Greyloch.

Location: Planet's surface, designate SX-02.

Mission: Unit Callsign: 'Ultra 11' survivors tabbing across open ground, converging on global rendezvous. Other units to oblige and await extraction.

Alert: Proprietary Enforcement Officer, Ordlo, Meclas, Major; alive and accounted-for.

Alert: Circumferential drone patrols reporting scan-feeds in motion-track, infrared, and electromagnetic visual spectra. Unknown blips detected moving in strategic patterns, regrouping, possible hostiles. Alert.

Time: 14th July 2217, 1650 hours.

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The squad, only nine, had fanned out to an inverted wedge formation. Spaced apart at a sixty-five metre distance were Ordlo on the left flank of the wedge, Tyrone on the right, each leading the team on point. Behind them, forming the arms of the wedge were those present in Ultra 11. Bringing up the rear and acting as the vertex for the moving shape of soldiers came Desoto, lumbering along at pace-speed in the Chaser. The group tabbed along the paralight display of navigation lines projected in their individual helmet views and overlays. Closing on the co-ordinates Tyrone had been uploaded with from Aeneas Control. The Global Rendezvous now codenamed: 'Checkpoint Sligo.'

The squad punctuated the hike with short exchanges every so often. Sit-reps and beleaguered rasps about comrades, other units, and the mission, now turned 'supperly' as Operator Delaware described it once, his tinge of sarcasm all too prevalent.

Tyrone recalled the briefing he had given to his unit before embarking to drop planetside. During his speech, someone had asked him what intelligence of suspected enemy strength existed. He had, at the time a hazy splash-readout of what drones had determined from their sweep of SX-02. Hypothetical dispersal locations of Slashers and perhaps other sub-types of the modular Holcroids calculated from hypothetical entry-zones into the SX-02 solar system.
The Sergeant-Major reflected on why he had been given 'hypothetical' intel, rendered from what machines had sniffed out on the edges of space. He had answered the question with duly advised citation of the reliability such intelligence had.
Now though, on the surface of the frosty death-ball most of his unit had complained rightfully about, Tyrone worried whether computer-rendered theory, may become physically rendered fact, at an inconveniently dangerous moment.

Some minutes later, Ordlo called the team to halt and had Tyrone delegate the security so they might discuss a plan. From a his power-suit, Ordlo produced a smart-mat rolled into a tight cylinder. He wired his tactical pad to it with a cable creating flits and sparks of colour in the liquid memory circuit.
The Major overlayed the image of a topographic grid zoomed in on the squads position, latitude and longitude twinkling in a green-bordered paralight box off to the right. He gestured to zoom the view out clarifying their position proportional to Checkpoint Sligo.

Ordlo was about to outline his plan, when the whole squad received a burst of sound in their ears and the familiar, (if unexpected) noise of radio uplink.
“Attention! Attention! All Callsigns this net, unidentified IR signatures moving at strategic speed detected in multiple locations, positional data to dispatch. Prepare for possible enemy contact. Transmission out.”

In a closing burst of disconnection tones and static, the Orbiter satellites had relayed the warning to the fire-teams, pre-empting them of a developing situation groundside. Ordlo, Tyrone, Desoto and the members of Ultra, began to make ready. Ordlo cancelled his plan, instead handing over command of the squad to Tyrone, who immediately called for small unit tactics, delegated Ordlo on navigation, and ordered those operators carrying suppression weapons on point. Splitting the squad into two elements, keeping Desoto's firepower centralised and in the formation where she could be brought to bear quickly, Ultra 11 mustered, and continued their mission toward the rendezvous.

The Preyhound trampled the residual drifts of SX-02's snowy surface, decorating the lower shin plates and toe armour in cold sticky clumps. Desoto marched carefully in between the the two halves of the divided squad. Ahead of her she watched the Seargeant-Major and three others managing slow attentive steps through the snow, every so often one of them raised his weapon to peer through the sights downrange in a direction thought to contain the presence of the enemy. Whether lying in ambush, or advancing toward, near or parallel to their course, no-one would know until the data from Cyclops could be overlayed on their map readouts. Behind her, bringing up the rear guarding flank, came Major Ordlo and the three reserve members of Ultra, including Delaware. Desoto found herself zooming in with the Chaser's optics aswell if someone looked like they were aiming at something out in the distance.

