A Race That Would Not Be Slaughtered at Will

Before long.

The low roar of engines tore through the silence above the shelter. A Luna Transport descended slowly into the intersection, its retrothrusters blasting hot air that sent loose stones and Zerg corpses skidding across the ground.

The hatch opened with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing a brightly lit cabin.

At the sight, the shelter's survivors surged toward the transport. Most wore tattered clothes stained with blood, and many bore minor wounds.

Quite a few had once served in the colony's security force. Though they had retired when their terms ended, they still read a battlefield far better than ordinary civilians.

Once aboard, they crowded around the windows, staring at the twenty-odd Flame Salamanders charging straight toward the Zerg swarm.

"They're going to their deaths."

A middle-aged man with soot smeared across his face spoke under his breath.

A veteran of the security force, he knew better than anyone that even hundreds of Terran Dominion soldiers equipped with CMC Powered Combat Suits could not emerge unscathed from a swarm of this size.

So most of the civilians, including him, believed the Flame Salamanders had chosen to sacrifice themselves to buy time for the evacuation.

The next second, reality shattered their bleak expectations.

The Flame Salamander in the lead suddenly accelerated. His Magnetic Boots struck the ground with a deafening boom, and he became a dark green blur.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

His Boltgun roared, belching half-meter tongues of muzzle flame. Standard .75-caliber Bolt Rounds tore through the swarm with devastating precision.

Casings rained down, bouncing and rolling across the debris- and blood-strewn ground with sharp metallic clinks.

Every Bolt Round found its mark. Three leaping Zerglings were ripped apart in an instant, their shells and entrails bursting through the air as foul green blood splashed across the road.

"My God!"