The rebels have wrapped ropes around the neck of a statue of Savant Bern, who stood proudly in James Park for forty years. The ECU has flowers of every colour- except, strategically, for white- planted before his metal feet. The rebels trample on those flowers as they tug, tug at the ropes on his neck, making him creak and groan, tetter and totter, until at last he falls to the ground and pushes up a plume of dust. He is cut into sections and melted down, creating 12,000 bullets.
A man drills his team as a sergeant, teaching them to move in formation, to follow orders, to fire and advance and retreat all in unison. They have little time to practice, so it is brutal, non-stop; every moment is spent as a unit. Each day is spent preparing.
A woman who has spoken before speaks again, but now her crowd is larger. Tiffany Holstead preaches to thousands, with a fury of fire that burnt into their hearts. She never tires. Each day, her sermons of war are heard clearly, ringing out in the silent places where the ECU psyche-warfare has ceased. She becomes a priestess in their eyes.
The Matuvistans have made a grave error. Just by coming here, even, they transformed the White Flowers of Neo London into something they never were before: an army. And war has begun.
Three shots crack out into the night, each one a message. This was the agreed-upon signal. The invasion begins. A team on motorbikes comes first, riding in a fast, wide curve in front of the Matuvistan walls, each bike having a driver, and a man or woman with an automatic weapon who fires haphazardly at any figure visible on those walls.
Nikki was so, so tired.
This was not the first time she had been exhausted in the military of course, but this time was unique. Never before had she been so far away from home, never before had she been fighting apes and fake soldiers, and never had she been fighting still injured.
Her leg had turned out to have been a nicked artery. Once it had been sealed and the muscle damage treated, she was functionally fine, capable of serving once more, but just because she could serve didn't mean she should be serving. She should be in the medical bay waiting for it to heal up properly, not having it twinge with pain for every step she took through the base.
But the medical bay was full, and she wasn't injured enough to be pulled off the line. It was clear to most of the Matuvistans that reinforcements weren't coming any time soon. Patrols had been downsized massively- no more were they making their presence known, now every strike was made for a specific reason and purpose.
The last one had been to try and catch the infernal witch that had been riling the people up to launch assaults against their base. Despite the fact that it had run into heavy resistance, the patrol had pulled through with the loss of only a single jetrike (not that they could spare many more of those,) the death of many rebels, but no captured Tiffany.
Things were starting to become dire. Morale had slowly decreased, even with the dedication of Matuvistan soldiers. It was getting to everyone: being trapped in base, being awoken to mortars or rocket strikes, the constant crack of sniper and counter-sniper fire. Back home there had been the opportunity to rotate out of a frontline combat camp, or at the very least enjoy some nice modern amenities, but here nothing was guaranteed. There was also a hidden element to the morale sapping of this conflict: the jetknights hadn't been deployed en masse. There were no jetknights to deploy en masse.
The whole expedition had with it only eleven jetknights, one of which was Commandanta Isabella herself, and despite what the soldiers would admit, for as much as they slagged off the patricians and their fancy vehicles, almost every single one of them felt a surge of confidence at the roar of hyper-efficient jet thrusters and the blasts of plasma casters.
All of this was shoved to the back of her mind as she heard motorbikes squealing and gunfire from the street. Immediately a wall-mounted heavy machine gun opened up, its heavy thudding sound responding to the lighter rattles of the vehicle-mounted guns.
The fighters on the bikes didn’t so much as flinch when the machine gun started firing at them.
That's strange already, but what's more: they didn't bleed, either.
Holograms, of course. The bullets they fired were "real," but not like the true ones. The hardlight of the ECU can pierce skin, maybe even armour, but it doesn't pack quite the same punch as real alloy. And the holo-controller, peeking through the window of a skyscraper, flinched each time they fired a shot.
These things are a drain on energy. Every bullet they fire steals a little bit of life from the holo-emitters, which have to be charged up before each use. And what's worse are the bullets they get hit with: the holograms automatically "harden" at the point they're struck, costing even more energy than their usual movements. White Flowers have been hitting every abandoned store and depot in Neo London to find fuel for this fight. It wouldn't be a problem in a holo-suite. On the battlefield...
