He lets his rifle hang off his shoulder as he turns to face Obie with a murderous glare. The young soldier looks at him and when Rennin sees his eyes, something in him freezes. This kid is eighteen years old at maximum, but could even be younger if he underwent accelerated hormonal therapy to advance his physical age. It’s not unheard of in this era when a young man wants to escape his childhood as fast as possible. Either way, there is no hiding the fact that Rennin is looking into the eyes of little more than a child.
He can’t do it. He turns back to the streets.
For some inexplicable reason he begins thinking of the Beatles.
As a child they were his favourite band because they made everything survivable. Even nowadays, during his most disgraceful alcoholic binges he’d have police over in the wee hours of the morning, ordering him to turn down their blaring catalogue. Perhaps he’s starting to make peace with his lot here in his own bizarre way. Maybe he’s not meant to get out at all.
A fierce frown creases his face. The last thing he gave to the person he loves most in the world is a punch to the face, and he’ll be damned if that’s the last thing she remembers of him.
He’s getting out and that’s all there is to it, but he’s not going to kill his own men to do it. Being stuck with this unit is just a little delay.
“You better believe it,” he whispers under his breath. I want to hold your hand.
He’s still in the middle of reproaching himself when Sabre’s voice comes over their headsets. “Longinus, you and Obie can board Dead Star. Fader’s team has secured a sniper zone. Jawa will provide support in case of any surprises.”
Rennin slaps his spotter’s pauldron.
“Ready, kid?” Obie nods and Rennin leads him into Dead Star, where they take their seats with Jawa. “Where are you from?”
“Middle-city, Hotham Glen,” Obie answers sheepishly.
“Rich area. How about you, Jaws?”
“Rather ‘Jaws’ than fucking ‘Jawa.’ Samoa is my home.”
“I’m from a distant crater too, but I meant locally,” says Rennin.
“I’m from Whitechapel,” says the giant.
“Well at least you live in the fortified zone.”
“Yeah. Great. All property in the area is seized for government use and the refugees.”
Rennin finds himself laughing. “Hell of a thing having refugees from your own city in your own city.”
“If anything’s missing, someone’s going to die,” says Jawa tapping his gun.
“Yeah I feel that way about my porn collection too.”
That gets a ripple of laughter, even from Sabre. Obie looks over at Rennin. “Did you really fight a progenitor-class barehanded?”
Rennin bursts out laughing. “Yep… and I masturbate with clamps and a cheese grater.”
That gets a huffing chuckle out of Jawa. “That’s how hard you are, Longinus?”
“What makes me hard is shitting spare gunship parts,” he says, realising he doesn’t hate soldiers as much as he thought. It’s not their fault they’re being used. In letting that sink in he feels the anger towards all things military recede a little, and with it fades some the resentment he feels towards himself.
Again he thinks of Carla and his resolve stiffens. Normally he’d cackle at the not-so-cunning euphemism but in this rare instance he’s being quite literal.
She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah.
Dead Star lowers onto the roof of their target building. Rennin, Jawa and Obie hurry out over to an appropriate corner, that overlooks the main road leading to the stadium that looms in the distance like a shadowy crown. Rennin rests his rifle on the ledge and trains his scope around. No contact. He looks to the stadium to the right of him.
Nothing.
He focuses in front of him, to an intersection providing little cover. Any stray contaminants won’t stand much chance. A nasal voice comes over their audio channel. “Fader here, we’re currently across the street from your position, Longinus, don’t open fire.”
“You think the guy sniping is too blind to tell what’s what?” asks Rennin.
“Cut it out, Longinus,” says Sabre.
“Do you have to call me that? One wrong slip and it might become Long Anus. My nipples are so hard,” says Rennin getting a barely contained laughing fit from Jawa.
“Keep silent and keep your answers professional.”
“Silent and professional?” asks Rennin noticing Jawa has a hand clamped over his own mouth.
“Longinus—”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m just trying to keep some humour up, you said we’ll be shooting people we might know. Isn’t it worth it to have a laugh while we can, sir?”
There’s a pause. “Acknowledged. But that’s enough.”
A click is heard and they’re back to talking amongst themselves.
“So who wants to steal the gunship?” Rennin asks, training his scope on it.
“Yeah I wouldn’t mind, but we’d be taken out by the Skyhook,” says Jawa.
Rennin forgot about that. Lucky. Rennin trains his scope across the buildings looking at the various readings that flash in the scope to the left of his sight. “The scanner in my sniper scope is picking up a lot of something called Substance 6, what is that?”
“I don’t know,” says Jawa.
“Me neither,” says Obie.
Rennin shrugs. “It’s finding almost as much of it as the bio-signs of people. According to the scope, the data scans are being sent to Iyatoya. That I find odd.”
“Why?” asks Jawa.
“Isn’t the city supposed to be completely contained?”
“Contact!” calls Obie drawing Rennin’s concentration back to the job. “East of the intersection.”
Rennin zooms in to the fearful expression of the contaminant. He can just make out the black veins on its neck. The thing starts calling for help. Rennin’s eyes turn to ice.
“Screamer.” A single shot rings out, making Obie jump. The contaminant’s head flies apart. Rennin curses loudly and pulls the rifle back. “Forgot the goddamned silencer,” he whispers harshly while screwing it on.
You’re a bit rusty, old thing.
“Longinus, what the hell was that?” comes Sabre’s voice.
“Yeah I know, I just broadcasted my position across the Solarnet. I’ll tell the flocking masses you say hi.”
Rennin, Obie and Jawa remain still as stone, all clenching their teeth waiting for something to happen, but the streets remain quiet.
“Don’t silencers reduce accuracy?” asks Jawa.
Rennin looks at him with a cross between pity and disbelief, “From this distance? Two hundred years ago, maybe.”
“Maybe no one’s about,” ventures Obie.
“The one I shot was a Screamer, there’ll be more nearby,” says Rennin. He keeps his sights around the body, looking for any sign of movement. Soon enough he sees a soldier walking across the street at a ducked sprint towards the body. “Oh no. Fader, you copy?”
“Here, Longinus.”
“Who’s that daft prick checking the body I just shot?”
“I don’t know, what colour are his pauldrons?”
“Yellow.”
“Horus Unit.”
The soldier is now stationary at the body with a hand to his helmet obviously radioing in the kill. “Channel?” asks Rennin.
“Ninety-eight point six.”
Rennin switches to that channel. “Trooper by the sniper kill, you copy?”
“Identify.”
“Nova Unit Sniper, get yourself back to your unit double time—”