Gunfire.
On instinct, Sheba dove for the ground as even more explosions sounded.
The complex alarm wailed, and she sat upright, fighting the urge to slide beneath her mattress and remain hidden.
The patients,she thought.
Tamping down her terror, she pulled on sweatpants and a tee, slipped on boots, and ran.
The canvas flaps of her tent snapped as she burst outside, to a sight that had her gasping.
Two raider-class skiffs and a corvette knifed across the sky, their hulls dark and angular, rail guns spitting incandescent lines into the clinic wards below.
Demountables disintegrated under the fire, steel frames folded.
Bodies fell where they stood. The air was filled with smoke, the smell of ignited combustibles, and the copper reek of blood.
There was no warning sweep, no demand for surrender.
The attack carried only the intent to wound, maim, and kill.
She sprinted for the central office, lungs burning, heart slamming against her ribs. Inside, the team clustered over open crates, hands shaking as they drew rifles and sidearms free from their small weapons cache.
Faces were pale, eyes dilated, mouths set into lines of disbelief.
Imani stood at the center, jaw locked, distributing weapons with rigid efficiency. Brad hovered beside her, knuckles white, clutching a carbine.
‘Who is it?’ Sheba demanded, the words tearing out of her. ‘Who’s firing on us?’
Toma glanced up, fury etched into every line of his face.
‘It’s Ty Si’Rhix,’ he hissed. ‘That bastard finally made good on his threats.’
A short lull fell over the munitions fire, and the loudspeaker crackled overhead, feedback shrieking before a self-satisfied voice cut through, smug and amplified, carrying across the shattered ground.
‘Lattaya Medical Centre leadership,’ Ty purred. ‘This is what happens when you choose the wrong hill to die on. Your guardian is fighting off my men on his farm as we speak. No one is coming to rescue you.’
Outside, the rail guns swung and tore into the remaining wards.
Light and heat flayed the ground, as screams rose and vanished beneath the roar.
‘Move!’ Imani shouted. ‘Defensive positions. Now. If you see the enemy, fire at will.’
They ran, Sheba included, into the open, her rifle heavy in her hands.
She’d seen war, hell, she’d defended wounded soldiers in skirmishes, wielding weapons to protect them.
However, the ferociousness of this assault told her the perpetrators had no care for battle protocols and no fear of being hauled in for war crimes, attacking innocent patients, in a hospital no less.
Laser blasts rained down in sheets, carving trenches through earth and metal.
Attendants dragged the injured to cover.
Physicians fell trying to reach them.
Sheba surged further, aiming at a pair of armored flyers.
Her weapon kicked as she fired, straining her wrists and biting into her palms.