He estimated that they have two more runs like this left. As the motorbikes disappeared around a corner, he smashed several buttons by muscle memory, and the same motorbikes reappeared to begin their circuit fresh.
The Matuvistans knew they were firing at shadows. Or well, holograms, but what were they supposed to do? Not shoot at the enemies ‘firing’ upon them? The bikes reappeared, the guns reloaded and started back up again.
Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.Nikki continued her patrol. So far, nothing was out of the ordinary.
Those disappeared as well, and another round of holo-bikers came, carrying the exact same armaments and identical faces. It's like a scene playing on loop, until-
An explosion went off far behind Nikki, rattling the walls. Unknown to her, the Flowers blew a separate section of the wall with explosives, letting rebels pour double-file into the backend of an open courtyard in New Westminster. The not-motorbikes were only a distraction. Far up above, the holo-controller exchanges his devices for a sniper- to pick off anyone who approaches his encroaching Flowers.
They wear white masks, to hide their identities. Tiffany Holstead is among them.
Klaxons sounded. The bases’ lights switched from their regular white glow to a dim red to save power, and instructions began to run across communications systems.
“¡Caimán-7, report!”
“¡Lieutenant Roca, we have men down, repeat, men down!”
“¡This is Ancla-4, we have multiple hostiles incoming, returning fire!”
“
¡Timón-3 WE ARE PINNED DOWN, NEED IMMEDIATE SUPPORT ASAP!”
Nikki turned to the soldiers next to her, took a deep breath, and began to run, wincing every time she put pressure on her wounded leg. Above, in low-orbit, ground attack craft dropped free from their moors, engines howling as they plummeted towards the ground below them in an attempt to staunch the flow.
“¿Quetzal-5, our jetrikes are ready to respond, are we clear to use plasma?”
“Copy Quetzal-5, Emperatriz. Plasma authorised. Turn them to ash.”
“Serpiente-2, we’re bringing the big guns. Hold on Timón-3.”
If the white-masked invaders thought they were going to have an easy time of it, they were sorely mistaken. Through the dust from the explosions, illuminated by the spinning lights and crackle of gunfire, the Matuvistans put up a sterling defence. Despite everything they had gone through on this foreign planet, they held.
The White Flowers were outgunned, and knew it. The sniper shot at the jetrikes, desperately, with a sinking feeling in his gut.
But these attackers were hand-picked by Tiffany and Dallas- most of them were like one or the other. Either young and unafraid to die, or else old and so full of bitterness that they would spill an ocean of their own blood to finally see a drop of their enemies'. They fought madly. Self-sacrificing.
"Grenade!"
Shrapnel filled the small building it had been tossed into. Tiffany and half of her crew dodged in after it, never mind the heat, or the scorched bodies. One Matuvistan was still, just barely, alive when they entered; he wasn't after one of the Flowers shot him. Here they flipped over tables, making haste to barricade, where they hoped to hide from the murder coming from above.
The other half of Tiffany's crew tried the same thing with another New Westminster building. The grenade did burst, filling it with shrapnel, but they were caught by Matuvistan plasma. Nothing remained where they had stood. The Flowers cursed.
A third explosion rocked the compound, further away, this one from outside the walls again. A hole caved inwards, and more rebels dodged in, weaving chaotically: the Scuttlers gang. No masks. Much less organized, but more numerous, violent and experienced. Some of them had been in shoot-outs before. Other forces threw ropes with hooks on them over the walls, trying to literally scale them and climb into Matuvistan compound. It was becoming an attack from every possible angle.
“¡GET THE FUCK OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!” Nikki threw herself to the ground behind a brickwork wall, watching as another soldier peeked out of cover and laid down a sustained burst from their assault rifle. The empty mag hit the floor, a fresh one was slotted in almost immediately, and then the firing resumed.
Nikki hauled herself around, eyes squinting to make it through the moonlight. A vague figure sprinted towards them in the distance. Sight. Aim. Shoot. Her rifle crackled in her hands, and the figure spasmed a few times, then dropped to the floor. In the adrenaline rush, the impact of her having killed someone was dulled.
From the distance, a rifle kicked a staccato rhythm.