For a while the going was steady, no visual sign of the enemy. Ordlo halted the advance once more however, this time to distribute the real-time tracking of movement signals from the A-1200C Orbiter satellites. There it was, glowing faintly on the display of Ordlo's smart mat, a collection of red blips flashing in an area indicated to be excactly seventy-five klicks west-north-west of the squad's blue blips. The red 'unknown' blips moved in a unified pattern but deviated from being anything like a cohesive formation as would be expected. Though the blip group moved fast and all its individuals moved at once, the individuals themselves moved in random disorderly patterns within the overall advance of the group. This troubled the Major immensely, he folded his smart mat and replaced it on himself. He now watched the movements of any blips on the display in his headgear.

Tyrone got them moving again, always liasing with Ordlo to pinpoint the positions of where the signal lay. Tyrone reassured the squad that they had every chance of making the rendezvous, and to employ noise discipline ensuring not to draw attention and give themselves away. The same could not be said for Desoto. The large metal bear she sat in could make surprisingly little noise, however it is still far louder than a suited team of operators tabbing through icy hell.
Tyrone ordered radio silence. Hand gestures only. Everyone on high alert, constantly aiming and returning to weapon-ease position, scanning map overlays, and shifting optics to find the blips out in the glaring white slopes and dunes of the planet. They covered extensive ground in as few as forty minutes. But Tyrone was on edge, something itchy in his thoughts. A sensation of discomfort and unease. He understood too readily how bad the terrain was.
~ We'd have to drop our draws and shit our own cover and concealment before this frozen fiasco offers anything to break up our signature... ~ He thought to himself. He began to run through scenarios in his head, seeing alot of potential disaster in the open air theatre they found themselves in.

SX-02 harboured an unforgiving and trecherous environment not at all suited to any type of protracted engagement with Holcroids. The cybernetic beings enjoyed all the same individual tracking and acquisition equipment that human soldiers did, if only far more efficient and advanced with the addition of being engineered in such a way as to defy any human attempt to decipher their workings. The same could be said of Holcroid weapons-systems, so technologically ahead of human weapon designs they utterly boggle anyone fortunate enough to be given a chance to examine any one component.

Tyrone had trained and rehearsed in countless scenarios utilising many terrain-types, small-unit tactics, even employing exotic methods to countermand the advances of a marauding, combat-purposed alien menace. All of them conducted under hypno, and in Virtual Reality hydro-con sedation tanks. All of the missions he had accomplished, those he didn't, he would repeat until superior officers deemed his performance passable. Only then, ranking as an Operator had he and his unit been allowed to conduct real-life training, live-fire exercises or examinations contributing to his ultimate success in the TASTRAS. Three years later, Tyrone was promoted to Sergeant-Major after a successful first mission to rescue civilians trapped aboard a merchant vessel after being broadsided by a Holcroid Metaclasm. Wading through the ruptured hull to extract the few survivors.

Now, the reality sank into him like milk poured over a lump of cereal breakfast and absorbed. He took inventory of his squad's weapons, ammunition and positional layout in advancing formation. Two operators off to his left and far right flank carried R95 Engagement Suppression Weapons. High-capacity rail guns with a withering fire rate. Useful in a pinch, and along with the Preyhound, Tyrone thought their placement and utilisation could form a base of fire platform to either occupy a force of enemies while the rear most element moved to flank. A practical idea should they take contact.

The rest of the unit came equipped with R130 Special Service Rifles. Each mounting an underslung 40mm launcher adapted to fire multiple types of grenade and small projectiles. Everyone had an R11 Sidearm, reserve ammunition, grenades of every type ranging from Sonic/Optical Disorienters, to high-yield explosive fragmentation, to rapid-dispersal bomb-dispensers attached to a power-suits k-rack.

Tyrone himself hefted an R6-D Advanced Marksman's Rifle. A plasma-pulse assisted rail-type precision weapon for use at ranges out to four kilometres in an Earth-like atmosphere, considerably further in vacuum as kinetic weapons and their ballistics behave differently in space due to Newtonian physics. The only members not ideally equipped, and thus not very well employable in an offence/defence maneuver were Desoto if she had to leave the protection of the Chaser, and Major Ordlo, who had only a sidearm.
Tyrone wrestled silently with all the various tactical conundrums as the unit crept onward toward their objective. Some of the squad at times would turn and walk backwards facing the other half of the team behind and gesture for hustle. A plea for those bringing up the rear to hurry up and close the gradually widening gap between them. At their last halt, Major Ordlo had discussed with Tyrone he would be the only one to break radio silence if he detected movement while tracking navigation. Ordlo would signal positional contact, the squad would assume defensive posture, resuming squad-band radio chatter and all means of tactical communication to be utilised. Ordlo's simple gestures ensured all understood.

