nearby building, fingers laced behind their heads, gun muzzles
prodding them onward like cattle for the slaughter with the other POWs being
herded in streets. A faint stir in the air caused his head to jerk around. He
took up his gun and descended, following the noise to the door of a small
apartment block.
The locks were shot and the doors hung on a single hinge.
He nudged the door gently with the muzzle and, three inches into its swing, the
door
thirds with great heaps of rubble, closing the enemy into neatly divided
slaughter boxes. The panicked shouts and roars rang across the district and
the enemy ranks broke up, stumbling around in darkness and disarray.
“FULL ASSAULT! GO LOUD!”
The windows along the corridor broke and burst outward in a shower of glass
shrapnel and full broadsides of gunfire rained down from above onto the
streets. The corridor shuddered with the force of 10,000 discharging rounds a
minute; empty bullet cases and magazines clattering on the floor. Bodies
collapsed into folded piles of ruin. Shots were returned. The walls
splintered. The gun butt beat against his shoulder, crosshairs centring on
anything that moved.
The tank guns startled to rotation and as they made to take aim straight lines
of light shot from high to low and burst in flashes of white and ripping holes
into their hulls. The enemy started to break apart and retreat into the
alleys.
“Stairwells!”
“To the streets!”
“Move, move, move!”
Heavy breaths, curses of triumph and
thrilled cackles punctuated the last shots before the squads broke into two and
rushed down the stairwells. They emerged onto the main street just in time to
see the enemy in flight, and tumbling down hills of debris as the volleys of
gunshots cut them down. The assault squads rushed in from the adjoining roads,
hurdling and bounding over the knolls of broken buildings.
The bloodbath filled until the brink of dawn.
Just as the sky became two blending masses of steel blue and rose-red, the last
bodies fell in the streets of District 5. In the rest of Nova Crimea, the sounds
of battle were fading. North Street (“Poretsky Decent” according to the broken
signs over block corners) was transformed into the Styx, a meandering red river
of dilapidation and mutilation. Most of the buildings still stood. The ground
was uprooted and the fog of dust left in the wake of the blitz settled.
Saul stood, gazing out over the scene from beneath the arch of a broken wall. The
clouds rolled in and a light snow coated the corpses white. Soon, the corpses
would be dragged away, loaded into piles and shipped back to the martial world
for strip-down.
In the calm after the storm, scenes from the previous hours repeated in his
mind, and he kept coming back to the martial woman with the sapphire eyes. Her
blood still caked his hands and face. He could still smell her breath as the
blade tore in and feel the snap of her neck through the shaft of the blade.
Now that the heat of battle had dissipated, the thoughts flooded in: the image of the blood shooting out, and the writhing
eyes. He was certain that he had killed many times before. The blood of the
dead coursed through his veins like anemia. So, why did this woman
linger? What fresh hell was it he saw as the life left her eyes? “Proximity
heightens the empathy” the neuralists always said. But, what he felt at that moment
was no amplified sensation of the same small grumble in his soul which
naturally follows the kill -- at least without the neurals. And he remembered,
at that moment, Malachi’s warning, something about nightmares spilling over…
The cigarette reached its last draw and he flicked the
butt away. A single file of East Grid soldiers were marched out of the wrecked
ingress of a nearby building, fingers laced behind their heads, gun muzzles
prodding them onward like cattle for the slaughter with the other POWs being
herded in streets. A faint stir in the air caused his head to jerk around. He
took up his gun and descended, following the noise to the door of a small
apartment block.
The locks were shot and the doors hung on a single hinge.
He nudged the door gently with the muzzle and, three inches into its swing, the
door
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