Crack, crack, crack… Crackcrackcrack. A scream from somewhere, no
here!A soldier on the opposing side of the brickwork had taken a round. A man wearing a medical armband took a risky sprint across the open street, bullets puffing up dust in their aftermath, before skidding on their kneepads, rolling the injured man over and setting to work.
Then came a sound that
must have horrified the attackers. The low, droning sound of a ground-attack craft loitering overhead. A gravelly voice broke out through the comms systems.
”This is Dragón-1. Let’s start spitting fire.”The sky seemed to groan under the weight of the ammunition being expended, but no, that was just the sound of its rotary autocannons spinning up. 35mm shells rained down, turning the pavement to pebbles and anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in its path into bloody chunks.
Rebel anti-aircraft defences were activated at this, perched strategically on nearby hills outside New Westminster. They shot for the Dragón like harpoons, AA fire lashing out towards the craft. Dragón wheeled about in the air, flying low and fast to try to avoid missiles and retaliated, its autocannons turning to try to disable this new threat.
As Dragón-1 moved to engage and distract the AA, bombers closed in. It was clear that regardless of civilians, tonight, this was war. Any dead body would be counted as a soldier, no matter how small or unarmed.
”Dragón-2, sustaining heavy anti-aircraft fire. Returning to base now, before I can’t stay airborne.”"Dragón-7, I’ve lost half my damn thrusters. I can’t climb, but I’m not crashing yet. Going to take as many of the bastards down with me as I can. Viva Matuvista, Dragón-7 over and out.””Dragón-10. Skies are empty over here, and we keep chewing through them. Scratch thirty.”There was a brief pause on the radio, then,
”Scratch thirty-two.It was a comfort, however small, to the soldiers on the ground to know that despite everything, their
ángeles de la guarda loomed heavy in the skies, extracting their pounds of flesh.
Across the battlefield, a set of offices had become a desperate struggle. Matuvistan soldiers held down tight corners and prepared for the worst when a grenade landed down on the floor. Diving for cover, they were caught off guard when as soon as the explosive had detonated, five Mixists surged forwards, carrying axes and swords. A marine met them with a bayonet, one of the Mixists catching the blade in their chest before another sunk an axe into the marine’s neck.
A Matuvistan raised their sidearm up with one hand and squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening in the enclosed location, but the Mixist kept approaching, machete held in hand. The pistol bucked again and again, six, seven, eight shots and still the Mixist kept coming, until at last a heavier assault rifle round smashed into his kneecap and the wind was taken from his sails. They had worn the ECU’s bulletproof vests tonight.
“Fuego-3, we’ve got a group pinned down here.”
“¡Caimán-3, they’ve got fucking axes! ⸘What bullshit is this‽”
Nikki’s teeth were gritted so hard she felt as if she was going to crack one. Comms was
not helping her focus.
The last of the reserves were being sent in. Those few marines who had remained void borne, those precious elites that had been kept close to the chest the whole conflict, were now being deployed. They filtered into transport ships, lit cigarettes, went through last-minute checks, and said their prayers. The craft dropped out of their moors and began the descent downwards towards New Westminster. Somewhere in one of the crafts, music started up.
”Because we know as we fly there is no chance for defeat.
If we live or if we die it’s all the same to me.
Because the saints have chosen us, if it’s livin’ or it’s dyin’
And when our time comes, there’s no time for cryin’
Fought in Chalca, fought in Paola, fought on every saintsdamned moon.
I’ve shot an alien for humanity and watched its blood leak blue,
And I’d do it all again, launch myself into this fight
Because they can’t take my bark, sure as hell can’t take my bite
And if I die tonight, I know the saints’ll take me safe
Away from this place that I can’t see clearly…” The sounds of battle overtook the sounds of the radio. One of the transport sides had opened up, and a marine leaned out with a GPMG, opening fire at a group of individuals that were running from the gunfire.
“⸘The fuck are you doing‽ ¡There are civilians down there!”
“¡FUCK THE CIVLLIANS! ¡IF THEY’RE OUT TONIGHT, THEY’RE NOT CIVILIANS. THEY’RE COMBATANTS!
