“Goddamn thunderbirds,” Lark muttered.

  The rain had picked up, sounding like machine gun fire on Steel Cupcake’s armor.

  “Yeah, I’d hate to be the human fighter jet guys up there right now,” Tang said.

  “Remind me again what base said before we lost contact.”

  The communications operator, mechanic, mage and hobbyist bodybuilder shrugged his boulder shoulders. “A ‘Red Squadron’ was going to do an air strike on the American artillery.”

  Steel cupcake cruised west on the eastbound side of the empty freeway, slowly.

  They had their own jammers going, which Lark supposed didn’t help her own desire of freedom of communications with her side.

  She regarded Tang with vague displeasure.

  A man his age had no reason to be trying to look like one of those bloated alchemical supersoldiers the Americans used to pump out before they switched to turning the youths into animal human hybrids.

  It was bad for space reasons and smell reasons.

  Damn the even more cramped compartment.

  Damn the protein farts.

  Still, she couldn’t get rid of him.

  The crew had made it together since the very beginning and it would be too much trouble to train up a newbie in the middle of a busy time.

  “I’d hate to be them right now,” Lark mused. “Still, bad weather means we have less to worry from air strikes.”

  “Yup,” Tang agreed. “Harpies aren’t going to be doing a lot of flapping around in those winds and visibility. If it’s howling down here, imagine what it’s like up there.”

  “Just picked up a bunch of heat spikes!” Jonesy said.

  The gunner, soldier, mechanic and beginner cellist grinned from where he sat and observed his many tiny windows projected in the faceplate of his helmet.

  Lark eyed Jonesy like a critical mother her lazy son.

  A beginner cellist that had taken the instrument up over a decade ago.

  She’d say he needed to apply himself more, but after that long?

  That ship had sailed, crossed an ocean and been dismantled on the other side for parts.

  She viewed what he viewed on her faceplate.

  Commander’s prerogative.

  Thermal images.

  Whites fading to blacks.

  The cold rain putting out the fires and heat.

  Three locations.

  One after the other.

  “Where is that?”

  “Where they said the artillery was likely to be. In PCC,” Jonesy said. “I guess we didn’t have to do anything.”

  “We heading back?” Bellaire said from her cockpit.

  The girl was young.

  Well, anything under 30 was young to Lark, who had been a soldier back when the spires had shown up to ruin all her future plans.

  Bellaire really was young.

  She had taken over as Steel Cupcake’s driver from her mother, who had retired after a bad injury a few years back.

  Steel Cupcake’s Driver.

  Lark could tell that her Bradley had a favorite in the young woman that had practically grown up with it.

  “We have to confirm destruction. If they missed some we take care of it and we’re gonna hang around in case they need help.”

  Not that they could do much in the rain with their depleted supply of anti-air munitions.

  Lark felt a tingle on her skin.

  The undersuit kept her at a constant comfortable temperature.

  So, why did it feel like a gust of freezing wind had just washed over her.

  “Did anyone one else feel that?”

  Affirmatives echoed hers.

  They hadn’t made it this far and this long by ignoring Steel Cupcake’s warnings.

  “Pump 30% more power into the left side shield generator. Ready smoke screens, all of you. Normal, Skill and spell in that order. Blanket the freeway ahead of us when I give the word. Veracruz!”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Tell the ninjas to get ready. We’ve got incoming.”

  No sooner spoken than a boom shattered their moment of relaxed preparedness.

  “Give me that smoke! Lose us in there, Bell!”

  Something heavy and explosive splashed against the magitech shield projected from Steel Cupcake’s left side.

  The Bradley groaned, then growled as it shot forward into the concealing smoke laid across a wide swathe of the freeway.

  “Find her a target, Jonesy!”

  “Shields down 10%, Commander Lark!” Tang said. “Not picking up any enemy comms or signals. What do you thing? I’m thinking we’ve got a good old fashion one v one duel.” He waggled his brows.

  Her lips split into a feral grin.

  She couldn’t help it.

  She lived for this, just like Steel Cupcake.

  “Struggling. Shot finder’s throwing up multiple locations,” Jonesy barked.