The squad knew contact was inevitable. Only the time and place elluded them. Overhead, the Cyclops satellites continuously monitored the strange roilling signal headed toward the north pole of SX-02, red blips seethed and writhed in a west-north-westerly approach, vectored for an unknown location.
Someone in the squad grew tense, not enjoying the atmosphere of quiet patrol, while being potentially herded into a killing field. That someone was Operator Delaware. From hours ago he had assumed a somewhat cheerful, banter-laden persona, quickly replaced with an eerie, wordless tramp across open ground with only his own thoughts for company.

Delaware repeatedly picked up his R130 from its resting position across his chest to peer through the optic and zoom into the distance with his helmet viewscreen. He could swear the snow drifts and mounds were either getting denser or more frequent, but he more often swore something lurked in their low profile, watching them. It made him jumpy. Delaware swore aloud as Tyrone came up behind him and placed a gauntlet on his shoulder.
“Jesus H. Christ Sarge! You scared the brown outta me!”
Of course, Tyrone could not hear the reeling man, no-one's radio was allowed to be on. Tyrone could see him mouthing his discontent however behind his helmet faceplate. The Sergeant-Major waved a two fingered gesture back and forth so Delaware could see then thrust his arm and fingers out in the direction the squad were moving. This meant “pick it up and let's go.”
But Delaware knew to interpret it as: “Shut up and get moving.”

Delaware knew to think better and get focussed out on the icy waste. He also hadn't realised that he'd stopped to aim his rifle out into the mists while the rest of the squad had kept going. That is why Tyrone had pounced on him to keep up. He cursed at himself for getting shaky. His team needed his head in the game if they were going to make it.
He watched the Sergeant-Major jog back to the front, leading the unit forward and always glancing back to ensure everyone was keeping pace. Delaware paid particular attention to Ordlo who was approximately twenty metres behind passively scanning the mounds, drifts and showls all around them for several hundred metres in a wide radius. Ordlo hadn't uttered a sound. Only occasionally looked up from the smart-mat to see if he had fallen behind.

Suddenly Tyrone gestured with an open handed raised arm held out to his side in plain view of those behind him. The halt signal. The team leader pointed to two other operators, raised four fingers indicating they take four minutes, made an open-palmed circle motion with two hands, seperating and returning to show he meant Reconnaissance in the forward area beyond the mound he had stopped everyone behind, then he touched the chin of his helmet twice telling the two men to return and report to him. The two men nodded their undertanding of his orders then carefully began to crouch-move toward the area Tyrone had outlined. Tyrone had the entire squad form a small diamond shaped perimeter and kept the two R95 equipped men at strategic points in the formation.

The team had arrived close to Checkpoint Sligo. Only a hundred and fifty metres from the nav-point contact zone. However, TASTRAS standard operating procedure dictates that an unsecured area be reconned first. Once clear, the unit can form a defensive perimeter and make contact with mission control once more.

The two man recon probe returned in the four minutes Tyrone had alotted them. One of them gave a signal for all clear in the forward area. At this point Tyrone broke radio silence and ordered everyone to secure the Checkpoint but stay off the air while he co-ordinated with Control and with Ordlo. Only Desoto interrupted, unsure where she should be placed.
“Where can the puppy rest Sergeant-Major?”
Tyrone answered with a short laugh; “If I could have you overwatch the west-north-west quadrant at eleven o'clock Ma'am that would be great.” Tyrone circled around to find Major Ordlo as Desoto stomped and clanked over to her position looking out toward the region of the planet thought to be heaving with enemies.

Ordlo and Tyrone switched to a command-channel for privacy, the men having spread out in an oval to cover all approaches. Tyrone spoke first.
“Well, we're here. We need to squawk with Aeneas now. Did you log the blips we spotted from on high sir?”
Ordlo took a while to respond, he still had the smart mat in his hands, he was poring over it and seemed to be analysing something with great need.
“I've pinned the location of the signal, Sar-Major, but the motion profile is all out of whack. I can't make anything of it. It's not a search pattern, not a patrol loop, maybe a gradual advance but it seems to stop and start at random then return to an area and never exceeding a set boundary. The signal cluster seems to move away from us and then close in again but never coming into visual range. The closest it's ever come is about thirty thousand metres. The pattern is a wobble from my estimates. Currently ranged at sixty two and a half klicks west-north-west still. Hasn't deviated from this point except for a few kilometres in an array of directions.”

