NOVEL NEXT Chapter 73: General Strike II
"Enemy!" Betelgeuse roared, raising his carbine and snapping off several shots before anyone else could react.
The figures swerved outwards to opposite directions, each of them disappearing behind the tall concrete columns that fronted the porches of the flanking apartment complexes.
"Captain!" Betelgeuse swerved around, gunmuzzle smoking thin and odorous wisps that pricked his nostrils, "I've seen them in battle—they don't seem to be affected by the compulsion at all!"
"Kak—Nullifier-Brace! We gotta find better cover or they'll pick us off!" Cacliocos returned. "Misha, Thatcher, covering-fire movement!"
Misha grunted an acknowledgement and snapped off several shots behind her. Voke followed suit. The PLPs followed hot on the heels of Cacliocos and the rest of his section, and the group proceeded down the brightening street, their rear brought up by Misha and Voke, who alternated carbine-fire down the street.
The group rounded the bend to Marlowe Street and Betelgeuse realized they were coming up on the Underground Granary when a tortured scream broke out behind him. He wheeled to see one of the Jegorichians—the male Private he did not know the name of—collapsing to his knees, a spurt of crimson arcing a steep trajectory from his carotid.
And one of the figures was there, brandishing a gleaming knife which was just about the only thing Betelgeuse could discern within the shimmering moat which its cloak made.
He raised his carbine and fired out of reflex, the bullets flying wide. The figure jumped backward and then disappeared into a small alleyway, dematerializing from their sight.
"Garcon!" Cacliocos screamed, sprinting forward to the fallen Private's side, Garcon's body twitching in expiration and already turning sallow under the light of the breaking morning. Misha and Voke ran up to Cacliocos' side from further down the street, their faces contorted variously into expressions of dread and consternation.
"Garcon—shit, we need to get him to Lent, double-time!" Cacliocos was saying, kneeling almost to prostration and scrabbling through his medical pouch for something—anything—that might alleviate what had already happened.
Smit stretched out his long arm and palmed Cacliocos' shoulder, saying in a voice thick with phlegm: "Sir… I think he's already—"
"Captain," Betelgeuse interrupted Smit, his voice edged with urgency, "we can't stay out here. Garcon is dead."
Cacliocos mumbled a response that Betelgeuse could not hear.
Clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, Betelgeuse sent tendrils of intentionality out into the still frontage to see if he could not feel for the presence of those two slippery figures.
Even if I'm unlikely to be able to compel them, I should still be able to feel their presence—or rather, the presence of their Incunabula.
The lattice-suns were turning a bright orange, and the contours of bunched shadows started to materialize below the apartment complexes. Sounds of moving vehicles drifted over from the main street, although it was not at the scale that one would otherwise expect of the morning rush. A tinted window at the third floor of the closest apartment to his left caught the light at just the right angle, and Betelgeuse observed the ghostly silhouette of a woman staring wide-eyed out of its dark background.
"Listen to Ballster! We have to fuckin' leave!" Betelgeuse heard Douglas snap.
He couldn't sense any movement in the vicinity. It was too quiet. The silent buildings loomed threateningly, but nothing salient caught his eye.
No, there was a thing behind him, tough like a rock and impenetrable to his intangible feelers.
There!
His heart jumped and he whirled around. He caught a muzzle's tetra-flash flare behind a column—
The familiar sound of gunfire. The rap of bullets ricocheting off the concrete ground, raising small clouds of dust that hung suspended in the air without dissipating.
Pain, blossoming through his thigh.
"I'm hit!" yelled Betelgeuse, forcing himself to stand through the stabbing weakness that had overcome his leg, gunning his trigger and spraying lead in the direction of the enemy.
Voke sprang into action, bolting up beside Betelgeuse with his coagulator in hand, going over the leaking hole in Betelgeuse' thigh with a practiced hand. Douglas hefted his carbine one-handed and started shooting wildly.
"Misha!" Douglas yelled, "grenades!"
Private Misha Kern was already moving, plucking a grenade from her vest pouch and lobbing it behind the concrete column from which the enemy had fired.
"Leave him, Captain! You're killing us," Smit yelled, digging his fingers into Cacliocos' clavicle. The grenade exploded, sending up a flare of light that disappeared quickly into white smoke. Bits of concrete dust tinkled against their helmet.
He and the other female Private pulled Cacliocos off of Garcon's still-quivering form, and they were trying to make their way toward the opposite apartment building when the other of the two figures materialized on the overlooking rooftop parapet and sent several bullets in their direction.
Someone shrieked.
"Rana!" Betelgeuse heard Smit cry out, and the long-armed man turned and tumbled over Cacliocos' limp form, Private Rana having fallen to the floor clutching her leg.
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'What the fuck's the Captain doing! Is this some kind of PTSD shit?' Betelgeuse thought. Swivelling around, he aimed his muzzle at the wavy outlines of the figure perched atop the roof, squinted, then snapped off a burst of lead. Small tufts of concrete dust were raised where his bullets impacted the wall, and the contours of the figure melted back into cover.
His carbine clicked empty.
"Voke," Betelgeuse called, looking down to find Voke still wrapping up his wound and slapping him upside the helmet. "Get them in order," he instructed, pointing toward the struggling forms of Smit, Cacliocos and Rana and then indicating an open, white-lighted garage space squeezed between two apartment buildings, its lintel emblazoned with the word 'TRASH'. The space appeared tall as two Desertian men, and the sides of green polyethylene trash containers could be seen within.
"Cover there," Betelgeuse said, and Voke grunted an acknowledgement before sprinting away in the direction of Cacliocos.