  A second shot boomed against their side.

  This time they felt it rocking violently.

  Tang cursed. “Shields down to 10%!”

  “Fuck it! Doubling up her shot finder with my Skill. Locate Shot Origin,” Jonesy said. “This isn’t good. Picking up two separate locations that do not make sense with the trajectories.”

  “Enemy Skills or spells.” Lark chewed the inside of her mouth. “I want AT seeker missile spread. One location to the next and the space between.”

  “The space between…” Jonesy sang.

  “Not the time.”

  He chuckled. “AT seekers away.”

  Steel Cupcake vibrated slightly as her missile battery spat.

  “Then mortar me some goo over the same area. Let’s see if they can stay stealthed up with some of that on them.”

  Steel Cupcake shook slightly with the rapid-fire thumps.

  “Slide Dodge!” Bellaire snapped.

  Everyone inside the Bradley lurched violently to one side.

  Lark saw the third enemy shell flash just past them through Steel Cupcake’s omnidirectional eye.

  “Nice job, girls!” she grinned like a wolf. “That looked like a 120mm shell to me.”

  “Ohohoho,” Tang smiled. “Are we up against the good old Abramsham Lincoln?”

  Jonesy laughed. “Gonna emancipate them from their mortal condition.”

  “Commander Lark, the ninjas want a word,” Veracruz said.

  “Alright. I’ll deal with them. You make me a couple of light bridges. Two going down the south side and one going down the north. Let’s get them thinking.”

  “Commander Lark, we’re leaving.”

  She could see the cocky young woman’s grin.

  Reminded her of her own.

  The hunger that came with the bloodthirsty sorts.

  “We’re not enjoying getting thrown around back here while waiting to maybe be blown up.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be planning on finding our enemy tank or tanks would you?”

  “Nope. We have our own duties and Quest. Namely, to make sure that the American artillery is truly destroyed. But, if we have time, we might do some target marking for you. I mean, you can’t really expect us to fight tanks, do you?”

  “Hell no! Those pieces of shit are ours! Not that I’d turn do a good spot or two. Good hunting!”

  “Same to you!”

  “Light bridges are cast. They’ll last 5 minutes unless they get shot.” Veracruz peeked into the rear compartment. “They portaled out. I’m gonna hang out back there. Give everyone more elbow room. Also, Tang’s gonna start nervous farting soon, so…”

  “You know what you’re doing.” Lark focused on her HUD and the area where their enemy hid. Smoke rose from burning homes with neon green goop spread over several city blocks like a giant kid had decided to throw slime over their Lego city. “I’d like to know how many we’re up against.”

  “Reviewed shot footage. We think they came from the same gun,” Jonesy said.

  “Should I send out our last drones?” Tang said.

  They had lost most earlier in the evening during the prolonged engagement against the Americans to the east of their employer’s base.

  “Hold on to them for now.” Lark waited for the fourth shot. “Hard break!”

  Bellaire and Steel Cupcake obeyed nearly instantaneously.

  The shell skimmed their forward shield.

  “Negligible damage,” Tang said.

  “I got a target! Marking!” Jonesy whooped.

  “I’m boosting everyone. Bell, take the north side light bridge and double back south under the freeway. I’ll leave the evasive stuff to you and our girl. Bring the shock and awe to this motherfucker.” Lark’s wolfish grin had heralded a bad time for many enemies, human and monster, over the decades. “Let’s get in that phone booth.”

  Steel Cupcake roared out of the underpass like an angry bear woken up early from its hibernation out of its cave.

  25mm chain gun spit rounds at over 200 per minute, alternating types between, armor-piercing, high explosive, anti-magic shield, target marking and tracers.

  In the distance, flashing light revealed the enemy tank a split-second before the roar of its gun.

  Lark was sure it was an Abrams.

  She’d recognize the blister on its main gun anywhere.

  “Forward shields down to 15%!” Tang said. “Oh god, this is gonna hurt… casting my own for the next hit… Veracruz, you better—”

  “I’ll do you one better even after doing two light bridges.”

  “Shut up, man! That’s your specialty!”