Tyrone watched the Major intently. Ordlo continued to post-analyse his findings of the strange behaviour the signal appeared to be engaged in. Ordlo offered;
“I've recorded video of the pattern, time stamped at our point of departure when Cyclops relayed the data to us, until a few minutes ago. Take a look.”
Ordlo popped a combination of touch-screen buttons on his wrist-computer then looked up to observe Tyrone.
“I don't know what to make of it sir. Is it worth noting? If the signal is hostile, and the enemy haven't detected us, then they can dance and jitter the day away while we make a quiet evac... Just my opinion sir...” Tyrone scoffed after watching the playback in his HUD. The Sergeant-Major had questioned time and again the Major's remarkable desire for analysis. He wanted to suggest that the Major resign from the TASTRAS and become a scientist...
But as usual, the Major had an agenda that superceded the blunt-but-efficient tactical prowess of himself as Sergeant-Major, with the finesse and strategic bearing that comes with an overly analytical Meclas Ordlo.

The two commanding elements of Ultra 11 stood idle for some moments until the obnoxious burst of noise that precedes connection with the Cyclops satellites (and by extension Aeneas) fizzed and popped in their ears.
“Regal Cell to Ultra-One-One Actual do you read?” The Voice emitting on a clear and open channel stuttered ocassionally with encryption sparkles.
Tyrone answered immediately; “Ultra One-One actual to Regal Cell receiving loud and clear over.”

Captain Grey's voice bounced around in the interior of the officer's headgear. Tyrone released his weapon, letting it hang across himself, the delay between transmissions held for a few seconds.
“Situation report. All other TASTRAS elements have radioed in save for Callsigns Ultra and Runic break... There are a multitude of unidentified movement trails being tracked on the planet's surface, no line-of-sight or visual contact confirmed as yet break. Nav point ping received for reaching Checkpoint Sligo, repeat go for Checkpoint Sligo... Situation update on Ultra One-One please?”
Tyrone quickly announced to Aeneas Control: “Regal Cell, Ultra One-One Actual, situation update, we have reached rendezvous, but are the only unit on station. All numerics accounted for for Ultra One-One break... Checkpoint Sligo secured in seventy metre-perimeter break... Ultra One-One holding position. Over.”

Grey's voice soon returned, a burly croak soaked the radiowaves for a minute while someone adjusted the signal for clarity. “Copy your last Ultra One-One. My standing orders from STRAT-COM are as follows: Until such time as Strategic-Command deems fit to deploy a rescue and recovery element for your retrieval break... I am to maintain periodic drone sweeps and sector scans for any signals friendly or hostile break... I have a flight of Hydra's standing by for search and rescue as per SOP break... I am however NOT authorised to commence the mission until STRAT-COM green-lights it break... Additional: All mentioned peripherals are subject to change as STRAT-COM dictates. Over.”

Ordlo and Tyrone looked at each other in dismay, Ordlo's heart sank, Tyrone's arms fell to his sides in a mixture of frustration and despair. He quickly controlled himself to talk clearly enough to the Captain aboard ship.
“Ultra One-One Actual to Regal Cell copy your last break... Ah, when can we expect mission confirmation from Strategic Command? Over.”
The Captain broke in: “Ultra One-One Actual, no timeframe estimate for STRAT-COM greenlight. Be advised Ultra, suspected cyberwarfare situation developing aboard Aeneas, I say again, it is possible the Artificial Intelligence is compromised aboard Base break... Further mission mandates to be confirmed. Stand by and hold position Ultra. Regal Cell out.”

There was a moment of complete silence from either man stood bolted in place. Each with a blank stare, Ordlo's face a cold block of contempt beneath a softly wheezing respirator helmet, and Tyrone exhibited an expression reminiscent of a statue being pelted by storm winds and rain. His features twitched or spasmed with a disbelief strung to overtension in his facial muscles. Ordlo glanced around unsure and disheartened, Tyrone shook his head, the IRNV goggles mounted to his faceplate wagged unceremoniously with his effort.

“FUCK!”
Tyrone screamed, forgetting the command frequency was still active and half-defeaned the Major who ordered him to ease-down.
“WE'VE MADE RENDEZVOUS, STRAT-COM SAYS FUCK-OFF TILL THEY'RE READY, AND THE SHIP IS HACKED??!”
Ordlo quickly butted in: “CALM DOWN TYRONE! I heard everything from Control. At least they had the decency to tell us... We're at Sligo, the squad is intact and so are others making their way here, our gear works, and we know where the enemy is. Our number ain't up yet...”

