“Just trying to help.” Rude.

He had run so very far, but Rude was essentially still in the middle section of the docks, wanting to yank the helmet from his head and breathe real air. He felt trapped. His internals drove home the truth of just how chaotic his situation was. A Trank flew overhead, dropping tanks, and jarring Rude to the bone. An aerial dogfight spun south above the docks; a slow spiral of three high craft locked in deadly fire. It was obvious the official estimation of enemy resources was off. The foreign-made Enman speeder fell into the bridge of a destroyer and exploded.

Beyond the container behind which Rude gathered his resolve, the open dock was a screaming fiery bedlam. Consortium seamen followed two RFMFs north firing from behind its protection. Still, men fell to enemy fire, while Enmen ran headlong into battle. Had the Consortium bitten off more than it could chew? Enmen were everywhere. Rude took a deep breath, and made a dash for the nearest RFMF. He rolled in between two seamen in white cryolite; the suit on the right had a single gold bar on the left shoulder.

The Lieutenant's ragged voice hailed, “Glad to have you, soldier.”

Rising to take down three Enmen, Rude replied in kind, “Just trying to help.”

The RFMFs turned, and the men behind them pressed northwest toward the warehouses. The lowering sky lit from beneath as detonations wreaked destruction between the warehouses and the city. A transport came in low from the northeast; it had the signature of a Con Isle Superbus. It sped south along the docks dropping soldiers, who rolled up firing. It was there, and it was gone; help had arrived from the main base, but there was more than enough work left for Rude, and the seamen beside him.

Twenty Enmen came from the warehouses, rushing madly into the new troops. They were followed by Drylands soldiers, singed and weary, yet, still taking down the enemy. As the RFMFs pushed toward a nest of Enmen, a detonation rocked the docks east of Rude's position. He raised up and shot an Enman peeking over the heavy crates the nest occupied. Just then, an Enmen craft flew low, west to east, strafing the dock. A Con Isle Rasp roared in from behind, firing with lethal accuracy. As the craft spiraled into a crash beyond the ships, Rude stepped forward, raised, and fired. From behind, a black cryolite tank and three Skats rolled north into the fray. The RFMFs moved forward, Rude followed in a crouch, stood, and fired.

There was no vacuum behind his position; Rude sensed the pitched and desperate battles to the south, but the nest he moved toward was his main concern; it was big, and it commanded the fates of Consortium soldiers and seamen alike. The nest hindered seamen that would join the battle from their ships. Adrenaline made everything clear, but there was no time to think. A soldier either shot or got shot. The seaman to Rude's immediate left took a hit and fell. Rude walked ever forward shooting Enmen and taking cover. Then, it came; the pirini screamed alarm; all Rude could do was turn and leap back before the blast of the Enman missile took down the RFMF.

Rude was exposed as he rolled to his feet, firing his Sandman at multiple targets. There was the choice. It was between Rude's safety and the safety of the tired men and women still engaged in a life-or-death struggle. Rude ran for the nest. He leaped over tracers and rolled under energy blasts so close he could feel them inside his armor. His sights on the nest, Rude drew upon a dwindling reserve of strength for his best speed. He was there. He leaped high, and as he arced through the air, twisting his body, the nest was suddenly below him. Rude made five accurate shots as he fell. Landing on his feet, Rude gave his left wrist a quick twist. He drew back his left arm as an Enman lifted his scowling face. The blade caught him in the back of the neck. As that one fell, Rude drove his spiked fist into the unguarded face of the next in line.

That left the artillery operator. Rude unloaded the Sandman into every weak spot, giving no quarter. To his north, between stacked crates and a warehouse, there was a similar nest. Rude lifted the shoulder cannon and spent the last missile. As the nest went up in a fireball of scattering crates. He took an APE in his left hand and pressed the stock into his GAP rotary, running north along the damaged warehouse fronts. He kept a wary eye on his internals, seeking movement in the small alleys between the buildings. He saw running Enmen and fired. A blast lifted his boots from the dock, but he fell back into his pace. All along, the helmet communications hammered his already overcharged senses; Rude was on the verge of a serious headache.

A voice screamed into his comm, “They're coming from the sewers!”