  Thunder cracked louder than that in the storm above.

  Tang cursed.

  Blood gushed from his nostrils.

  “Veracruz!”

  “Casting Mage Shield of Glorious Light.”

  “Show off,” Tang muttered. “Re-routing remaining shield generator power to the front. Should be back to full by the time Veracruz’s head explodes from the feedback.”

  Steel Cupcake sang in Lark’s head.

  A song of heart beating like a drum, of blood rushing through her ears, of adrenaline flooding her body.

  Faster she went.

  Her weapons hit harder than they should’ve according to the rational laws of physics.

  Lark’s Skills made it all happen.

  “We got him! Enemy forward shields are down!” Jonesy crowed. “Steel Cupcake coming at ya, dumb Americans!”

  “Keep up the rate of fire!”

  “Gonna have to switch to Skill-made ammo soon.”

  “Do it!”

  “She wants to drift, Lark!” Bellaire laughed.

  “Then choose your line!”

  “Jonesy! Get that gun pointed to the left! Everyone hold on to your asses!”

  Bellaire gunned Steel Cupcake’s engine shooting her forward like a super car rather than a 30 ton armored fighting vehicle.

  She went wide to the left of the enemy tank.

  120mm cannon shot went well behind her armored ass.

  Same with grenades, machine gun burst and spell fire.

  “Spaceboy Drift!”

  Steel Cupcake slid around the enemy tank’s left side, impossibly rising into the air on a road made of nothing.

  She rode the air like the high-angled bank of an old motor speedway, gun blasting away with impossibly accurate fire down on the less heavily armored top of an old Abram’s turret.

  “You can’t hide in a house when we can just shoot down, you fascist fucks!” Bellaire roared.

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  Lark felt Steel Cupcake echo the sentiment.

  “Coming up on his ass! Shove something explosive up it for us, Jonesy.”

  The enemy tank lurched forward with its own speed boost as Jonesy stitched fire up its backside. Literally, as he pecked at its engine and struck a fuel line or something.

  However, the fire extinguished a moment later.

  Lark could feel it in the air.

  Skills in the duel.

  Levels even.

  Good ones.

  Although, the Abrams wasn’t close to alive like Steel Cupcake was.

  It was just a dumb machine.

  Its crew needed to see it as more.

  It plowed through the houses on the opposite side of the street.

  “Keep on its ass, Bell and try to stay out of its firing arc.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” Jonesy said. “Reviewed our shots and we did good damage to its turret. Pretty sure it won’t be able to rotate past sixty degrees to the left off its center line and forty to the right.”

  He meant from the forward facing starting point.

  “Don’t be afraid to stay close, Bell, but stay on your toes. We can’t rule out a Skill or magic fix.” Lark chewed the inside of her mouth. “Jonesy. We’re feeling that its armor might be tough to crack, so, we might settle for disabling it.”

  Their contract wasn’t to engage in a one versus one duel no matter how enjoyable.

  It was to destroy the American artillery.

  She felt a current of disapproval run through her.

  “Sorry, girl… we agreed to do a job.”

  Disable the Abrams then they could go join the ninjas.

  “We can circle back if there’s time.”

  Steel Cupcake rumbled reluctant agreement.

  “Helluva a shot, Sands!” Pfc. Wilkins crowed.

  Col. Blackstone let the kids have their fun.

  Good for morale.

  As long as they were locked in he didn’t have a problem with it.

  And they were locked in because he had a Skill active to keep them that way.

  “Just like duck hunting, except I don’t feel bad cause it was a traitor,” Sgt. Sanders said.

  Col. Blackstone would’ve liked a second shot at the tin birds.

  Radar had pegged at least four, but they must’ve had some stealth capability or jamming since he had almost mistaken them for birds.

  Fool on them.

  Regular birds wouldn’t be flying out in a thunderstorm close to a raging battle.

  They were fast though.

  He had to give them that.

  Blink and the three tin birds had blasted past them too fast to get a lock with their surface to air, let alone rotate the turret for Sgt. Sanders to use his Skills.

  The Whistling Hive had worked.

  He’d rather eat his boot leather than put that in the after action report for the brass.