Something beeped in Ordlo's ear, he started at the realisation the smart-mat was requesting his attention. On the liquid crystal surface, paralight emitters collected the patterns, colours and shapes of all the relevant topographical features of the planet's geography. Ordlo gestured for the device to zoom out sixty percent. What he saw shocked, amazed, and most of all concerned him. Ordlo began to see the extent of what the planet was home to potentially.
The patterns of clustered blips he'd observed earlier and had explained to Tyrone were not unique to their locale. Hundreds of blip-clusters dotted the virtual landscape of SX-02. Each cluster containing hundreds of flashing, erratically mobile red dots signifying a substantial presence of something on the planet besides the lonely, scattered units of TASTRAS operators.

“Sar-Major, I recommend you disperse the section and dig everyone in. Stress the point we will have company, but stress more the need to positively ID targets as we have friendlies inbound. Issue standard watch rotations, and I strongly suggest a perimeter patrol out to something like half a klick.”
Ordlo waited for Tyrone to rise from a hunched posture, gripping his armoured knees. The Sergeant-Major slowly returned to a vertical stance to acknowledge the Major's suggested modus operandi. He sighed a long breath and said: “Roger that Sir.”
Tyrone turned to address the team on squad frequency while Ordlo filed out to study the map.

“Listen up Ultra, STRAT-COM has issued a mandate that retrieval will not go ahead without their say-so. So as far as we're concerned we sit tight and cover the other units trying to make rendezvous, anything other than a TASTRAS Operator is fair game. Blast it to hell.”
Some whoops mixed with groans of disappointment collected amongst the unit. Realising they would have to wait for an indeterminate length of time before being rescued. Tyrone went on:
“Regal Cell informs me that Aeneas' may be in trouble itself also. So this complicates things further. Regardless, we have a job to do, and we will do it!” Tyrone was answered again with
verbal conjecture and several operators voiced their worriment for the Ship.

At last, Tyrone had brought the team up to speed on the situation they found themselves in, he began to distribute orders for wider spacing between the team on their roughly assumed perimeter. He called for watch rotations, then delegated Delaware to take someone else and walk a five-hundred metre perimeter beyond the squad's ovoid 'base' produced by merely having the troops of Ultra 11 lining the sub arctic rifts of barely-acceptable cover. Each man faced outward from the eliptical formation, taking all manner of postures from crouching, standing or lying prone to watch for any movement in any direction. Lastly, the Sergeant-Major drilled the entire unit on weapon discipline and positively identifying targets.

Two hours passed by with no activity, no changes. Ordlo made rounds to all the members of Ultra, stopping to check in. The Major quietly took note of the physiological and psychological state of each Operator. Tactfully asking questions about what any of them knew about the enemy. Or if they had witnessed the effects of being at war with such a ruthlessly efficient race of cybernetic horrors. Some of the unit were uneasy, Ordlo guessed that these men had seen action or maybe experienced some loss due to the long war. Others knew practically nothing at all. Having not been deployed in theatres involving the Holcroid threat until now. These men Ordlo noticed, appeared to be at the very least, scared.

But fear, Ordlo knew is a factor which effects all soldiers in combat. It is more often than not the only factor ensuring an individuals survival. But here, in a new war, somewhere distant, so far from any of their homes, so isolated, a different fear coursed through these men. They were trapped on an inhospitable hostile planet, with no knowing when they would be rescued, their original mission scrubbed or failed, surrounded by an unknown strength of enemy aliens intent on their destruction biding their time before they closed the net. Ordlo sensed nothing more frightening could arguably befall the men around him than what had already. Except the attack itself, looming ominously, but not yet started. Morale seemed to waiver on the edge of collapse, but no man yet faltered.

The Major walked away toward the shadow of a mound, the blue giant star hanging above cast a dark grey canvas outline which seemed to beckon to Ordlo. Slumping down in it, exhaling heavily, Ordlo leaned back into the snow to watch several whisps of cloud float by in the brilliant blue-white glare of SX-02's sky. From the shade provided by the mound, Major Ordlo turned off his radio to verbally record his findings of the unit into the hidden data-cache of his armour. Satisfied, he removed his head gear to attack an MRE.

Watching Desoto twist the main hull of the Preyhound left and right, her mind obviously absorbed on watching the horizon, Tyrone called to her over squad frequency. He enquired about her, she responded with a curt brief about staying alert and readiness to pitch in. It was all the Sergeant-Major needed. He knew she needed a break to revive herself. He relieved her of the Chaser, swapping it for his R6-D and handing her some magazines, Tyrone suggested she take fourth watch, scrounge some rations and sleep for a time.
From the Sprint-Suit, Tyrone spun the machine around to watch Desoto saunter off to find her own shadow to lie in. He sealed the Preyhound, and began to move off from the main group. Thudding and rumbling across the frozen tundra.

