automatic-weapons fire, each shot a sharp, hard crack against the suppressed audio of the roaring gale. I squint at the squad icons, but they’re faded, translucent, hard to see—because our battle AI wants me to focus on the firefight—but I can see enough to know that we have wounded, with one critical red.
“Kanoa, injury report!” I could pull up the data, but it’s faster to ask.
“Julian’s down and critical. Dunahee and Fadul are mobile wounded.”
“Estimate of enemy numbers?”
“At least six on the ice.”
I look around. A meter away, there’s a low ridge. It’s only eighteen inches high and not thick enough to stop a round, but it offers line-of-sight cover and that’s better than nothing. I belly-crawl to it, turn onto my back, and then poke the muzzle of my HITR over the top, using the muzzle cams to look around.
I can’t see much, because the iceberg is only thirty meters away and it’s blocking my view of the platform.
Frustration kicks in. I am fucking blind. I have no visual contact with the enemy, with the target, or with my own soldiers. If Delphi was still my handler, she would know what I need. She would have already expanded the map and given me a verbal summary of everyone’s position—but I left Delphi behind. I left everything.
Map! I think—and if a thought can have a bitter tone, this one does.
The AI picks it up anyway and expands the map. It shows my location still a half-klick north of Sigil . Fadul is farthest out on my east. Escamilla is with Julian, getting him stabilized. Roman is behind me, but moving up fast. Everyone else is spread out to the west. Logan and Tran are in a firefight with at least three enemy soldiers. Three more enemy positions on the eastern side of the platform are marked with fuzzy icons to indicate uncertainty.
“Kanoa, do I have a target?”
“Negative. No line of sight and out of range for grenades. You have to move in.”
“Roman, come behind me!”
“Roger that.”
I want the high ground, so I sprint for the iceberg. The map shows it as twenty meters long, four wide, angled from northeast to southwest. Smooth, open ice lies beyond it.
I loop my HITR over my shoulder and skip-jump, using all the power of my leg struts to launch myself at the top of the wall.
I don’t make it to the top—but I get close.
I jam my arm hooks in and try to get a toehold using the teeth of my footplates—but the ice is so goddamned hard, I barely nick it.
Roman is right behind me. She gets under me, gets her arm struts under my footplates. “Got you, Shelley! Now go, go, go .”
I’m levitating, enough to get my arm hooks over the top, and then my elbows. After that, it’s easy to scramble onto the slanting, wind-swept surface.
I look around, realizing what an exposed position I’m in, no cover at all, but what the fuck. I can see everything on this side of the platform.
HITR in hand, I belly-crawl to the south edge. Check the map again. But I still don’t have a target. The smooth ice between me and Sigil is patterned in geometric panes of light and shadow cast by the glittering superstructure rising against the night sky just half a klick away.
“Kanoa—”
A gold targeting point pops up on my display. I can’t see anything in the indicated position. “You’re close enough,” Kanoa says. “Lob a grenade.”
There are two triggers on my weapon. I curl my finger around the second one, the one that controls the grenade launcher while I correct my aim, bringing a targeting circle into line with the target point. I squeeze the trigger, launching a grenade from the tube mounted under the rifle barrel.
The firefight to my east heats up, shots popping off one after another as the grenade rockets away. It explodes with a flash that dims my visor and tosses up a spray of ice crystals that briefly map the wind’s fierce currents as they’re whipped away. No fucking idea if I hit the enemy. Kanoa puts up another target point. I cover it
“Kanoa, injury report!” I could pull up the data, but it’s faster to ask.
“Julian’s down and critical. Dunahee and Fadul are mobile wounded.”
“Estimate of enemy numbers?”
“At least six on the ice.”
I look around. A meter away, there’s a low ridge. It’s only eighteen inches high and not thick enough to stop a round, but it offers line-of-sight cover and that’s better than nothing. I belly-crawl to it, turn onto my back, and then poke the muzzle of my HITR over the top, using the muzzle cams to look around.
I can’t see much, because the iceberg is only thirty meters away and it’s blocking my view of the platform.
Frustration kicks in. I am fucking blind. I have no visual contact with the enemy, with the target, or with my own soldiers. If Delphi was still my handler, she would know what I need. She would have already expanded the map and given me a verbal summary of everyone’s position—but I left Delphi behind. I left everything.
Map! I think—and if a thought can have a bitter tone, this one does.
The AI picks it up anyway and expands the map. It shows my location still a half-klick north of Sigil . Fadul is farthest out on my east. Escamilla is with Julian, getting him stabilized. Roman is behind me, but moving up fast. Everyone else is spread out to the west. Logan and Tran are in a firefight with at least three enemy soldiers. Three more enemy positions on the eastern side of the platform are marked with fuzzy icons to indicate uncertainty.
“Kanoa, do I have a target?”
“Negative. No line of sight and out of range for grenades. You have to move in.”
“Roman, come behind me!”
“Roger that.”
I want the high ground, so I sprint for the iceberg. The map shows it as twenty meters long, four wide, angled from northeast to southwest. Smooth, open ice lies beyond it.
I loop my HITR over my shoulder and skip-jump, using all the power of my leg struts to launch myself at the top of the wall.
I don’t make it to the top—but I get close.
I jam my arm hooks in and try to get a toehold using the teeth of my footplates—but the ice is so goddamned hard, I barely nick it.
Roman is right behind me. She gets under me, gets her arm struts under my footplates. “Got you, Shelley! Now go, go, go .”
I’m levitating, enough to get my arm hooks over the top, and then my elbows. After that, it’s easy to scramble onto the slanting, wind-swept surface.
I look around, realizing what an exposed position I’m in, no cover at all, but what the fuck. I can see everything on this side of the platform.
HITR in hand, I belly-crawl to the south edge. Check the map again. But I still don’t have a target. The smooth ice between me and Sigil is patterned in geometric panes of light and shadow cast by the glittering superstructure rising against the night sky just half a klick away.
“Kanoa—”
A gold targeting point pops up on my display. I can’t see anything in the indicated position. “You’re close enough,” Kanoa says. “Lob a grenade.”
There are two triggers on my weapon. I curl my finger around the second one, the one that controls the grenade launcher while I correct my aim, bringing a targeting circle into line with the target point. I squeeze the trigger, launching a grenade from the tube mounted under the rifle barrel.
The firefight to my east heats up, shots popping off one after another as the grenade rockets away. It explodes with a flash that dims my visor and tosses up a spray of ice crystals that briefly map the wind’s fierce currents as they’re whipped away. No fucking idea if I hit the enemy. Kanoa puts up another target point. I cover it
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