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  Three shots left. Jerrold thought to himself. Better make each of them count. He fired again; this bullet missed the machine gun it had been aimed at, but it still struck the gunner square in the chest before tearing through him and striking the loader’s head.

  Two shots. Jerrold fired again. He hit the barrel of the machine gun, the pressure build-up in the guns damaged mechanism caused it to explode a second later.

  One shot! Jerrold fired at the gun. The bullet missed and landed harmlessly in the concrete pillar behind the machine gun.

  “Shit!” Jerrold muttered. “One, Five, spray it down.”

  The two clones opened fire with their guns killing the last three gunners. But as effective as the clones were, the fire also gave away their position and the room shattered as rebels across the street tried to clear the building from a distance.

  “Move upstairs now, they'll swarm this building now they know we're here,”

  The three survivors rushed into the plush lift, apparently the only part of the building not gutted when the rebels moved in. They sped towards the top floor as fast as the motors could pull them. Exiting the door onto the roof itself Jerrold looked down to see the slaughter below.

  Maybe a thousand soldiers lay dead around the bullet ridden cars that had once provided cover but now only attracted bullets. The bodies were piled so high they too formed a sort of cover for those behind.

  “You’re a regular Zaytsev. Corporal, can you hear me?.” Writer’s voice crackled over the radio. “Any chance of helping with the other buildings?”

  “Major-General, Sir, send a recon section up into this building, we'll meet them on the roof and fill them in here. We might be able to do this, but we need help sir!”

  A moment passed, before Writer got back on the radio. “Okay, they're on their way, one section of my best soldiers.”

  Writer suddenly screamed; he had been shot and the current burning through his body was searing his flesh, stopping his heart. Unable to change radio channel he died a horrible, screaming death for the whole division to hear.

  Jerrold swallowed hard and mumbled sadly, “Farewell Major.” Down by the cars six soldiers cut away from the huddled masses and ran into the offices.

  Turning to his two remaining clones Jerrold barked, “One, Five, go down to the lower floors and bring me as many ammo belts and sniper clips as you can carry!” The clones nodded and walked back to the stairs.

  A few moments passed before Jerrold met the second section to follow him into the building, they were a recon section with four survivors of the massacre below.

  “What are your orders?” the leader asked when he reached the top of the stairs.

  “Move from roof to roof along this side of the street and clear out any buildings on the opposite side. My section will cross the street and cover you by dealing with the building on this side, together we'll clear a path for those below.”

  “What section?” the man asked, puzzled by the absence of others.

  Jerrold waited a moment and then, when he saw his clones staggering up the staircase with hundreds of ammunition belts slung around their necks, he said casually: “That section.” One of the clones nodded slightly as Jerrold greeted them with a smile. “Let's go.”

  Taking the first jump was nothing more than a poorly thought through leap of faith. They found that the whole recon section could easily pass between buildings, due to the height limit enforced by the local government restricted the maximum height of any structure to only twenty-one stories high, because of unusually strong winds from over the mountains to the east.

  Jerrold and the two remaining clones had problems crossing the street. Seeing a length of metal wire and couple of old radio masts, Jerrold had the clones tie the wire around the sharp metal poles in a sort of makeshift grapple hook.

  “Now,” he shouted. The clones swung the heavy wire across the road with all their strength. “One, you cross first and secure the wire.”

  The soldiers nodded and tested the wire by pulling on it strongly. The wire held firm. Feeling the thin cable pull taught the clone faithfully lowered himself over the side of the building until he was fully supported by the wire.

  Moving hand over hand he made slow progress across the street. An occasional burst of bullets would fly by him as inexperienced rebel soldiers fired wildly, but thankfully none saw him and no stray bullets hit home.

  “Hurry up!” Jerrold urged, conscious of the slaughter below. More men were charging through the door into the open only to be cut down, the piles of bodies gave a morbid cover for the living but many were still left with nowhere to go except into the open street.

  Upon reaching the other side the clone pulled himself over the short wall that ran around the edge of the building and sat on the lumps of metal antenna that anchored the metal wire in place between the two buildings.

  “Is it secure?” Jerrold asked over the radio. The clone held up his right arm and waved to signal a firm 'Yes'.

  “You next.” Jerrold ordered the next clone. The soldiers each diligently followed their orders and climbed out onto the wire. The clone moved faster without the need to constantly check the wires strength so it reached the far side much quicker.

  Last across was Jerrold, holding both the machine gun and sniper rifle, he weighed more than the clones. Luckily the wire held, until he had nearly crossed before it broke with a sickening snap.

  “Shit!” Jerrold yelled as he was swung into the building, gripping franticly to the wire as he slammed into the glass wall.

  Smashing against his armour, the glass disintegrated into millions of tiny shards that fell to the floor like rain. Left hanging on the thin wire, Jerrold heaved himself upwards with all the strength his mechanical joints could manage, but the more he pulled the more he slipped. Giving up on his climb to freedom, Jerrold kicked out the shards of cracked glass and threw himself into the building.