The Sergeant-Major radioed Harrison Delaware, out patrolling the wider perimeter. They had almost completed their ninth circuit, when Tyrone relieved them to return to safety with the rest of Ultra on Checkpoint Sligo. He could then commence his lone trek around the area in the Preyhound.

Some time later, while making another pass on his route around the half-kilometre patrol radius, Tyrone stopped to send a radar ping, He'd set it for a kilometre in an expanding omnidirectional circle, watching the paralight radar read-out carefully though he didn't expect to detect anything. He was swiftly surprised to see a return signal. A blue blip on the edge of his ping-range. Then all at once the radio became flooded with the frenzied cries and panting breaths of someone in distress, Tyrone watched as the blue blip came closer followed by a second blip reading at ten metres behind.
“MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! THIS IS TASTRAS OPERATOR ELLSWORTH, CALLSIGN COIL SIX-EIGHT- GO! ...MAYDAY! DOES ANYONE READ?? ... CALLSIGN COIL SIX-EIGHT ON APPROACH TO CHECKPOINT SLIGO!”

Tyrone stood fast, unable to believe that another unit had made it so soon, he then registered the distress, he quickly chimed radio bursts, and spoke over general frequency:
“Coil Six-Eight, This is Ultra One-One Actual reading you loud and clear. Picking you up on ping, what's the situation? Over.”
A short delay preceded the panting breathless voice of the Operator, apparently running at top speed. He yelled a hasty response:
“CATASTROPHIC CASUALTIES SUSTAINED! REPEAT, CATASTROPHIC CASUALTIES SUSTAINED! FUCK! AH! INBOUND ON CHECKPOINT SLIGO, BE ADVISED HEAVY ENEMY FORCE IN PURSUIT REQUEST COVERING FIRE! OVER!”
Before the soldier could dial off, Tyrone heard the unmistakable whine and clatter of light rail-gun fire through the radio.

Tyrone burst into action, digging the cyberalloy legs of the Preyhound deep into the snow and watching the cycling system of the two chain guns rope ammunition into place. He powered the guns on, and deactivated safeties. While running at approximately seventy kilometres an hour to close on Coil 68's position, he happened to glance at the radar readout on the inner panel of the Sprint-Suits control suite again. He swore as he noticed a large cluster of red blips at around a hundred metres crawling up behind the two blue blips he had just squawked to.

He estimated it would take him six minutes to cover half the distance to them, enough time to alert the squad. He switched to squad frequency and boomed:
“STAND TO! ACTUAL TO SQUAD! STAND TO! DEFENSIVE POSITIONS, HOLD FIRE AT CO-ORDINATES ZULU-TWO-THREE-ZERO! FRIENDLIES INBOUND, ENEMY CONTACT ON FRIENDLIES, PREPARE POSITIONS FOR COVERING FIRE, WAIT FOR MY COMMAND! GO!!!”

Tyrone took off sprinting, willing the Chaser to clear the terrain at best speed. Behind him, the bulk of Ultra, including the two operators with suppression guns piled up on the summit of a low mound of snow, dropping down to prone positions deploying the bipods from their R95's and looking searchingly downrange for Holcroids. Others quickly took kneeling or crounched postures with rifles raised and sights adjusted. Safeties were flicked off, and charging handles racked and released. A base of fire had been established, each man hoping like hell it would be enough...

Tyrone kept the Preyhound moving, the leg joints and servo-motors whined amidst the loud clatter of armour plates bouncing against the frame of the machine. Louder still came the sound of heavy carbonic steel and cyberalloy feet crushing through the snow, causing either rock or ice beneath to fracture. Tyrone decided to bypass a large hillock of snow in his path, as he rounded it, he saw the two men of Coil 68 breaking contact from a roiling sea of chrome-iridium plated, scythe-limbed Slashers bearing down on them, far closer than he'd expected them to be, literally between thirty to fourty metres - hot on their heels. One of the Operators glanced up from his half-stumble to see Tyrone in a bracing position, legs apart in the Preyhound, chain guns armed. Not having time to check if the radio was set to general frequency, Tyrone just yelled at them both to get behind him and move it.

There was a tender instant of silence, the two men of Coil 68 panted past Tyrone for dear life, clutching weapons in one hand, bellowing inaudible protests before the Sergeant-Major squeezed the gun control-triggers.
The chain-guns screamed, high velocity plasma-assisted diamond-tipped projectiles arced out in brilliant breams. Ripping and shredding the front-most line of Slashers, the rate of fire from Tyrone's guns cutting through everything and more. Huge plumes of snow rose upward where missed shots impacted the ground. The muzzles of each barrel blazed on, threading a cascading torrent of bullets into the advancing Holcroids.

