Chapter Fifty-Eight – Crackshot Cowboy

Chapter Fifty-Eight – Crackshot Cowboy

“A silent movement began over the turn of the century. It fought back against the increasingly extreme nature of religious belief.

Nothing could be further from the truth.”

–Atheists Anonymous, 2029

***

“You guys had better be ready,” I shouted. “Shit’s about to hit the fan!”

Shit wasn’t so much about to hit the fan as it was about to grab the fan, drag it into an alley, then beat it black and blue.

Or something like that. I wasn’t an expert on analogies and honestly, my mind was on other things.

I moved up to the front of the line and looked out across the no-alien’s-land between us and the incoming wave. It was a decently sized field, but it wasn’t nearly as big as I would have wished. A model three could really scramble when they wanted to. It would take one… maybe ten seconds to cross the space at a dead sprint. Plenty of time for a single one to be gunned down, but what if there were hundreds of them.

My grip tightened on my Bullcat. Behind me, the mortars clunked as shells were loaded into them. The militiamen and PMCs were breathing harder, as if they’d already started running around even though nothing had happened yet. I heard leather creaking around handles and the clinking of loose ammo in boxes as they were repositioned for easier access. A few soldiers pulled their mags out and checked them before resetting.

“Safeties off!” someone called from behind me.

The not-yet-a-battlefield became surprisingly silent.

A ping from my augs almost made me jump out of my skin. “Fuck,” I muttered as I checked who was calling. Gomorrah. “Hey?”

“Cat. I was thinking we should keep in contact. This might not be easy,” she said.

“Alright, makes sense. Want to bring our local farm boy in on the call? He seems a nice enough sort. New though. Might be good to keep an eye out on him.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Gomorrah agreed.

I nodded. “Myalis, think you can find his aug number? Or can you ping right off of his AI?”

I think I can manage that much. One moment… and adding him to the call.

“Um, hello?” Jimothy’s voice asked over the line.

“Hey,” I said. “Jimothy, Gomorrah the pyromaniacal nun. Gomorrah, Jimothy the cowboy with a big rifle and a thing for cute girls with attitude.”

“Hello,” Gomorrah said. “It’s a pleasure. We’re going to stay in contact with each other, in case we need assistance. I’d love to speak some more, but I think our time is running short.”

“That’s alright. Pleasure to meet you too, Miss Gomorrah. You just holler if there’s anything at all I can do for you. Not that I suspect you’ll be the one needing help here.”

I grinned. It was nice when everyone was getting along so well. Maybe all the world needed to put aside their differences was the threat of impending and immediate doom. Not that that had worked well before.

I was about to try and make some small-talk when I caught motion in the corner of my eye. Something was moving into the no-alien’s-zone, but from our side. Something big.

Way off on the other side of Gomorrah’s section of the defences, a large machine thumped into the divide. It was taller than a semi-trailer from front to rear, and nearly as bulky. A huge four-legged machine made of white plates over a core of armoured steel. The machine stomped into the middle of the gap, then stood there, huge and imposing.

My head whipped around as a second, this one black, moved into the gap further down.

The horse’s sides opened up and barrels poked out of the gaps. It was a mobile gun platform, of sorts.

“Is that one of Jolly Monarchs?” I asked.

“The map says so,” Gomorrah said. “They’re his Rook drones.”