  As far as he was concerned they were looking to adopt the aliens’ magic and tech too quickly.

  It was like a dumbass frat boy diving into a dark river without checking for gators first.

  The Abrams’ monster of an engine rumble and its treads ripped up the street, but the ride inside the crew compartment was downright car-like.

  Col. Blackstone couldn’t help but old man grumble at that even if it was good for his joints and bones.

  “Approaching Site B, sir. How do you want me to orient?” Spc. Rucka said, pulling him back from his mental wandering.

  That was happening more and more.

  He had the map of the local area memorized, but he pulled down the projection from the magic gem embedded in the side of his periscope.

  “Straight on the freeway.”

  It was an elevated position from the old college where the artillery group had parked.

  His gut was warning him about it.

  He wasn’t going to credit Skills.

  Spc. Rucka backed up into a garage, destroying the house and collapsing it on them.

  “Deploying camo. Urban Camouflage Screen.”

  Unless someone had a Skill to counter Spc. Rucka’s, they’d see a normal house rather than a tank using it as a shell like a violent hermit crab.

  “Sir!” Pfc. Wilkins said. “I’m detecting explosions from the direction of the artillery group. Distinct from their bombardment.”

  Col. Blackstone ground his teeth.

  Could be the tin birds dropping air to ground missiles and bombs.

  Could be monsters tripping the mines.

  His gut told him that it was out of his hands at the moment.

  That he needed to be right where he was.

  “Monitor it, but keep your focus on potential threats to us.”

  “Yessir!”

  He waited patiently.

  Pfc. Wilkins fidgeted, but she was a woman.

  They tended to struggle to sit still.

  They had an instinctive need to be always doing something.

  She would’ve done well to learn from the sergeant, who sat at his station motionless like a true hunter aiming down the sights of his rifle.

  He made a mental note to have Sgt. Sanders take Pfc. Wilkins out hunting the next time they were back in safe territory with downtime.

  She whispered updates about the explosions at the artillery site.

  He trusted his soldiers to handle three tin birds.

  He had less trust in the bird women.

  Strange creatures.

  He hadn’t had much personal interactions with their kind.

  Didn’t want it.

  He figured they probably combined the worse aspects of bird and woman.

  Although, he wondered why there weren’t any males of their species.

  There had been no official word on that.

  “Pfc. Wilkins, shut the radar and radio off.”

  He had a flash of insight right through his gut.

  “Bird’s Eye View. Shared Vision: Gunner. You seeing the same thing I’m seeing, Sanders?”

  His eyes left the interior of the tank and soared over the buildings and homes around them.

  He gazed down on the landscape.

  Ironically, just like a bird.

  Visibility wasn’t great.

  The rain had started falling fast and heavy.

  Goddamn curtains of it.

  The Skill mitigated it some.

  “To the northeast, Sanders. Nearing the freeway.”

  “I see it, sir. Is that a Bradley?”

  Col. Blackstone ground his teeth.

  Another reminder that the young soldiers under his command didn’t recognize it on sight like him.

  Of course, why would they?

  How many Bradley’s did they even have in service?

  A dying breed, if not extinct.

  His beloved Abrams wasn’t that far behind.

  Damn brass had fallen in love with a stupid walking crab, of all things.

  “That it is.”

  The Bradley was painted in gray, urban camo.

  It had a lot of extras on the turret.

  “Armor looks different.”

  Extra plates on the front where the engine hid and over the rear doors to the squad compartment.

  On the sides as well of both the hull and the turret.

  It rolled up the off-ramp onto the wrong side of the freeway and headed west.

  He could read the other commander’s thought process.

  An elevated position with multiple potential lines of fire down to the college.

  It’s what he would’ve done.

  “Sir? I’m seeing some weird things all over it.”

  “It doesn’t matter, sergeant.”

  The Bradley had more than urban camo and fancy attachments.

  It had what appeared to be the tattered and scorched remains of banners, ribbons and paper sheets of varying sizes fixed all over its armored skin.

  Well wishes, words of encouragement and drawings.

  The quality varied.

