Bloody Crackdown

The townspeople had gathered in the hundreds—seven or eight hundred, several times the size of 1st Company. But with only the cold weapons they used for chopping wood and turning soil, along with firearms from the last century, they could only hope to take on the Confederacy's Magistrate and the local police.

Unlike the nobles and office workers on the Terran Empire's homeworlds, the people of the colonies had been hardened by their struggles against nature, developing a resilient, unyielding, fearless character.

Information traveled slowly here. The ignorant villagers in this remote backwater knew nothing of Power Armor's might or the Confederacy government's policy of slaughtering revolutionaries.

"So, you're a 'revolutionary'? And all you want is for Rune Town to break free from the Confederacy government's control, or at least gain more autonomy?" Warfield's face twitched. He didn't want to open fire on civilians.

The representative of the small town of Rune shook his head. "We're not revolutionaries. We just want freedom."

"Listen, I sympathize with what you've been through. But as a Marine on the government payroll, I swore to protect every Confederacy citizen—and to eliminate every rebel who seeks to tear the Confederacy apart," Warfield said.

"As a final warning, I'm giving you the last of my mercy and patience. Put down your weapons, or we'll open fire. Think of your family and friends, and you'll realize how foolish you're being!"

At that moment, under Second Lieutenant Warfield's orders, 1st Company formed four closed hollow squares, with each squad forming a line and each platoon comprising one side. The soldiers carrying rockets and the heavy machine gunners stood in the center. On ancient Earth, this formation had been used against cavalry; now, the company's commander was using it to guard against an attack from all sides.

Suddenly, with a shout, the crowd surged toward 1st Company. They seemed certain the Confederacy troops wouldn't risk being branded as civilian killers by shooting at them, forgetting entirely that they already counted as armed criminals and terrorists.

In Augustus's squad, Tom Omo had never witnessed anything like this. His hand shook so badly that the people beside him thought he was about to fire.

"Don't piss your pants, Omo," said Kurt Josephine, the rifleman standing beside him.

"Fuck you, I'm not pissing my pants!" Omo tried to boost his courage with the profanity he'd learned from Harnack. But he never sounded confident, and his voice lacked conviction. He ended up sounding more like a lamb bleating threats.

"Josephine, say a little less," Augustus said.

More than ten seconds passed. The townspeople were still advancing toward the center of the square, and the nearest ones were less than two hundred yards from Augustus. At that distance, even Raynor couldn't miss with the helmet's automatic targeting system.

"Damn it, what are they doing? This isn't a protest march, and we're not cops carrying batons and tasers," Raynor said over the comms. "Do they really think we'll just turn tail and run? Maybe that works on the Magistrate, but if we do that, we'll be the ones getting our heads chopped off when we get back."

"Enough! Back off! We really will open fire!" Zander Marks's voice grew sharper as the advancing crowd drew closer.

Nearly a thousand Rune Town residents, armed with all kinds of weapons, surrounded the central square. More than two hundred guns were aimed at Augustus and his comrades. The Marines held their ground, raising their rifles in unison and aiming at the townspeople.

Now it was just a matter of which side would back down—or fire first.

Augustus gripped his Gauss Rifle firmly. If these people attacked him and his comrades without regard for their own lives, he would open fire without hesitation.

Neither side said another word. The atmosphere in the central square was so tense it seemed ready to freeze.

Then, all at once, Augustus realized those people had gone mad. Several modified trucks came hurtling toward the Marines in the central square from behind the buildings and down the streets. The townspeople scattered to either side as if they'd rehearsed it, opening a path for the trucks.

The outer frames of the trucks' cabs had been reinforced with sturdier Plasteel. Copper-red Plasteel pipes and plates had been welded over the original, more fragile aluminum frames with fusion cutters. On some of the more crudely and wildly modified trucks, the pipes and plates had simply been lashed to the original frames with thick wire.

The ordinary glass windows had apparently been replaced too, since one or two panes didn't even fit their frames.

The Plasteel pipes and plates were mottled with dark-red rust and greasy brass-colored stains, as if they'd just been dug out of a garbage heap. A dozen or more spikes and blades, ground from scrap metal, jutted from the front of each truck.

The same design covered the rest of the trucks. Extra parts had been bolted on everywhere, haphazardly, with no regard for symmetry or the overall look.

A spike stood upright on each axle. At first glance, the ferocious trucks looked like rampaging metal hedgehogs.

If that wasn't enough to make the Marines realize how dangerous these monstrosities were, the Kel-Morian Ripper electromagnetic cannons mounted on their hoods and the roofs of their truck beds made the attackers' intentions clear.

Four or five operators sat beside each cannon, wearing either miners' hard hats or wide-brimmed caps. Each carried a standard-issue Kel-Morian electromagnetic rifle.

There were three modified trucks in all, speeding toward the central square from the east, west, and south.

Once the modified trucks had passed through the crowd, the townspeople charged after them, firing their crude weapons. Some of them had clearly handled guns before, and they shot with good aim. Two or three bullets even struck Augustus's Power Armor.

Augustus calmly watched the small-caliber rounds strike his breastplate and bounce high into the air, scraping away only a little of its fresh silver-gray paint.

"Damn it, those are Kel-Morian trucks. They're exactly the kind of thing those bastards would do," Warfield immediately ordered over the comms.

"Open fire! Soldiers, use up every round you've got!"

"Fire! Shoot the enemy!"

In an instant, everyone began pulling their triggers.

A modified truck was charging straight at Augustus. If they didn't stop it, it would smash into the Marines' hollow square in a matter of seconds.

The electromagnetic cannons on the trucks opened fire at the same time, but the operators had poor aim, and their shots landed wildly off target. One cannon round struck more than a hundred yards from Augustus. The pale-blue pulse wave that spread from the impact instantly swept the earth clean, leaving a crater dozens of feet wide.

In a split second, Augustus made what he thought was the right choice. Ignoring the rest of the Armored Vehicle, he aimed only at its front right wheel. He disengaged the capacitor safety and fired rapid bursts as fast as he could. The recoil drove the Gauss Rifle's stock hard against his armored shoulder again and again.

At the same time, at least five men in 1st Squad, including Augustus, did the same. The truck's fenders had been modified too, but they still couldn't withstand Gauss Rifle fire. Its tire burst in an instant.

The truck immediately went out of control, but it still plowed into the Marines. Fortunately, Augustus and the others reacted quickly and had already begun running to get clear as they fired.

The men in the other squads burst the tires on the other two trucks in the same way. One truck crashed into the Marines as they spread out. Weighing dozens of tons, it ran over a soldier who couldn't get out of the way and toppled over. A grating metallic screech and desperate cries of agony filled the comms.