  This building was very different to the other one, thin interior walls not much more than a few millimetres thick divided the whole floor into small cubical offices with desks and chairs strewn around the rooms. When Jerrold staggered to his feet he looked around the room for the first time.

  “Get down!” a voice screamed “Fucking get down now!”

  Jerrold ducked to one knee and pulled his pistol from its holster again, this proved to be a big mistake. The voice had belonged to a Humanist sniper. When Jerrold reached for his gun the sniper fired a shot into Jerrold's lower back, a surge of electricity shot into his skin paralysing his legs in a spasm of pain, convulsing them in waves of agony.

  “Shut me off!” Jerrold screamed through the pain.

  The sniper foolishly moved closer and pulled down on the lever behind Jerrold’s back that manually turned off the suits power, but to stop rioters from deactivating the suits the power lever was fitted with a small, automatic taser. He practically flew across the room as half a million volts of power surged through his arms. After the shock dissipated the sniper collapsed into an unconscious pile near the smashed window.

  Hearing raised voices and footsteps approaching, Jerrold flicked on his emergency radio and contacted the recon team on the opposite roof.

  “Spray 'em down,” he screamed.

  Jerrold flattened himself against the unconscious snipers side and sucked in a deep breath. A moment later Jerrold's world exploded in a mist of flames and debris as hundreds of screaming bullets filled the air.

  Rounds tore through the sniper and thudded into Jerrold's suit making horrible thuds as they flattened themselves against the metal armour. The voices changed into pained screams and cries for help as more bullets smashed through walls and windows to strike flesh.

  When the clattering ended Jerrold rolled back and hurriedly pulled himself free from the mangled remains of his suit, before suffocation could kill him. Crawling through the mass of tangled limbs and squirming half-dead bodies, Jerrold made his way through the bodies towards the stairs, then clambered unsteadily to his
feet and sprinted to the roof.

  Reaching the roof he found the two clones waiting with their weapons drawn. Thinking and acting quickly he asked, “Have you hit the other side yet?”

  The clones shook their heads and wandered towards the side of the building, ready for the order.

  “Go on then!” Jerrold screamed. “Kill 'em all!” The clones fired on the opposite building and watched with blank eyes as the glass windows shattered and rebel bodies slumped to the ground, their programming didn't allow them to even hesitate as they pulled their triggers. “Move on,” Jerrold screamed “Next building!”

  The clone jump across the gap to the next building, the gap was only a metre at most, only wide enough for a path below that led to an adjacent street. Even without his suit Jerrold had no problems jumping the gap, although protected only by a thin layer of flexible rubber his feet were shredded as he landed on the other side.

  This act of fire and advance repeated itself for about five hours as the two small sections on each side of the street would clear a building of rebels before moving on to the next building. Near the end of the battle ammunition ran low; each building held less and less rebels, but the amount of machine gun fire needed to clear them out stayed constant. Three times Jerrold sent the clones down into recently cleared buildings to find ammo, the first two times they returned with enough bullets to sustain the assault, but the third time they came back empty handed. The rebels occupying the area this far from the base had only been given rifles, and not enough ammo. It wasn't expected the Fifth Infantry Division could make it that far before the orbital support arrived.

  Jerrold resorted to aiming his small pistol at exposed snipers to save bullets after he loaded the last spare belt into his gun, but just as the last clone finished his last ammo belt, the spaceport came into view. The launch platform and guidance antenna looming over all the other buildings, while the vast complex of hangers and fuel tanks expanded for almost as far as anyone could see.

  Jerrold was surprised to see a second transporter ready to launch, all pre-mission briefings had been very clear that only one transporter, named the 'Flying Mantis' would be ready to launch, which it was. He recognised the code 'LV-426' painted proudly on the transporter’s tail, but another, larger one, stood next to it.

  He couldn't make out the second transporters name however he did make a mental note of its registration code 'FF-161'. The Flying Mantis stood deathly quiet on the launch pad, but as he studied the second shuttle, the corporal realised it was preparing to launch.

  The recon team darted towards him, taking cover behind the gates to the spaceport. Jerrold asked the leader to get an ETA for the main force. With the buildings cleared the bulk of the remaining sections could move with little resistance, however survivors had still slowed them down, putting them at least ten minutes behind them.

  Jerrold turned to his clones and ordered. “Stay here and kill any rebels that try to move down that road. Then you find me in the spaceport when the main force gets here.”

  Again the clones followed orders and waited by the road. Meanwhile, the corporal and the recon team proceeded into the facility to discover the identity of the second transport and its allegiance.

  Jerrold would remember very little of what followed after he entered the spaceport. He remembered finding no rebels inside the base, but whenever he tried to remember what happened when he approached the second shuttle he could only remember a single image.

  A man dressed in a sharp pin-striped suit holding a large orange canister marked with bio-hazard markings. The man was laughing as if he found Jerrold's intrusion amusing. Of the seven soldiers who entered the terminal, Corporal Jerrold Hooper was the only one who escaped.