⸘YOU HEAR THAT YOU HOLLYWOOD SHITS‽ ¡ANYONE WHO RUNS IS A REBEL! ANYONE WHO STANDS IS A WELL-DISCIPLINED REBEL! ¡HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!” The maniacal laugh slowly petered out, but the gunfire did not.
One of the Flower snipers waited as patiently as he could for a clear shot, trying- and only partly succeeding- to ignore the screams of his comrades on the ground. At last, the transport turned just a little, and the sniper pulled his trigger.
The marine jerked backwards, the report of the rifle following shortly afterwards. “¡Puta mierda! ¡Dumbfuck!” One of the soldiers scrambled forward, putting pressure on a leaking shoulder wound, the bullet having passed straight through the marine’s armour. One of the other soldiers reached for a medical kit as they tried to keep their comrade alive. Still. One marine WIA was no cause to slow the assault. “¡You don’t deserve the Bloodied Heart this’ll get you!”
There were eleven jetknights able to participate on the ground of New Hollywood. Isabella was one of them. As rare as it was for the primary commander to participate in the fighting, as absurd as it seemed, she was needed. She would voluntarily give up her commanding position whilst she was off her main vessel, and would instead become a humble jetknight squadron leader. Leaving the nerve center of her operation, she made her way to the jetbike transport bays and prepared herself, two members of staff ferrying her power armour to her.
It slotted over her with the comfort that only came with a piece carefully tailored to your body. All extra flair had been stripped from her uniform- even her jacket and trousers, leaving her in just her undergarments. Metal greaves closed around her thighs, a back-piece clunked into place. She rolled her shoulders out, feeling the systems come alive above her body. Stretch her left arm. Stretch her right arm. Shake out her legs. Excellent.
She reached for her provided helmet and fixed it fast to her collar guard. When complete, it formed an airtight seal, her breathing guaranteed through a complicated intake/outtake system that functioned as a gas mask and could be sealed off in case of the suit being submerged or without atmosphere. The other jetknighs slowly formed around her, and she received the only sign of her being any grander than the rest of her squadron- a cape magnetically affixed underneath her gravity chute.
"In thy strength, O saints, the just warrior shall exult, and in thy salvation they shall rejoice exceedingly. Thou hast given them their heart's desire. We beseech Thee, O saints…” On and on the prayers went as the jetknights went through last minute preparations, and finally received their lances, the unlit handles clamping fast to their vehicles.
In the courtyard, things were getting rougher. Tiffany and her crew were barricaded in their small building, only a few dozen strong, each listening to the sounds of that nightmare playing outside. Just as Isabella prayed to her Saints, the Mixists crowded in here pleaded to their Truth. This religion was still new, and their prayers unofficial. No special words were ordained- they spoke straight from their hearts.
"Truth, grant me the strength to live tonight."
"Truth, keep us safe."
"Please, give me the timing and the aim to blow their commandanta’s brains out of her skull, oh Truth at the center of the universe."
"Just... teach me to lead."
At the last words, which were her own, Tiffany reached to her ear and pressed a small button on the device nuzzled there. At this, two things happened.
The first was that all other rebels on the field went half-deaf. In a good way. They all wore similar devices in their ears, little pieces of metal and plastic that descended from the earphones of Old Earth. They could drown out or amplify any sound desired. Today, they were pre-programmed for war: the terrifying sounds of screams, grunting and crying vanished, just as the sounds of gunfire became so much more distinct. A man wearing these knew if a rifle was being loaded fifty feet away. But every other sound, every distraction- gone. Peace descended onto them.
At the same time, a new and distinctly ECU-style of offense began. There had been much debate about using this tactic:
nobody wanted to feel like the protectors. But needs must. Comm channels filled with pure static and noise, as a horrifying wailing sound, somewhere between a siren and a woman's scream, played outwards from the earworms. The ECU had created this sound specifically to activate the human instinct to flee or hide.
"Alright," Tiffany spoke to her team, "we rush now, automatics first, axes and swords following. Whatever you do, even if you die: just make them bleed." Tables and chairs were kicked, pushed, thrown out of the way as her crew re-entered the fray.
