"Target," I subvocalize. But without breath. Soft speech travels shorter distances than the sibilances of a whisper. And is less noted by the survival-instinct ridden hindbrain. Within the viewfinder of my spacecrew smartglasses, I study the target. A button press gives me the range. "ID Tag, Roach Queen. Two health bars, one hundred each. Range, four hundred fifty-three meters. Wind, negligible."
"Roger," murmurs Dragonova, our sniper. She's just as quiet. After we bum-rushed Fliegel's arms room, we helped ourselves to some upgrades. The other players were upset that we didn't inform them. But we are not waiting around for that herd. The deal is we take Junk-Town, they bring their guilds under our command. If they want the new toys, they're welcome to join us.
"So," I had said to Miles after we ransacked the arms room. "We have to clear ninety-nine levels to win."
"One hundred," he had replied. "The Fliegel itself and the access tunnels together count as level zero."
"Fucking nerds and counting from zero," I had grumbled.
We have picked up a few new recruits as well. Many veterans are among them. Quick to see the advantage of a military structure here and now, those of prior service. They will be useful as cadre in the future. One of them, Fireuentes, talked a big game about scout-sniper school. We let him compete in the shooting match to claim the unique spacecrew pathfinder and the team sniper slot with it.
Dragonova won handily. Between that and her cold eyes, I start to believe her legend. Even without the tales of child soldiering in the East, she has the thousand-yard stare. Miles later told me that Fireuentes had been a thirteen-ninety-one. Not that I care overmuch what MOS any of us held down, once upon a time. That was then. This is now. Level zero of ninety-nine. And I will use whatever I need to. Whomever. They can thank me later. Or curse me.
"I can pull this," says Dragonova. "But this shitty ass twenty-two varmint gun can't one-hit it. I don't even have my burst damage skills unlocked yet."
"Don't worry," I reply. "Randy and Miles ain't gonna let us down." I click the radio's send button twice to let them know the party will begin shortly.
"There wasn't a field boss on level zero in the beta," she says.
"Looks like things have changed," I reply.
"A bit, yeah," says Draganova. "Shot." Her pathfinder two-twenty-three barks. Draganova smoothly works the bolt. An empty brass case tinkles on stone. A hint of cordite reaches my nose.
"Impact," I say. "Main body. Low and right of center." The Roach Queen's tag turns a hostile red. She starts searching for her tormentor. Searching for the source of the annoying sting. Antennae taste the air. Compound eyes turn our direction.
"Wish this glass had a proper BDC," says Draganova. She frowns in concentration. "Shot." Her Pathfinder barks again.
"Impact," I say again. "Head, dead center." Draganova works her bolt again. The Queen starts to charge in our direction. "She's on the hook," I say. I click the radio's send button three times. The giant horse-sized roach screams. A dirt-covered poncho collapses under it. It slams into the pit we dug out earlier. The bottom is lined with our spears.
The ambush team opens up with their optical service guns. Big boy versions of the survival lasguns we started with. They fire from an elevated position perpendicular to the Queen's path. The long leg of our L-shaped engagement. Like shooting a shark in a barrel. Cracks of ionized air echo in the caves.
"I thought we didn't need the Captain's ID card?" Draganova asks me. She holds on the target, ready to fire again.
"Not for opening the arms room, no," I answer. "But it's nice to have if our deal with the other guilds falls through. And the experience points can't hurt us none."
"The others won't be happy," she points out.
"They can join or accept our scraps," I reply.
My radio crackles. Miles' voice comes through. "Six, this is one, Alamo, say again, Alamo, Alamo, Alamo, over."
"Heads up, Nova," I say. "She's breaking free." I'm back on the glass. The Roach Queen heaves herself up out of the pit. She drags her body free from glittering spear points now wet with foul ichor. Her first HP bar is gone. Her second is depleted by a third. She screams and comes at us again.
"Shot," says Draganova. Her pathfinder bangs.
"Miss," I say. "High and left. Just over the shoulder." Draganova throws her bolt. Another cartridge case tinkles.
"Shot," she says."
"Miss," I say. "Low and right. Slow down."
"Can't believe I'm getting buck fever," mutters Draganova. "How is a giant roach so fucking real?" She breathes in. She breathes out. "Shot," she says.
"Impact," I say. "Head and center." The firing team continues raining down photons from their perch higher on the cave wall. The crackle of their firing is like Chinese New Year. Now that she's mobile, many, if not most of their shots are misses. But there's a steady rain of burning hits nonetheless. Her last HP bar ticks down. It's not enough.
"Shot," says Draganova. She spots her own miss and curses. I stop myself from reaching for my service laser. Not yet. Trust the plan.
"High and left," I say. She works her bolt again. I notice a tremble in her hands.
"I hope this works," she says. "Shot!" Her pathfinder barks, but I'm not even watching the fall of the shot. The Roach Queen passes the marker. She's close enough. I put down my smartglass. I pick up the clacker. I flip down the wire safety bar. I slap the lever three times.
There's a thundering roar and belch of flame and smoke. The fougasse of explosives, gravel, and stones we dug into the cave floor shreds the giant roach. Poor man's claymore. But big. It's not dead yet. I can still see HP on the bar. But it is crippled. Several of her many, many legs have been sheared off. But not cleanly. She tries to crawl away on her remaining broken limbs and stumps. She's trailing green slime. She keens her hurt.
Randy and his fireteam emerge from their covered hide. They clutch security shotguns at the ready. Ready to finish the job. Doc, Iceheart, and Firebrandi line up with him. They dump twelve-gauge buck into her writhing bulk from close range. Our ears ring. If this was real life, I'd be worried about hearing damage from all this. But then again, if there really were roach monsters of unusual size, I'm not sure hearing protection would be a high priority IRL either.
"Cease firing!" Randy shouts. He waves his hand in front of his face. Miles and I and the rest of our prior service vets all join in the call and response. Once the firing tapers off, Randy steps gingerly into arm's reach of the thing. He pokes it with his sword. He gives us the thumbs up.
"See?" I say. I wipe the cold sweat from my brow. "No problem."
This is Part VII.
>Shoots the roach six times, still alive.
Just another summer in the South.