Rude came to a broad avenue between warehouse blocks and saw Enmen advancing. Behind them rolled a tank. They fired immediately as he slowed. He jumped and rolled. As he did, Rude spent the APE's magazine taking them down. The tank fired, but he had already leaped beyond the avenue. Three Skats turned down the avenue painting a bright path of destruction with shoulder canons. Breathing heavily, Rude took a tack east toward the ships. There were stacked containers north and south of an admin building. Before he could reach it, he would have to cross an H2H zone with some forty combatants locked in the uncertainty of close combat.

Rude spread his arms as he ran. The Sandman was active, and the Arm Blade was ready as he plowed into the fray. Con Isle soldiers were the elite; they were supposed to be the best. Even so, they struggled with an enemy that did not fear death. Weak spots received his attention. Enmen fell, giving the elite a fighting chance. Rude's use of the Arm Blade and knuckle spikes was brutal. His path was straight; his goal was the admin building. If he was to continue north, he would need a place to stop and still his racing heart. His flesh trembled, and his need for oxygen made it difficult to think.

Rude rolled in behind the containers. He was on his knees, and leaning forward on his hands as he gasped. Every inch of him ached. He drew in breath after breath; he inhaled deeply. He shook his head, but his vision did not clear. He was weak, vulnerable, and needed control. He needed composure. If he couldn't get it together, he was nothing but an easy target. He took a deep breath and held it, hoping to slow his pounding heart. He shook his head again and exhaled explosively. The internals cleared a bit, and as far as he could tell, there was no action close at hand.

“Dock overlay,” said Rude.

Immediately, the overlay showed him the entirety of the naval docks. North, where the pier swept east, there was another admin building, but no ships. There were the usual crates and containers, but the thing that caught Rude's attention was the advance of a large number of Enmen. There were eight squads, if not more. He also saw tanks and Trashers. His immediate future was troubling. Once he made it to the next admin building, the Enmen would be just north of his position. He made a sweep of the overlay, but all heroes were engaged.

An encouraging sign came from the burning warehouses northwest of the Enmen squads. A bank of five Trashers approached with surgical resolve. The powerful exoskeletal legs of the Trasher suits sent heroes hurtling in a forward arc. Near the apex of the arc, the mini-thrusters kicked in briefly to provide short-term flight capability. At that time, elevators extended from the backs of the suits while chest rudders guided the fall. Upper leg stabilizers and lower leg ailerons completed the action. Heroes rained down on the enemy position as nine Skats rolled across the dock.

Rude took the opportunity to make a dash for the admin building. A jump and roll brought Rude up with a sawed-off APE in his left hand. The Enman front line fell to the deadly volley of Rude's barrage. Tossing the spent APE, Rude somersaulted across a disabled RFMF and rolled up to a run with a bore in his left hand. As he charged forward, Rude used the bore's explosive projectiles to great effect against the weak ankles of the Enmen boots. He was closing in on the stacked containers south of the admin building. The black market bore had a magazine on both sides of the stock, each holding up to thirty rounds. Rude switched back to his sandman to reserve rounds as he set his sights on the cover of stacked containers.

Core Command was a dimly lit bunker deep beneath Con Isle High Command. The broad interior hummed softly, expressing a level of efficiency that was almost subliminal. Banks of consoles faced an array of intimidating wall screens. Each soldier worked his or her station with a reserved and highly polished expertise. First Command General Morgan Bruce strode purposefully between the banks to stand below the large wall screens, his hands clasped behind his back. His black dress uniform jacket was heavy with medals that put his subordinates in awe. His chiseled face and hooded eyes bore no trace of personal compromise. His statuesque visage had earned him the nickname Granite General.

His solid and unflinching voice called in command, “Give me higher resolution on screen J-4.”

A scene on the naval docks stateside immediately magnified. A lone hero barreled north along the dock. It was easily seen that the soldier fired an APE and his sandman simultaneously. Overlays showed the engagement north of the hero. Eight loose squads of the Enmen were losing to heroes in Trashers and Skats. Four Ziegurd Class Multi-functional Assault Vehicles, known as ZMAVs, flew north in formation just above the dock. The flying tanks were on order for engagements at the extreme north of the pier, but Morgan Bruce kept his eye on the lone hero.

