DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 4: “No Dispares”
The unmistakable ovoid of a high-explosive grenade landed at Harold Moxley’s feet. He did not think. He kicked it as hard as he could, back toward the open door of the supply shack, and looked on in horror as it bounced off the door frame and back at him. He bounded over it, leapt through the door, and caught his shoulder on the frame as the device detonated behind him. He was barely though the opening when a second, larger explosion flashed an instant sunburn on the back of his arms and neck. His skin burned wherever his uniform did not cover it.
In the dirt before him, orange with reflected light from the fire, was a chemical assault rifle. He did not see the shack guard. Scooping up the rifle, Moxley put the plastic stock against his shoulder. Where was the safety? He had not qualified with a rifle since Boot Camp. He found the switch, flicked it off, and put his hand over the squeeze-lever of the grip. The grip itself was wide and triangular, with a guard that extended from the bottom of the grip to the receiver of the weapon. The magazine was mounted behind the grip. At the last minute, Moxley thought to make sure the mag was seated and to chamber a caseless round.
Guard hut sirens wailed. He heard the perimeter squads blowing their whistles. That was bad. Whistles meant a perimeter breach. But he knew that. You couldn’t lob a grenade from outside the wire into the supply shack, well at the center-rear of the firebase. Conquista forces could be anywhere. He did not see any now.
The night air was cool; the burning supply shack behind him was not. His neck hurt. Staying low, his breathing rapid, Moxley crept forward.
“Support the wire!” shouted someone. He looked back over his shoulder. Infantrymen were racing from their barracks, some wearing incomplete suits of armor, all carrying rifles or rocket launchers. “Support the wire! They’re coming through!”
A scout, then. There might be Conks inside the perimeter, but the bulk of the offense was still outside and pushing to roll through the firebase defenses. Moxley didn’t know what else to do, so he followed well behind the infantrymen. He would work his way forward and at right angles, trying to keep the infantry between him and the main gate. There were bunkers for support personnel closer to the quadrant lines of the circular base. He would make for one of them and take cover until the offensive was over.
Well ahead of his position, he could see the enemy boiling past the firebase defenses. Enemy soldiers had apparently flanked the defenders at the main gate, choosing instead to boil over the wire from forty-five degree angles. Moxley could feel his testicles trying to crawl back up into his abdomen. If there was an incursion between him and one of the bunkers, he would be cut off. A line of patrol trucks stood parked at his right. Several had been hit with grenade launchers. He tried to move closer to these.
He could see the Conks at several points on the perimeter, bouncing and jumping over the line, using those damned spring-stilt things that always struck him as so ridiculous. It was how they had gotten through the proximity mines beyond the perimeter.
Was he too far away to hit one? He felt like he should try. Mox raised his borrowed rifle, leaned into the recoil, and triggered a long burst. Defenders closer to the action were shooting to much greater effect. Bodies fell on the perimeter line, making the electrical field smoke and shimmer. The cooked-meat smell filled Moxley’s nostrils and cloyed at his skin, oily and shameful. He fired until his magazine was empty and dropped to one knee.
The burn on his neck and shoulders throbbed. What had done it? Probably the peripherals printer, the one they used for machine parts. That had plenty of volatile fuel canisters and was positioned near the front door of the supply shack. A little shrapnel through that and it would flare up nice and bright. He was surprised he had not been ashed by the explosion.
Did he feel damp? He hoped he wasn’t bleeding.
Tracers ripped open the ground next to him. He rolled, coming up on one knee, using a nearby patrol truck for cover. The truck, like the buildings nearest him, was on fire. The flames reached high. Embers floated up in long spires.
The Conk rifles were underpowered, but their tracers had corrosive tips. If he got tagged and couldn’t get to a medic, even if the wound wasn’t immediately fatal, he was dead.
Move. Don’t stay here. Move. It was difficult to leave the shelter of the truck, but he did it, circling around, trying to avoid the nearest stilt-walkers. He was not successful. Several bounced over the wire just before him and started to lope his way. When they realized he was standing there, they froze, staring down at him from their coiled struts.
It was a mistake to make eye contact. Moxley had not meant to do it. One of the Conks caught his gaze and held it.
The kid could not be more than eighteen. He looked even younger than that. His eyes were hollow, his face gaunt. The Conquistas had been running on fumes for weeks, thanks to Northam’s air blockade. They were starving, desperate.. Half of them were conscripts from impoverished villages close to the border.
The kid threw up his arms, held his rifle high overhead. He looked ridiculous trying to do that on the stilts.
Moxley pulled his rifle tighter to his shoulder. He started to take up slack on the grip-lever.
“No dispares,” said the boy. “Me doy por vencido! Me doy por vencido!”
One of the Conks behind the kid moved. Mox mashed his fist down on his rifle’s lever, spraying the group of them with armor-piercing projectiles, shredding the Conks where they stood.
Air support drones equipped with grenade launchers raced overhead, their fans pitching dust and grit into his eyes. His vision blurred and he turned away, squinting against the wind. One of the Northam line infantry, hulking in full body armor, marched over to join him.
“What a mess,” said the soldier, looking down at the dead teenagers. His amplified voice made the statement a bellow. “You’ve got a burn all the way through your shirt, Sarge. Left shoulder. Better get a medic to look at that.”
“He… They were in the wire,” said Moxley. He felt like he should explain.
“Get into the bunker, Sarge,” said the soldier. “There’s more coming.”
* * *
Moxley stood on the slidewalk holding his revolver in one hand. Behind him, a fire klaxon was blaring. The police choppers overhead were close enough to whip up the hem of Moxley’s overcoat with their fan drafts. He squinted against the dust and grit, his eyes stinging.
He realized his shoulders were wet and getting wetter. Overhead suppressors were squirting retardant foam inside the German pub, some of which was splashing out of the smoking maw where the unit’s facade had been. Strips of shops like these always had such systems, which prevented contiguous businesses from burning down.
On the street some distance away, a man without a head lay next to a compact nailer. Moxley was about to reach up, wipe his face, when he felt the wrenching pain in his shoulder. He looked over to see the tip of a steel nail projecting from his overcoat. There was quite a bit of blood. The coat would need to be mended and chem-cleaned.
Dazed, he broke open his revolver. The heavy-nosed piece had a cut down grip and a shortened barrel. Its bullets were explosive. One round bore the imprint of the weapon’s firing pin. He closed the weapon and tucked it back into the holster in his waistband. His shoulder throbbed.
He took three steps towards his car, which was parked on the street in front of the pub. Some of the vehicle’s paint had been scorched by the explosion.
Moxley’s shoulder screamed as someone grabbed him from behind. He felt himself being slammed against the trunk of the car. It took him a moment to realize who his attacker was.
“Damn you, Moxley!” shouted Shebeiskowski. “This is your fault!”