Comms channels filled with an awful noise, and for a moment, the Matuvistan defence stumbled. Dragón-7 lurched downwards, losing more of its precious altitude. In the offices, a marine was caught off guard, earning herself a shotgun blast to her unprotected neck. One of the jetrike squadrons, flying in a tight formation, lost synchronicity for a precious second, one of the trikes accidentally nudged by another on a sharp turn, the nudged trike coming precariously close to spinning out and into a nearby building, and only pulling itself out at the last minute.
Nikki would have ripped her commsbead out, but they were specifically designed to ensure a soldier couldn’t do that. Instead, she clapped a hand to her ear and pressed herself against the wall, feeling the impacts of bullets against the brickwork.
But then, slowly, Matuvistans turned to a tactic that had served them time and time again, before even they were called Matuvistans, before they had left Earth, before their guns could fire more than a shot without needing a reload. It was a battle-hymn, tried and tested.
“Opposing pikes to horses, facing arquebuses to pikemen, with the soul united by the same faith, let the blood run to protect the republic. Cross of Lobasla fluttering in the wind, sons of Santiago, great are the tericos, pikes, battalion, flanks covered, only the man who is not afraid is free. Fight for your brother, die for your republic, live for peace in this empire, there will never be defeat if they make us prisoners, only after death will we capitulate. Mesh gorget, leather vest, breastplate and backplate will protect me from iron, lift the pikes with a cry to the sky, I will never be afraid if the terico marches in a column.”
It was a slow, sombre song, and one that almost all of the soldiers slowly took up. It was a stunning contrast to the sounds of battle, a slow melody to the wars of the past. As the rebels charged, the Matuvistans dug in their heels, both sides living up to the song.
Only after death will we capitulate. Nikki watched as the medic dragged their charge off, towards the backline, assisted by another soldier. As they cleared another defensive position the charge hit those remaining behind, and Nikki fought for her life yet again.
It was a blurry, hazy mess. She lost track of the words to the song as a soldier practically leapt at her, feeling the impact of his bullets against her armour. She retaliated with her own gunfire, the bigger, heavier Matuvistan bullet dropping him before she fell. Wheezing, the air forced out of her chest and a rib cracked, she tried to swing her gun to the next rebel rushing their position, but found herself unable to bend her arm far enough. As more bullets crashed into her, she fell to the ground, head hitting the concrete with a
crack that sent her mind spinning. She lifted a hand up to the sky, a breath catching in her lungs, then rising up to her lips with a bitter, copper cough.
It was a cold night. Not like those back homes. Maybe she’d just close her eyes and wait for the sun to come out.
Isabella listened to her own radio chatter and frowned. The larger, more secure surface-to-orbit comms hadn’t been broken by the rebel hack, and what news she was getting was all bad news. Only three ground attack craft were still airborne. Three had gone down. One had run out of ammunition and had to retreat, and three more had sustained damage severe enough to force them to return to base without actually being rendered inoperable. Half the jetrike squadrons had stopped responding. Now, the last order being asked of her before she left her command ship was a simple one.
“Commandanta. Permission to launch an orbital strike at SAM batteries? They’re a risk to you and anyone else in the air.”
“Negativo. This is still a civilian center. We’re tearing the ground up enough in this fight, let’s not start flattening it as well. Missiles and bombers only.”
“Acknowledged. Go with the saints, knight.”
Neither her nor the artillery officer knew just how important that order would be.
Isabella’s cape fluttered slightly as she sat down astride her jetbike. The jetbike carrier unclamped itself from the command ship and began its descent, the garage totally silent. Then, they hit the atmosphere, and a roaring sound slowly began to build up.
“Prep for high altitude deployment.” Isabella issued the order with a firm voice, the craft bursting through re-entry and sailing down, down. The red light in the garage switched to green, and the magnets that kept jetknights fixed to their bikes activated.
Then, they were set free from their bindings.
Temperature sensors showed the night to be freezing cold, but in their armour the jetknights felt nothing. They plunged down through the air in a loose V formation, pressed tight against the bodies of their bikes. The air rushed around them, a roaring that filled the ears and was only drowned out by the hammering of their hearts. A high-altitude deployment was the safest method for the garage vehicles, but took a long time if the jetbikes didn’t activate their thrusters… Which they didn’t, so the engine flare didn’t give away their position to anti-air.