A station attendant said softly, “Sir, his kill rate is ten by ten.”

First Command General Morgan Bruce turned to the attendant and commanded, “Redirect a ZMAV to his coordinates.” Hands clasped resolutely, Bruce walked through the banks to his office. He turned in his door and said, “Send me that hero's ID.”

Rude tossed the bore and rolled behind the containers, there to get his bearings. The overlay showed Enmen troops scattered and thinning. A MAV turned from a northern formation to assist. The admin building was a solid sprint; Rude slowed his breathing, taking a needful break before his next run. The floating light above the admin building succumbed to errant fire and fell into the sea. On his next breath, the MAV took fire and retreated. It sailed west on a cushion of black smoke. In his mind, Rude yelled at the two-man team to jump, but they did not get the chance. The MAV went up in violent flames.

The Enmen north of the admin building were being pushed back. Rude could see the Skats spinning and the Enmen falling. He could see the Trashers leaping over the Enmen in deadly arcs. That was all good until an Enman transport screamed overhead, south to north, dropping fresh troops. If Rude was not called into direct combat, he could run behind the admin building and the stacked containers north of that. As he could not pick up Marq's ID on his internal display, he still had a long way to run.

The non-stop blast of helmet chatter made Rude's head throb. His eyesight was troubled, and sweat rolled from his forehead contacts into his eyes. He had had enough. Blinking, and shaking his head, Rude made the command for helmet silence, “Z Mode.” It was divine; his ears almost popped from the absence of sound. Still, there was his heavy breathing, but he felt better. He was psyched for his next run when he noticed the tide of battle turning. Heroes were falling, and Enmen troops were pressing south. They hadn't taken the proverbial hill; they were being hammered by Consortium artillery and systematic strafing from a Con Isle Rasp.

Rude steeled himself and ran from cover. The Enmen were still north of the admin building; Rude had only to reach the back side of it unseen. He was taking a chance, as the fresh Enmen troops were dressed in full-tech headgear. As blasts lit up the dock, and as the Rasp turned back for another pass, Rude felt he had a chance worth taking. The building was closer; another minute would bring him to a covered position, but Rude's world suddenly turned upside down. When his internals went black, Rude knew his helmet had been hit. With his pirini in full swing, Rude fell hard against the back corner of the admin building; he had seconds to remove the helmet.

Rude came up on a knee and pressed the two studs that released the retractable face shield. He gave the over-helm a yank, pulled it free, and tossed it aside. In quick order, Rude removed the ocular relays, the tracking enhancers, navigation, communications, and then the internal helmet. Rude coughed as bitter smoke filled his lungs. His eyes burned as they made the adjustment to unaided sight. The breathing filter was dead; it, the mic, and chin guard came off in one piece. Coughing, he ran to the north back corner of the building to assess his situation. Enmen would be on his position within the minute; a dash to the containers was out of the question.

The Enmen were catching hell, but they still advanced, screaming, and firing indiscriminately. The Skats and Trashers had fallen; except for the thinning by artillery fire and strafing, they were unimpeded. Rude took a guarded position at the south back corner to assess the dock. He coughed, and as an afterthought, activated his chest tracker, going red. The dock south of the Enmen advance, though littered with the fallen, was clear to the west where burning warehouses illuminated the dead. Stacked crates could provide shelter, but the distance was too great with the enemy so close.

Bruce sat at his desk. His office was silent. He considered a coded transmission to his group on the artificial moon, Consortium One. The orbiting station was not only home to the Judges, it housed the new Star Fleet intended for the inner arms of the galaxy. Judge Gennard Harris spearheaded the push to leave and was also in oversight of the group to which Bruce belonged. At a private meal on Consortium One, commonly called Onones, for the Architect's name, Gennard had hinted at room for additional troops. Morgan's hand hovered above the PrivComm pad, as he considered submitting Hero 459181, Private Rudakh Yavle.

A message light from Core Bank 3-A flashed on the General's desk. He opened audio only, and the attendant hastily made his report. “Sir. Number 459181 has gone red. There is no input, suggesting a damaged helmet.”