  There was skilled art and the sort of art parents and grandparents would proudly tape to their fridges without regard for quality.

  And there was one last bit of artwork.

  Four, actually, each identical, but for the size.

  On the both sides of the hull and turret.

  A pink cupcake with a steel girder in place of a candle.

  “It’s—”

  “Just the enemy. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  Despite his words Colonel Blackstone felt the shriveled organ in his chest rev like his Abrams’ engine.

  Warmth filled his chronically chilled limbs.

  A smile split his lips as he licked the dryness away.

  There wasn’t much he lived for these days.

  But this?

  This was one of those dwindling things that made the blood rush.

  Steel Cupcake.

  An urban legend for men like him for many years until blurry pictures and bad video had made their existence impossible to deny.

  In recent years, their existence could no longer be consigned to tall tales as they had thrown in with the worst traitors in American history.

  They claimed to be mercenaries, but they were traitors.

  Were they soldiers that had abandoned their oaths? Or were they simple thieves that had lucked into their reputation?

  He hoped it was the former.

  He wondered if the crew had remained the same throughout its notorious lifespan.

  If so then he faced contemporaries.

  And it would be satisfying to bring them rightful justice for their treason.

  “Sgt. Sanders.”

  “Yessir?”

  “I want our first shot to be standard. Test their defenses. They look like they’ve been in a fight.”

  His gut twisted.

  The Bradley didn’t look that damaged, which meant his fellow soldiers would’ve fared the opposite.

  How many brave and loyal men had these traitors sent to God this day?

  “They’ve been confirmed to have an attack reflection ability that I don’t want to eat. But, if it looks good, I want our second shot to be quick and overloaded. If they’re still alive after that you are weapons free.” He kept a bird’s eye on the Bradley as it slowly crept down the freeway closer. “Pfc. Wilkins, I want you loading faster than an autoloader can.”

  “Yessir!”

  “Spc. Rucka, you’re taking over shield duty for her until we need to move.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Soldiers! We have half an hour left on my coordination Skill. I know you don’t need half of that to get this kill.” He paused for effect. “Sgt. Sanders, you may fire as you will.”

  “Bullseye Shooting. Shot Misdirect. Three minutes. I won’t miss, sir.”

  “Wipe that cupcake off the face of our country.”

  His tank shook.

  Bird’s eye gave him everything from the dust and house debris blowing off in cloud to the flash of the Bradley’s magic shield taking the shell.

  His crew worked together like the tank’s brain and nervous system.

  A split second was all it took for them to identify and analyze the shots effect, load the next shell, charge it with Skills and fire.

  From him in command, to Pfc. Wilkins the loader, to Sgt. Sanders the gunner.

  Smoke billowed out across a wide swathe of freeway in front of the Bradley as it lurched forward.

  Too late.

  The shell hit like a meteor.

  “Good hit… no penetration.”

  He couldn’t quite believe what he had seen.

  The enemy shield held.

  “I concur.”

  Sgt. Sanders fired again.

  The Bradley suddenly slid out the shell’s path like a giant child had kicked it to one side.

  “Incoming missiles!” Pfc. Wilkins snapped.

  “Take ‘em on the shields.”

  “Light bridges! North and south!”

  “Are you the running type?” he mused.

  “Incoming mortars!”

  He supposed he got his answer on what all those extra attachments were.

  Sgt. Sanders cursed. “How are they making my Skill miss?”

  “Calm in the storm, soldier.”

  “Sir! They marked us! I’m not sure what it is, but it looks like literal green paint.”

  “I can see that, private. Tell me if I need to worry about it being acid or some other kind of magic bullshit. Sgt. Sanders, aim for the southern light bridge.”

  The Bradley roared out of the smoke with sports car-like speed.

  Sander’s shot broke its forward shield.

  It spat its anger right back from its 25mm main gun.

  “Special munitions!” Pfc. Wilkins’ voice was high and tight.

  This was why he wasn’t a fan of women in combat roles.

  “Our shields are dropping fast!”

  He didn’t need her to tell him that.

  “Shit! That thing is fast.” Sgt. Sanders fired again.

  Blocked by a different magic shield.

