Terms of Enlistment 01.2: Measures of Absolution by Marko Kloos Page A
Authors: Marko Kloos
Tags: Science-Fiction
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hit within ten centimeters of each other, right in the triangle formed by her eyes and the chin. There's a familiar-looking ball chain around her neck. Corporal Jackson reaches into the collar of the dusty sweatshirt he's wearing and pulls out the chain. She finds two military dog tags at the end of it.
Up ahead in the darkness, there's movement again. Her low-light augmentation shows another group of armed rioters, a hundred meters away, dashing from cover to cover and closing in on the intersection. Jackson seizes the dog tags and yanks the chain off the dead woman’s neck. Then she stuffs the tags into one of her empty magazine pouches. She aims her rifle at the approaching rioters and fires a quick series of single shots that send them ducking for cover. Then she gets up and dashes back to where her squad--what's left of it--is hunkered down.
"More incoming," she shouts to the others. "Where's that goddamn drop ship?"
"We'll never make the civic center," Priest says.
"Sit tight. Make every shot count," Jackson replies. "We defend the wounded until we can't."
"Copy that," Priest replies grimly.
The incoming fire picks up again, a discordant cacophony of reports from dozens of different weapons. Priest and Baker move in front of the wounded, and Jackson joins them to form a final defensive line.
Jackson aims at muzzle flashes, sends out flechettes in bursts of three and five. More rioters fall, but others pick up their weapons and take up the fight. She empties her magazine and ejects it from her rifle. When she searches for a new one, the only ammunition she has left is the partial magazine she took from the dead woman with the military dog tags. She loads the magazine into her weapon and chambers a fresh round. Her visor display updates her ammo count: 121.
"I have half a mag left," she shouts to the others.
"I'm just about dry," Baker replies. Priest is too busy shooting people to reply, but from the way he picks his targets off with careful single shots, she can tell that he doesn't have much left either.
She eyes the oncoming crowd and glances at the combat knife she wears on her harness.
They're not wearing armor, she thinks. I bet I can get a dozen before they take me down.
Someone up the street opens up with an automatic weapon. The fusillade kicks up dust and concrete chips next to Jackson. Baker cries out in pain and anger.
"I'm hit," he shouts.
They're everywhere now, shooting from alleys, rooftops, windows. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them, all armed and out for blood. Jackson dishes out what's left in her rifle, but they're not dropping fast enough, and there seem to be two more joining the fight for every one she kills. She has never seen such determination and tenacity from the welfare rats.
She shoots down another rioter, then another. Her rifle’s bolt locks back on an empty feedway again. Now there’s only Priest’s rifle returning fire. As if they can smell the weakness of their adversaries, the rioters increase their fire, emboldened.
That’s it, then , Jackson thinks.
She tosses the empty rifle aside and pulls her combat knife from its sheath.
The first indication of their salvation is a burst of autocannon fire high above their heads, the long and ripping thunder of a multi-barreled drop ship turret. The high explosive shells pepper the street in front of the squad, where the attackers have advanced almost to rock-throwing distance. Jackson sees bodies disintegrate under the hammer blows of the cannon shells. Overhead, the drop ship descends out of the dirty night sky and settles in a hover right above the intersection.
The rioters are smart enough to see that they’ve lost. They retreat like a wave pulling away from the shore at ebb. Some brave souls shoot at the drop ship, but they don’t have any heavy machine guns nearby now, and the small arms fire pings off the hull like rain off a tin roof. The drop ship’s gunner responds in kind. In just a few moments, all the rioters
Up ahead in the darkness, there's movement again. Her low-light augmentation shows another group of armed rioters, a hundred meters away, dashing from cover to cover and closing in on the intersection. Jackson seizes the dog tags and yanks the chain off the dead woman’s neck. Then she stuffs the tags into one of her empty magazine pouches. She aims her rifle at the approaching rioters and fires a quick series of single shots that send them ducking for cover. Then she gets up and dashes back to where her squad--what's left of it--is hunkered down.
"More incoming," she shouts to the others. "Where's that goddamn drop ship?"
"We'll never make the civic center," Priest says.
"Sit tight. Make every shot count," Jackson replies. "We defend the wounded until we can't."
"Copy that," Priest replies grimly.
The incoming fire picks up again, a discordant cacophony of reports from dozens of different weapons. Priest and Baker move in front of the wounded, and Jackson joins them to form a final defensive line.
Jackson aims at muzzle flashes, sends out flechettes in bursts of three and five. More rioters fall, but others pick up their weapons and take up the fight. She empties her magazine and ejects it from her rifle. When she searches for a new one, the only ammunition she has left is the partial magazine she took from the dead woman with the military dog tags. She loads the magazine into her weapon and chambers a fresh round. Her visor display updates her ammo count: 121.
"I have half a mag left," she shouts to the others.
"I'm just about dry," Baker replies. Priest is too busy shooting people to reply, but from the way he picks his targets off with careful single shots, she can tell that he doesn't have much left either.
She eyes the oncoming crowd and glances at the combat knife she wears on her harness.
They're not wearing armor, she thinks. I bet I can get a dozen before they take me down.
Someone up the street opens up with an automatic weapon. The fusillade kicks up dust and concrete chips next to Jackson. Baker cries out in pain and anger.
"I'm hit," he shouts.
They're everywhere now, shooting from alleys, rooftops, windows. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them, all armed and out for blood. Jackson dishes out what's left in her rifle, but they're not dropping fast enough, and there seem to be two more joining the fight for every one she kills. She has never seen such determination and tenacity from the welfare rats.
She shoots down another rioter, then another. Her rifle’s bolt locks back on an empty feedway again. Now there’s only Priest’s rifle returning fire. As if they can smell the weakness of their adversaries, the rioters increase their fire, emboldened.
That’s it, then , Jackson thinks.
She tosses the empty rifle aside and pulls her combat knife from its sheath.
The first indication of their salvation is a burst of autocannon fire high above their heads, the long and ripping thunder of a multi-barreled drop ship turret. The high explosive shells pepper the street in front of the squad, where the attackers have advanced almost to rock-throwing distance. Jackson sees bodies disintegrate under the hammer blows of the cannon shells. Overhead, the drop ship descends out of the dirty night sky and settles in a hover right above the intersection.
The rioters are smart enough to see that they’ve lost. They retreat like a wave pulling away from the shore at ebb. Some brave souls shoot at the drop ship, but they don’t have any heavy machine guns nearby now, and the small arms fire pings off the hull like rain off a tin roof. The drop ship’s gunner responds in kind. In just a few moments, all the rioters
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