"Douglas! Covering fire, my nine o'clock, concrete column!" Douglas didn't bother responding. He raised his weapon and fired a burst of bullets, the bullets pinging off the concrete column and balustrade and shattering several glass windows located just behind. Screams drifted over from somewhere.
"Misha, covering fire, four o'clock rooftop," Betelgeuse commanded, and the woman nodded her acknowledgement.
Betelgeuse fumbled through his vest to pluck out a fresh magazine, and, with one smooth motion, ejected the spent magazine and clicked the fresh one into the housing.
We can comms for support once we're in cover. If they're targeting us specifically, they'll be drawn out of their hiding spots and we'll have a easier fight.
Betelgeuse moved down toward the garbage dump, wincing at the pain in his leg, and indicated for Douglas and Misha to tail him whilst continuing to lay down covering fire. He could see, several meters in front of him, Cacliocos finally sensible and helping Smit lug a limping Rana onward, Voke simultaneously attempting to seal up her leaking wound.
'She got hit in the leg too,' he thought.
They proceeded like this and managed to get about halfway to the garbage dump when Misha's carbine clicked empty.
"Reloading," she called, when a keen sense caused Betelgeuse to raise his head; he observed one of the figures hurtling through the air, its body fizzling in and out of reality. It had leapt from the roof-parapet of the overlooking apartment building, its arms spread wide, each of its hands holding onto glimmering blades.
Betelgeuse raised his carbine and fired. Several rounds slammed into the figure's chest, twisting its body mid-fall and sending it crashing to the ground sideways.
Everything seemed to move at once.
The figure raised itself to its feet, unfazed. Betelgeuse gunned his trigger, the bulk of his shots flying wide and smashing through some windows in the background. Douglas looked over his shoulder and yelled. Misha was still fumbling with her vest, trying to extract a fresh magazine but failing terribly at it.
The figure pounced. Betelgeuse ducked, and it went careening over his head to crash into Douglas, the two of them tumbling to the ground in a flailing mass. Betelgeuse caught the edge of the figure's cloak and pulled, tearing the piece of static cloth clean off.
The figure extricated itself from Douglas and bounded backward to take on a combat stance.
Betelgeuse could see now that the figure was very muscular. It was obviously a man. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his suit made of a form-fitting material that impressed upon Betelgeuse the sheer power of his body. His sleek helmet reflected bright swells, and his face was indiscernible under the opaque visor.
Douglas tried to regain his feet but he stumbled and flopped onto the ground. Betelgeuse could see that he was bleeding profusely from a stab-wound to his right forearm. It looked like the blade had hit an artery—Douglas would die if he did not get medical attention fast.
"Misha! Get Douglas!" he roared, lunging forward at the suited figure whilst simultaneously firing his weapon. He could only hope that Voke, Cacliocos and Smit would handle the other combatant.
The black-suited figure met his charge head-on, the bullets smashing into his chest but failing to slow him down. As Betelgeuse closed on his opponent, he lashed out with the butt of his carbine, but his blow was soundly blocked by an armored forearm.
And the figure stepped forward with superhuman speed, smashing his elbow into Betelgeuse vest and sending him falling backward; Betelgeuse saw his opponent follow through, blade upraised and seeking his right eye.
Betelgeuse twisted to the side, taking the impact with the ground with his shoulder. An instant later, the blade smashed into the pavement just beside his face, and Betelgeuse lashed out with his foot, smashing it into the figure's side and sending him stumbling two steps backward.
His opponent had lost his grip on one of the knives. The other was still clutched tightly within his left hand.
With a flare of his intentionality, Betelgeuse attempted to utilize the compulsion on his opponent, if only to provide a momentary distraction. His opponent shrugged the attempt off like it was nothing, and Betelgeuse was unable to get any traction.
Whatever the Nullifier-Brace is, it appears to completely block out any attempt at compulsion…
With a swift hand-motion, Betelgeuse unsheathed his serrated combat knife and held it out before him.
The world shrunk. Only he and his opponent existed. Only the battle mattered. Nothing else.
The battle was joined again, this time more tentatively. The figure made the first move, swiping with his blade before retreating.
Swipe, retreat. Swipe, retreat.
Betelgeuse had just gotten into the habit of blocking the figure's regular swings, when it feinted and added a burst of speed behind its next lunge, taking Betelgeuse by surprise.
Betelgeuse barely managed a block, stepping forward with his right, injured leg; the figure had put its considerable weight behind the blow so that Betelgeuse' injured thigh spasmed, causing his knee to buckle.
They tumbled to the ground again, this time with the blade sticking out of Betelgeuse' shoulder; the world around them tumbled end over end in a chaotic confusion, pain mixing with bitter tastes and acrid odors.
Now the figure had gotten the upper hand, straddling atop Betelgeuse' body and smashing down its helmet into his face. Betelgeuse tasted iron as his nose streamed sanguineous fluids. His vision blurred into doubles.
Yelling incoherently, Betelgeuse swung his combat knife with all his might, feeling the edge of his weapon bite into something tough and then stick. The figure didn't even balk, instead bringing his own blade up in what would be the final strike.
Betelgeuse' eyes widened.
Death… becomes me.
Flesh tearing; the death-blow, halted; the figure above him, mute and juddering violently.
The tip of a combat knife pierced up out of his chest, showering Betelgeuse in blood and ichor that mixed in with his own fluids.
The body was raised into the air, then tossed unceremoniously aside to reveal Staff Sergeant Entuban Kanos, his massive form towering over Betelgeuse, his chest rising and falling vigorously.