Wet chunks of skin and organs, or shattered pieces of metal expoded apart in so many locations along their axis of advance that Tyrone could not tell if he were slowing the enemy or shooting through the front to carve up the ranks behind, each seemed to blur together in a cloud of dismembered, organic/robotic body parts. He quickly had the miniframe adjust optics. In a second, he had a closer view of where his ammunition was landing and directed it to inflict greater damage.

In as few as fifteen seconds, Tyrone's short bursts of fire reduced the pursuing cluster of enemies to crumpled lumps of holed metal, charred bits of ancient alien flesh and an ocean of black oily ichor soaking into the sacred white snow. He scanned ahead of him, it wasn't over. Two or three hundred metres away, sweeping over dunes of snow, rising up from unseen trenches and gulleys and charging toward him at incredible speed, were more of them.

With a quick change of control, Tyrone had opened the panels of his Preyhound's shoulder-housing, revealing a small honey-comb of black nodules. He swept a button and sent little bomblets out in a wide arc to fall into the ground and begin scanning for movement. The Chaser whirled around then lept high.
Tyrone cleared the hill he'd earlier deviated around. In mid air he could see the two men of Coil 68 on the ground hunched over and panting, tufts of mist escaping from the vents on their power suits. He came down behind them with a weighty crash, sending snow up and outward around the Chaser. A clamouring of clanking machine parts ensued as the Preyhound's hydraulics and servo's recovered from the impact. No one needed any more motivation to escape, Tyrone hadn't the presence of mind to cry out anyway. All three of them proceeded to break off in a dead sprint making for the rough slopes and low dunes of Checkpoint Sligo, in the distance, on top of a low mound could be seen some of Ultra 11 ready to let rip with automatic fire as soon as the trio were clear.

Several explosions ebbed upward beyond the snow-hill only minutes behind them. A dozen or more Slashers destroyed or incapacitated, but surely about to crest the hill as the Sergeant-Major's mines thinned their ranks. The survivors of Coil 68 wheezed with exhaustion. Pushing themselves to keep running. It seemed to the Sergeant-Major, they must have been running for a considerable distance, their only saviour being the guiding light of Checkpoint Sligo's Nav-Point marker cached to them from Cyclops data-streams. As well as the sheer luck that Ultra 11 was on station securing the area. No time existed for reunion chats or extensions of gratitude yet however.

While bringing up the rear, Tyrone tasked himself reloading and resetting the bomb-dispensers, while also switching comm-frequency to talk to the squad and the two new additions.
He sent another radar ping to track the movement pattern exhibited by their metallic, taxidermy-like adversaries.
Some of the Slashers had begun to sweep down the facing slope, but a shift had occurred in a selection of the creatures. In pairs, or in threes, Slashers began to slow to an almost crawling quadrupedal lurch, their featureless heads searching left and right as if trying to acquire targets. The bulk of Holcroids pressed the sprint. Then without warning, the lurking Slashers switched over from a close-quarters configuration using only their bladed upper limbs, to allowing two energy cannons to travel up the robotic grooves sunk into their backs, rotating around and over their carapace torso-armour, flanking either side of each Slasher's triangular 'head'.

The Sergeant-Major noticed the change whilst monitoring the radar equipment from the Preyhound's Front-Up-Display. He wheeled on the still fast-moving targets headed up rearward of him. Instructing the men of Coil 68 to break contact and enter cover with his unit, Tyrone swung the lumbering Sprint-Suit from twelve to six o'clock. Gauging the distances using parameters overlayed by the on-board miniframe, highlighting each target in a bright orange paralight acquisition frame, Tyrone saw a hundred Tango's had surged through his ambush.

He sprayed long streams of bullets into the closest Slashers, turning the gun-mounts left, right, up or down, training his fire to over-lap itself, catching more of the heaving gibbering things in his storms of indescriminate punishment. In Tyrone's view, laying strewn across an area the size of a launch-bay, were piles of shot Holcroids, some spewed steam and inky fluid where shells had exploded through them. Tyrone's attention shifted to the newer threat soon however as he began to notice flares of radiant blue energy slicing the air near him and throwing the ground up in fierce columns.
By the time the Slashers had begun to extend a field of super-heated ionised energy pulses toward Tyrone's location, he had displaced. Slasher sub-types had long before been discovered to house electronically-assisted targetting equipment coupled with their primary and secondary weapon configurations. Able to accurately target, motion-predict, track, and compensate in both ranged and close-quarter combat. Tyrone simply had luck to thank for having avoided the enemy's incoming shafts of fire.