  Six days after the battle Jerrold checked into a psychiatric clinic. He never left, committing suicide by ripping out his throat in his cell when the visions of that day became too much to handle. When offered the chance to have that part of his life erased from memory Jerrold refused. In his eyes, forgetting the dead was worse than killing them.

  The battle of the Connection Withdrawal would go down in the history books as the single bloodiest day in recent history, over fifteen thousand lay dead or dying, mostly around the first mile from the base where the defenders had been most concentrated. That spot would become known as the Red Mile because of the blood that ran down the sides of the buildings, like tears, for days after the battle until the city was bombed from orbit.

  In the first reports all blame was assigned to Major-General Charles Writer for leading his men into the street before aerial support could be provided, he was an easy scapegoat and in reality the massacre was a result of many failures spread across the galaxy, all the way up the ranks.

  It took a year of trials and speculation before the case against Charles Writer was dropped. He received a posthumous knighthood, the George Cross, and a promotion for his courageous actions saving the lives of those who did escape the Red Mile.

  Chapter 1

  Time: 02:34-AM

  Date: 25th February

  Year: 3456-AD (1231-AE)

  It was night on the Moon with the Earth shining brightly in the sky: well as close to night as you can get when a solar cycle lasts for fourteen days; when the energy-grid control circuits, located in the solar collection array of Sector Nine, was apparently vandalized.

  Following standard procedure, a two man repair crew had been sent out from the nearby industrial sector of the moon city, but hadn't reported in for over an hour since arriving at the array. A second crew had departed to check up on the first. It consisted of Matthew Beckett and Thomas Goodwin.

  Matt was a short man at only five foot six with bright green eyes, sometimes described as ruggedly handsome, he had deep grooves prematurely etched into his face by a lifetime of stress, and pain he couldn't remember.

  Matt was strong and fit but the years since his army career as a corporal of a recon section had allowed a layer of fat to appear over his muscle, which he still worked hard to preserve. Despite this he was still far thinner than the average build.

  Tom on the other hand was the perfect soldier. Just out of the army and over six feet tall, he was waiting for the company to issue him his engineering suit, as the adjustment of the regular engineering suits struggled to contain his tall stature. Tom had met Matt at primary school where they had quickly become best friends and when they were both picked by the military engineering core they had accepted.

  Matt had been rushed through, skipping a year because of high grades. He was consequently sent to the front lines only weeks after graduation, to help quell a revolt on New Eden before his early retirement due to stress. He knew he had fought at all of the major battles of the final days, the battles of Hill One Hundred, Operation Suburban Thunder, The Ghost Green Event, and the Battle of Connection, or as it was better known, the Red Mile Massacre.

  To cope with the horrific memories, Matt's brain had started to shut down. An extreme case of post-traumatic stress the doctors had said. It didn't matter that they identified it; like so many other service personnel with mental disorders created or aggravated by the fighting, the solution was simple.

  They wiped six months of memories from his mind. Returning from his short military career with no memories Matt settled down on the moon where he found a job as a civil engineer, after all, he did still have the memories of training to be a combat engineer.

  Tom stayed top of his class but failed to meet the requirements to skip the year’s education so it took him an extra year to qualify. He missed the rebellion and served his five years on a destroyer patrolling the sectors of space, mostly round new colonies, best known for piracy. Both men were now twenty five years old and with the help of a few favours the old friends were reunited once again.

  In a small, open top repair craft the two men wore dirty grey space suits that should have been white topped with fish-bowl helmets that offered maximum visibility. The radio announced the news in what could only be descri
bed as a seductive monotone.

  “The HTV Masamunue owned by the Japanese firm Galactronics came under attack by pirates yesterday as it emerged from a wormhole. The crew managed to successfully hold off the attack and repel the boarders thanks to the complement of Royal Marines stationed on board.

  “They then tracked the pirates position long enough for a frigate to hunt down and destroy the attackers vessel, taking sixty of the crew as prisoners. This is the one hundredth pirate attack on civil shipping in the last year and may cause an increase in support for the invasion of the pirate bases hidden in the Horsehead Nebula.

  “Although no official comment has been made by the reclusive owner of the firm, share prices for the company rose by five percent as the ship’s cargo of almost five hundred million litres of synthesised petroleum reached the Sol system en route to Earth,” the newsreader paused.

  “In local news, violent protests are continuing in the fourth and fifth sectors of the industrial district. A police spokesperson told the press earlier that he is: ‘confident the situation can be contained without the military intervention offered by the passing Fifth Infantry Division although they have been placed on alert in case the situation spirals out of control.’ The use of force would likely cause a swell in the size and ferocity of these riots. It was deemed likely the violent demonstrations will fade over the next few days although the reasons for the protest are still unknown.”

  There was a pause before a man took over the story “Thank you Jess, I am down in Sector Five by the ‘demonstration’ now. From the looks of things the police have formed a full containment cordon and are working to evacuate civilians from the chaos. Some fires have been started within the area but the fire crews are unable to tend to the damage until the riots are under control, the automated sprinklers will have to control the blaze until then. In a minute I will enter the cordon and bring you a live interview with the protesters, trying to find their motives for such a destructive outbreak.”