  “Keep at it. They’re using mages.”

  The Bradley was on them before he realized.

  It skid in a wide circle into the air on a road of nothing around them across the ruins of houses flattened by the combined ordinance both sides had been throwing around.

  The 25mm didn’t stop firing the whole time.

  “Their using ammo creation Skills.” There was no other possibility.

  Then it was behind them and their engine caught fire.

  “Get them off our ass, Rucka!”

  Col. Blackstone lurched back into his seat as the massive engine roared.

  The fire died as Spc. Rucka used a Skill.

  25mm shots started eating away at their armor.

  Special munitions all right.

  Buncha bullshit as far as he was concerned.

  “Get me my shields back, Wilkins.”

  “Trying, sir.”

  They rumbled forward with their own boosted speed.

  Treads ripped up the street and lawns.

  They plowed through houses like a moose with a wolf nipping at its heels.

  It was very much like a hunt.

  The kind he had watched from binoculars back in his distant past.

  His family had property up in Alaska where they’d hunt.

  But, for him, the most exciting times had been when he had gotten lucky to catch predators chasing down prey.

  Wolf packs and solitary bears running down caribou or moose.

  Now, he was the prey.

  The chase extended across abandoned city streets.

  Through neighborhoods and commercial districts.

  They plowed through buildings as ordinance exploded on them and around them.

  Rain pooled in the gouges in their armor.

  Lightning crackled, then thunder boomed.

  Col. Blackstone saw it all through an invisible bird’s eyes from the warmth of his crew compartment.

  “Why aren’t we shooting back?”

  “Sir. We took damage. I can’t turn the turret past the midline on both sides,” Sgt. Sanders said. “Switching weapons.”

  The gunner took remote control of the machine guns, grenade launcher and missile launcher.

  The Bradley wasn’t the only one with surprises.

  Col. Blackstone’s heart thumped wildly as he watched Sgt. Sanders pour bullets, grenades and anti-armor missiles into the front of the chasing Bradley.

  Its magic shield shattered.

  He liked to think he could hear a mage cry out with brain damage from the feedback.

  “Rucka, get me an instant 90 degree turn on my mark. Sgt. Sanders, be ready on that main gun. I’m putting everything into the shell. Make it count.”

  The Bradley was about two blocks away and closing fast.

  “Now!”

  He lurched at the sudden and impossible turn, banging his helmet against the side.

  They had the bastards dead to rights, staring straight at them down the barrel of a 120mm cannon.

  The Bradley wavered in the heavy rain.

  Where there was one, now charged three.

  “Illusion spell or Skill.” He smirked. Not bad, but nothing they hadn’t seen before. “Wipe it out of our country, sergeant.”

  “I— I—” Sgt. Sanders stammered. “I can’t tell…” he whispered.

  “Wilkins!”

  “I don’t know either, sir!”

  He bit back a curse.

  He had to order Spc. Rucka to get them moving fast.

  The tables turned quick in a battle.

  They were now the sitting duck.

  The Bradley’s main gun fired.

  Fire consumed the colonel.

  He saw it all.

  The 25mm cutting through the curtains of rain and into the barrel of his 120mm.

  Pfc. Wilkins screamed as the immense explosion of heat and flame sucked the oxygen from all their lungs.

  Steel Will and Steel Constitution kept the colonel calm as though he sat in a cool mountain breeze instead of building inferno.

  Spc. Rucka could bail out of the driver’s hatch, but the rest of them were trapped in the main compartment.

  No reason to take chances then.

  Col. Blackstone decided that he was tired.

  The warmth of excitement left him, chilling his limbs despite the growing flames consuming them.

  Truth was that without his wife there was only ever one way he was leaving the world.

  Now was a good a time as any.

  Better in a battle than in bed having nurses clean his piss and shit off him while he waited to die.

  “Crew. It’s been my honor. My last command is for you to surrender. We’ve lost this battle. Live to see the next one. Your country thanks you for your service. Emergency Crew Eject.”

  They vanished with a pop of displaced air.

  As the fires began to burn his flesh, he drew his pistol and squeezed the trigger one last time.