Bounding movement allowed the Sergeant-Major to rally on the position being held as overwatch by his small team. The two men from Coil 68 had grounded themselves amongst the unit, panting as profusely as they swore. Eventually ripping empty magazines from their weapons to be replaced as they caught their breath. Tyrone ducked the Preyhound around the foot of the mound below the waiting fire-team to come up behind and stand over their prone forms allowing his guns clear line-of-fire on a rapidly approaching swathe of Holcroids.
Whilst arcing bolts scored the mound in a thousand places from range, Slashers poured-in to hack their quarry to slivers.

“ENGAGE!!”
Came the Sergeant-Major's order to fire at will. All the hillside became ablaze with a shrieking din. Electrical sparks twisted or popped along the accelerator-rails and muzzles from every weapon, discharging extreme-velocity rounds as a continuous sheet.
Each man tactically tracked his aim, adjusting heads-up-optics to augment weapon-sights carefully walking their fire onto a multitude of fast-moving targets. All of them jarring or shuddering with the impact of munitions tearing through their sleek metal coverings to mince delicate atrophied organs. Sparks glittered while oily fluids spewed.
Now and again Tyrone ordered suppressive fire on the faster targets, then ordering those men exposed to displace, as Slashers holding ground took pot shots at them from range with particle projecting energy weapons.

“Sergeant-Major! Reading flanking fire to the north and west!”
Somehow Major Ordlo pierced the rising cacophany of battle to warn Tyrone. Ordlo had crept into a shallow valley between two small snow-piles fifty metres from Tyrone's group. With Ordlo were two men including Delaware. Ordlo assisted with dispensing ammunition to his section. Occasionally letting off shots in the Holcroid's direction with his sidearm. To his front, another hill crawled with enemies laying fire on them from around three hundred metres away. It was the best the Major could do to attempt to suppress the shooting aliens before ransacking the section's ammo pile and flinging a magazine to someone needing it. Delaware lay prone on the upper slope firing in semi-auto. He was still while aiming at a Slasher blazing away at Tyrone's position, lining up his rifle-optic's paralight reticle to the thing's centre mass, when its head, along with much of its left side exploded. Ichor, arcing electricity and splintered metal filled his scope before falling to the ground quickly in SX-02's one and a half times Earth gravity.

Delaware pulled away from his point of aim to look to his right. He smiled as he spied the Lieutenant prone with Tyrone's R6-D set up with bipod. She fired again, the crack and boom resounded into the distance. ~ Atta girl. ~ Delaware thought to himself with glee.
He resumed his aim, carefully placing his shots on the barely mobile Slashers. He noted how unflinching they seemed to be even when faced with the damage output and accuracy offered by Desoto. ~ Turkey shoot. ~ He thought with a mild cackle.
The team managed to hold ground, received no casualties as yet, but if the enemy could not be neutralised now, the skirmish would drag too long. The uncertainty of friendly reinforcements, coupled with the very possible arrival of overwhelming enemy reinforcements before any practical help, made the need to end the ordeal more urgent. Ordlo radioed Tyrone to displace his unit. He watched them retreat off the mound, taking a loose wedge formation closer inside the original perimeter. Ordlo had, in between feeding ammo to the two soldiers with him, dodging incoming bolts of particle-pulses, and returning futile fire, been hammering commands into his wrist-mounted tactical pad, calling in a flight of drones. He dialed up a paralight map showing the inbound drones, marked the co-ordinates for friendlies, and finally painted the nearest bunched crowd of Slashers with the tac-pad's infrared laser.

“BE ADVISED! BE ADVISED! FRIENDLY AIRSTRIKE PROGRAMMED, DANGER CLOSE! I SAY AGAIN – AIRSTRIKE INBOUND TAKE COVER!” The Major bellowed loudly into his microphone stud.
In seconds everyone was face down in the snow, with mere seconds before ordnance arrived.
High above the men a huge blast sounded, then another, then another. Followed seconds later by echoing, rolling explosions that walked from one hundred to three hundred metres outward over the Holcroids in every direction. The sound seemed eternal. Loud blasts interspersed with smaller more erratic cracks pulverised the whole area north and west beyond the ropey cover protecting the squad. Ordlo had ordered a payload of air-bursting missiles filled with guidance controlled smart bombs and bomblets be dropped from several drones deployed hours ago by Captain Grey.
He was relieved to have taken control of them when he did. Had he left it any later, the squad might have been bloody rags.