Their radio frequencies tuned to the battle below. By now, the worst of the rebel hack had been overridden, and communications had been re-established, but she wasn’t talking to just her men now. She tuned to a broad-spectrum frequency, knowing that the rebels would be able to hear her.
”Atención all Matuvistan ground forces. Lt Cabalerra De Lobasla is making her way to the battlefield, and with her, all the fury and grace that the jetknights bring with them. To the rebels, know that the Hand of the Saints has come down to bless you with the justice you so richly deserve. Viva Matuvista. Viva la República.”The announcement was met with a roar from the ground forces, and almost at once the rebels found themselves met with a resistance they had never seen before. The Matuvistans launched themselves into a counter-offensive like men possessed, the newly deployed marines throwing themselves into battle not just with their rifles, but some came with sabre, breaching axe and hand-shotgun as well, staples of ship boarding combat. A Mixist squad found themselves pinned down with startling celerity, a group of marines bearing down on them. When one of the rebels rose up to fight back, he earned an axe in the neck, the man collapsing half-decapitated as his fellows fell before a hailstorm of automatic fire.
Someone on the ground let a cry out through the general comms, just as Isabella had.
”¡KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE REBEL BASTARDS! ¡TEN OF THEM FOR EVERY MATUVISTAN THAT FALLS! ¡VIVA LA REPÚBLICA! ¡MATUVISTAAAAAAA!The sides met with a clash that lit up the night. The last few bold gunships that had remained aloft discharged everything they had, howitzer shells breaking apart buildings and autocannon shots turning streets to cobblestone. Marine captains surged forward, sabres catching rebel weapons and pistols carefully aimed for where their armour couldn’t protect them, and above, in the air, the jetbikes roared forwards.
“Loose formation,” the Lt Cabalerra instructed. “Anti-air is still active. Remain light and loose. No charges, there’s nothing to break.” One of the bikes wheeled downwards in a strafing run, its guns, a squad of rebels either diving for cover or being caught out, the heavy calibre rounds punching through them and dropping them to the ground.
“Maintain offensive. Support squads where needed. We don’t have the numbers for hard engagements.” The Cabalerra swooped down, her plasma casters opening up. Men caught within the heat didn’t have time to scream; they were dead before their bodies could catch up with the pain. Her cape billowed and she tucked herself tighter against her leg, throwing her weight to one side of the bike whilst keeping a hand on the accelerator.
The streets began to blur past the knights. They wove through streets at madcap speeds, bolts of jet-powered lighting that brought with them screaming death. At one point a plasma lance was unsheathed, the rider swerving through small arms fire , eagerly grinning as his foes tried to dive out of the way of the glowing orange beam. Two failed. They wouldn’t be failing anything again.
Then, the unthinkable happened. One of the knights had gunned themselves over a plaza, only to be met with a rebel anti-air vehicle: four twenty-millimetre autocannons attached to a humble flatbed truck. Its radar systems hardly needed to be turned on, the jetknight was so close, and although their new foe wheeled about to face them startlingly quickly, even a jetknight wasn’t as quick as a trigger finger.
The air was filled with 20mm shells, and the jetknight tumbled out of the sky. The only sign the others had that something had gone wrong was a sudden emptiness on one of their radio frequencies, and Isabella’s HUD showing a squad member down.
“We lost one. Charing Cross. Stick together, eyes up, take it out, whatever it was.” The jetknights reformed and plasma lances were activated. Pressing themselves low to the ground, so low that an errant twitch could cause their bikes to eat dirt, they saw the offending vehicle. This time though, its cannons were far too slow to save it. Four separate lances tore the vehicle and crew apart, leaving it little more than slag, but the message had been received by the rebels.
They aren’t invincible. On the ground, the rebels found themselves pushed back, inch by inch. Both sides fought like fanatics, rebels and soldiers pressing through pain and fatigue to bleed their foes for every drop. The last of the gunships reluctantly peeled away and returned to base, out of ammunition or limping from battle scars, but luckily for them, rebel AA had a new target.
