So whoever entered the open area was going to be taking fire from five DAG troops and two concealed automated grav-guns. And the only way to take out the DAG troops was to slide a round through a small opening with pin-point accuracy.
Which meant they were going to get shredded.
The port automatically closed when a suicide bar came flying into the open area and Davis leaned the barrel of his rifle against it. The system would drop the port as soon as the overpressure dropped. Since even ACS could take some serious damage from suicide-bars, they’d have to come in hard on its heels to get there before the DAG shooters could engage.
The port dropped and Davis instinctively began searching for targets even as the last of the propellant from the grenade washed past him through the port. But what he saw froze him for just a split second.
The entry-person was not running into the area. The entry person was not sliding into the area. The entry person was flying through the open-area in more or less a flat spin.
It took Davis just fraction of a moment to identify that the thing flying through the air, with rounds spitting out of its grav-gun, was, in fact, a small suit of ACS. One that, before he could react, took out the automatic guns and three of the defending DAG. Then hit the wall with both feet and flipped back across the open area.
Davis had just started to take up trigger squeeze when the little shit put five rounds of depleted uranium through a hole not much larger than a fist.
It just didn’t seem fair.
“Clear,” Mike said, flipping to his feet. He’d somehow ended up upside down right there at the end.
Rounds cracked through the open area from a further firing point and he pumped a couple of grenades downrange to keep their heads down.
“Okay,” he said, crossing to the far side of the open area where there was a bit more cover. “Correction. More or less clear.”
“Glad to hear it, General,” Corporal Doyle said, thudding into the wall and craning his grav-gun around the corner. “These lads are a bit feisty.”
“And well dug in, again,” Mike said, flipping a sensor ball down the corridor. “More or less straight shot.”
“Which means no more finesse, sir,” Sergeant Harkless said.
“Suppose so,” Mike said, getting to his feet.
“Oh, no, sir,” Harkless said, putting his hand on the general’s shoulder. “You’ve had your fun.”
“You can’t exactly order me, Harkless,” Mike said.
“No, but I can sit on you, sir,” the sergeant said.
“Grenades,” Doyle said, falling on the general’s suit.
The suicide bars fell all over the compartment but none of them actually managed to hit a suit.
“These guys are starting to piss me off,” Harkless said. “Second Squad. Clear that corridor.”
“Here they come,” Maise said, opening up at full auto.
Both groups were using virtually identical weapons. The M-292 grav rifle could spit three thousand three gram depleted uranium pellets downrange per minute. Designed to not only kill the Posleen they hit but a couple of its buddies as well, the pellets had the kinetic energy of a small meteor.
The ACS armor was proof against one pellet. Even five pellets. The bunkers the last of the DAG were in were proof against about the same fire power. They could shrug off suicide bars a bit better than ACS.
The corridor was narrow and there was only one way to clear it: Brute force.
Or, when it came down to reality: Mutual annihilation.
Maise let out one long scream as thousands of grav-rounds caused the armored bunker to ring like a tocsin. If anyone else was screaming he couldn’t tell but he could see lines of silver fire stretching out to rip the armored suits apart. More, though, was coming in the opposite direction and the corridor quickly filled to choking with gaseous uranium as one by one the final defense points fell.
“No surrender,” Maise said as the bunker came apart under the concentrated fire of five grav-guns.
“That was… unpleasant,” Mike said, looking at the scorched corridor. They’d lost two troopers but they had the, hopefully, final defenses. “But I will reiterate. I wish these guys were on our side.”
“Be careful with the door,” Harkless said. “Lord only knows what sort of booby traps these guys lay.”
“Something… unpleasant I suspect,” Mike said. “Onward, Lieutenant.”
“Second Squad,” Lieutenant Cuelho said. “Move out.”
The actual door, per se, at the end of the corridor was slag. But a few kicks from one of the suits got it knocked off its hinges at least. On the far side was another small open area, apparently unguarded. However, there was a large Galplas box blocking the far door. It was gray, unmarked and had no apparent way to open it. On top was a large purple bow.
“What do we have here?” Doyle asked, stepping around the box. It… boded. And there was no way to get the door open without moving the box out of the way.
“Nothing good,” Mike said, slipping through the gathered platoon. “Shelly?”
“It’s got an AI broadcasting from it,” Shelly said. “One of those buckley things but with an emulation of… Oops.”
“What is ‘oops’?” Mike said.
“I don’t think I should have talked to it,” Shelly said as a hologram appeared on top of the box.
“Greetings, Gentlemen.”
The hologram was of a thin, faintly Native American female wearing a mini-skirt, go-go boots, a wildly tie-dyed halter top and a bandana around her head.
“It is my pleasure to welcome you to the final challenge,” she continued, smiling merrily. “You have until the music stops to reach minimum safe distance. Good luck.”
“Antimatter!” Shelly shouted as rock guitar started to play and the hologram started dancing on top of the box. “Antimatter source revealed! Twenty grams of antimatter!”
“We have three minutes and either ten or eleven seconds to get to minimum safe distance,” Mike said, spinning in place. “Which is very far away. Move!”
“Sir,” Cuelho said. “Move out by squad!”
As the ACS troops started pounding past him, Mike slapped them on the shoulder to hurry them, and Cuelho contacted him on the command freq.
“Sir?” the LT said as the last trooper passed and he dropped into place. “Three minutes and either ten or eleven?”
“Depends on whether it’s Disraeli Gears, Best of Cream or Cream of Clapton,” Mike said, running after him. Keeping the suits down while runing was the tough part of running indoors. They had so much power they tended to want to jump.
“Sure it’s not London Philharmonic?” Harkless asked. “That would give us… more time.”
“Not echoey enough,” Mike said. “Eight minutes and forty-two seconds. Includes a one minute and fifty second and a separate three minute instrumental portion.”
“Sir?” Cuelho said, now thoroughly confused.
“Cream, sir,” Harkless said, starting to faintly pant. “Eric Clapton, lead guitarist. The song is ‘Sunshine of Your Love.’ ”
“My Dad’s favorite song,” Mike said. “I’ve got most of the versions available.”
“I’m not feeling very well loved,” Cuelho admitted. They’d gotten to the elevator and fortunately it was open. The troops were piling in. Unfortunately…