Mirza and Devin tromped down the stairs with a group of about twenty other men who had hastily been assembled into a “squadron”. The general introduced himself, in the same quasi-robotic voice that his King spoke with, as Stellarion III. They walked by a few other units getting outfitted and finally arrived at an empty bunkroom-turned-armory.
“Find one that fits and get on with it!” Stellarion barked, pointing at the suits of combat armor hanging on the wall. “Tall guy! You might have to squeeze into one,” he continued, pointing at the Mirza’s tall figure which towered over everybody else.
It was true: Mirza felt very cramped inside the suit, which, while composed of separate boots, gloves, helmet, and jumpsuit, sealed itself automatically against any harmful cosmic rays that might sneak in. Now, everybody in the squad looked the same, wearing identical silvery outfits, each with a red emblem indicating their status as mercenary fighters. The helmet’s visors acted as one-way mirrors; if Mirza hadn’t noted that Devin was the second-tallest man in the group, he would have lost track of the youth whom he had inadvisably grown attached to.
A crate on the floor was opened, and they were instructed to take whatever weapon they wanted. Mirza rolled his eyes at the pile of dilapidated laser guns of makes and models that hadn’t been manufactured for centuries. He wondered if they had even been tested. He picked one out that appeared on the surface to be operational and holstered it.
After the clamor of weapons-choosing had died down, Stellarion briefed them, and it was just that: brief. “Anything that looks like a Grypnian, you shoot ’em. And if you don’t know what a Grypnian looks like, shoot anything that doesn’t look like a human. Now get your asses down to the exit bay and start praying.” This was somewhat of a joke: the last religious system among men had died out back when the years had still been suffixed with “A.D.”
They hadn’t been waiting in the bay for very long when King Hyperiarch reappeared, not in person (monarchs and presidents were never physically present for these things), but on another large screen. “Do us proud, men. May the raised banner of King Hyperiarch never fall!”
The bay door fell forward and the troops began to pour out into the Grypnian night. The scene reminded Mirza of pictures he had seen of World War II, back when wars had been quaintly limited to single worlds.
As soon as they stepped out, laser shots silently fired out. Those in the front had been attacked from the very start, while those in the back had to wait for the action to thin out before firing, lest they inadvertently vaporize one of their temporary comrades. Mirza got his first look at a Grypnian; it wore armor made out of some unidentifiable metal, possessed six limbs, and was lobbing ion grenades at anything that moved. Mirza’s laser shots ricocheted off the armor but warped it significantly in the process; a few more shots and a plate fell off, exposing a blubbery gray skin that was pierced easily by a green beam from Mirza’s gun.
He looked around him, trying to find another enemy while also surveying the unfolding battle. A few mercenaries were skimming low to the ground in hovercraft, spraying laser artillery at the massed Grypnian forces, but the Grypnians were well-armed, and the screams of dying mercenaries filled the air.
In his distraction, Mirza’s side was glanced by some kind of heavy, thrown projectile. His suit was no match for the hunk of rock, and he felt his arm shatter. Luckily, the laser gun could be used one-handed, and he sprinted off with the gun brandished to find an enemy to exact revenge upon.
Dodging fire from various plasma and laser sources, Mirza found another Grypnian locked in combat with a mercenary; both were firing shots into each other to see whose armor would give up first. Mirza quickly turned the tide of that fight, but didn’t share congratulations with the merc; it was well-understood that this battle was a matter of personal glory, not collective glory.
Fifteen minutes into the battle, the tide was visibly turning towards King Hyperiarch’s forces; dying wails were becoming less frequent, and the air was no longer constantly lit with laser strikes. The main action had moved several hundred yards away. Bodies littered the rocky landscape, but most were smoldering Grypnians with holes where their flesh had been pierced by lasers. However, there was one mercenary stirring and groaning.
Mirza walked over and flipped up the man’s visor, leaving the clear secondary visor in place. It was Devin. “Not like the movies, huh?” Mirza ribbed.
“My legs are crushed,” Devin moaned. “No time for jokes.”
“If it’s bad enough, they’ll just kill you and re-download you anyway,” Mirza said, picking up the youth one-armed and slinging him over his shoulder. “Easier than trying to put your bones back together.” He whistled a tune to himself as he walked back to the waiting ship.