• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Get down, kid!” Guitierrez yelled, tackling him.

Weapons fired kaleidoscopically all around him, seemingly from every direction simultaneously. Fear grabbed his belly and squeezed, and he was almost certain he had vomited yet again in response. Something struck him, and he felt burning, followed by numbness and the stench of burned hair and ozone. I’m going into shock, or worse, he thought as he realized that he was lying on his back.

Idaho further realized that he couldn’t move, other than blinking and turning his head slightly.

He saw MACO bodies sprawled nearby, perhaps alive, perhaps not. He saw parts of bodies, and closed his eyes in an effort not to see any more.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the approaching Romulans, closing with obvious determination. Only a handful were coming, however, presumably because the MACOs had cut down many of them. But they had managed to survive in sufficient numbers to finish off what remained of Idaho’s unit.

One of the hawk-eyed, silver-helmeted bastards drew a blade as he approached, apparently intent on killing Idaho with it.

Should have listened to Mom, he thought, closing his eyes again. Should have paid closer attention to that damned poem.

He opened his eyes and felt both relief and horror when he saw that the two nearest bedraggled Romulans had moved past him to get to Lieutenant Stiles, who appeared to be either unconscious or already dead. One of the enemy soldiers used his sharp blade to finish Stiles off. A shadow passed overhead, but Idaho still felt too stunned to turn his head toward its source. Idaho assumed it was cloud cover. Or perhaps the impending fall of night, which might as well last forever as far as he was concerned.

God. I’m gonna die. I’mgonnadieI’mgonnadieI’mgonnadie.

The Romulan with the knife turned toward him and approached, his blade still dripping with Stiles’s blood.

“V’rhaen-ao’au thea,” the Romulan said. Idaho needed no translation to recognize the ugly universal sentiment of I’m going to kill you now.

The shadow passed again overhead, like a portent of doom, and was followed by a faint whiff of sulfur. The Romulan crouched beside Idaho, smiling a cruel rictus as he raised his blade, poised to strike.

A heavy boot suddenly crashed into the Romulan’s side, sending him and the blade sprawling in opposite directions. Straining to get himself up onto his elbows, Idaho saw that Guitierrez had not only survived the firefight, but had also brought the enemy soldier down with one deft martial arts maneuver. Before the Romulan could react, she smashed him across the face with the stock of her damaged phase rifle, and then brought the heavy weapon down hard against his throat, apparently crushing the alien’s windpipe.

But three other Romulans were already converging on the corporal from different directions, their energy weapons held temporarily in abeyance to avoid the chance of catching one another in a crossfire.

With a huge effort, Idaho turned his head this way and that, but only managed to determine that no weapons lay within his reach. He still couldn’t move worth a damn, regardless. He and Guitierrez were both finished.

The shadow returned. But this time it was attached to something swift, muscular, and equipped with wickedly sharp claws.

More shadows, and the deep-green, scale-covered shapes that cast them, crossed the battlefield. The Romulans screamed and struggled, but their cries quickly grew faint with distance as their attackers bore them away on their leathery, scalloped wings. Had the arrival of the MACOs given them a long-awaited opportunity to take a little revenge?

Idaho forced his numbed body into motion, dragging himself to where Guitierrez lay. He was relieved to find that she was still alive and conscious.

“I thought the bastards had killed you,” he said.

“Uh-uh,” she said, her breathing labored. “That would just have made Sergeant Kemper mad. You wouldn’t like him when he’s mad.”

“Your husband? The coin toss?”

She nodded. “You hurt?”

He shrugged,