Bring the knights down.Isabella and her crew had noticed the change in focus. Every time they dared go too high up, they received warnings of radar lock. Too close to the ground and they were constantly threatened by autocannons and machine guns. They flew a dangerous line, darting in and out, killing soldiers here, destroying vehicles there, desperately keeping themselves as loosely organised as possible to stop a lucky rebel from downing two or more.
Then, it happened again. The knights made their charge, and the rebels responded. This time it was another up armoured vehicle, featuring rotary machineguns. They strafed across the knights, the heavy bullets denting bikes and armour as they passed. Its path moved towards the center of the pack, towards where Isabella flew, and in less than a second more than thirty bullets had slammed into her.
Isabella’s jetbike signalled multiple warnings, but the rider couldn’t process them. Her armour hadn’t held up, and blood spilled down onto the streets below. The other riders could see that she was out, her bike operating purely on instinct.
“Commandanta Isabella is down! Repeat! The commandanta is down! All units, move to secure her bike immediately!The Matuvistan army pushed forward again, and finally, the rebels began to break. The white flowers couldn’t keep up this invasion: they were outgunned and the constant flow of reinforcements had slowed to a stop. Those who fought here today would remember what they saw for the rest of their lives. It hadn’t been a bloodbath. It had been a flood. The only consolation? The Matuvistans bled, too.
It was time to get out.
Tiffany Holstead chimed into the ear of every rebel wearing an earwig, her voice cutting through the combat: “Retreat. Retreat, back to base. Retreat.” It was an order that would be only halfway executed, with the Matuvistan occupiers bearing down on them: countless were captured that night. But Tiffany escaped, again, feeling now like she was protected by Truth Itself. There was a horrific moment where a Matuvistan aimed a gun straight for her, but then suddenly glanced to his left- at a sound, or a sight- and that was just enough for her to escape. She muttered a quiet prayer of thanks.
When the impromptu rebellion leader left New Westminster behind, joined by whatever haggard survivors could make that retreat with her, she left one final gift for the Matuvistans. Transmitted audibly through every captured rebel’s earworms, her voice said:
“Matuvistan occupiers, my name is Tiffany Holstead. I was present tonight. I came personally to see this attack, just as I will come for the next. Because there will be more. Because there are millions of us, and so long as you live on our land, we will come. Every day and night. Until every last one of you is dead. How many did we take with us tonight? How many do you have left?
This does not end. Go home, Matuvista.”
"It's over." Capitão Alvarez looked down at the mutilated form of their once-commander in the ship's medbay. Isabella was alive, yes, but only so by the grace of the saints, and there was little left here of the pretty thing that had set off. Her left arm hung on by a thread, she had lost an eye and only half of her face could charitably be called 'identifiable.' She had been miraculously, almost comically lucky that her internal organs had suffered less damage than her extremities had, but even now she survived thanks only to an army of tubes and machines.
"We're leaving. We have no more reinforcements. No more Commandanta. No more allies. We've barely got enough ammunition to survive the rest of the month, and the rebels still have enough men to almost break us at our strongest. If they do that again, we
will be overwhelmed, and
every man down there will be lost.
"Bullshit we're leaving. We don't have senatorial permission." One of the jetknights that had flown with Isabella countered the Capitão angrily.
"
Don't question me boy. You're a patrician, but I've fought wars since you were still a swimmer in your pa's nutsack. The senate will issue a retreat. I
will be discussing it with them on the command deck, and despite your fancy jetbikes, you're
still lower ranking than me on this ship and you will
act like it." Alvarez's face burned for the jetknight to question him, and, astonishingly, they did not.
"Attention all members of the Matuvistan Volunteer Expeditionary Force. This is acting-Commandante Alvarez Jaca. We're done here. The recent assault proved that. Their anti-air was seriously damaged in the battle and we'll never have a better moment to extract from this city. Destroy anything that can't be packed up in twenty four hours. Transfer all prisoners and wounded to void-borne facilities. The evacuation will be completed at 0800 local time tomorrow. Acting-Commandante out."With the message relayed, Alvarez looked down at Isabella one more time. Matuvistan medicine was keeping her alive, but even the most aggressive and expensive healthcare on the market would leave her disfigured and crippled. Matuvista couldn't save her.
But maybe there were some that could.
