The Arctic Incident

With Root out of the picture, field command fell to Captain Kelp. Usually this was a responsibility he would have relished. But then again, usually he would have had the benefit of transport and weapons. Thankfully, they still had communications.

Trouble and his patrol had been scouring B’wa Kell hot spots when they were bushwhacked by a hundred members of the reptilian triad. The goblins had positioned themselves on the rooftops, catching the LEP squad in a deadly crossfire from softnose lasers and fireballs. Pretty complex thinking for the B’wa Kell. The average goblin found simultaneous scratching and spitting a challenge. They had to be getting their orders from someone.

Trouble and one of his junior corporals were pinned down behind a photo booth, while the remaining officers had managed to take cover in Spud’s Emporium.

For the moment they were keeping the goblins at bay with lasers and buzz batons. The lasers had a range of ten yards, and the buzz batons were only good for close quarters. Both ran on electric batteries and would run out eventually. After that they were down to rocks and bare fists. They didn’t even have the advantage of shielding, since the B’wa Kell were equipped with LEP combat helmets. Older models certainly, but still fitted with anti-shield filters.

A fireball arced over the booth, melting through the asphalt at their feet. The goblins were wising up. Relatively speaking. Instead of trying to blast through the booth, they were lobbing missiles over it. Time was short now.

Trouble tapped his mike. “Kelp to base. Anything on weapons?”

“Not a thing, Cap’,” came the reply. “Plenty of officers, with nuthin’ to shoot ’cept their fingers. We’re charging up the old ’lectric guns, but that’s gonna take eight hours minimum. There are a coupla body armor suits over in recon, I’m having ’em double-timed over there right now. Five minutes. Tops.”

“D’Arvit,” swore the captain. They were going to have to move. Any second now this booth would fall apart, and they would be sitting ducks for goblin fire.

Beside him the corporal was quivering in terror.

“For heaven’s sake,” snapped Trouble. “Pull yourself together.”

“You shut up,” retorted his brother Grub through wobbly lips. “You were supposed to look out for me. Mommy said.”

Trouble waved a threatening finger. “It’s Captain Kelp while we’re on duty, Corporal. And for your information, I am looking out for you.”

“Oh, this is looking out for me, is it?” pouted Grub.

Trouble didn’t know who annoyed him more, his kid brother or the goblins.

“Okay, Grub. This booth isn’t going to last much longer. We’ve got to make a break for the emporium. Understand?”

Grub’s wobbling lip suddenly stiffened considerably.

“No chance. I’m not moving. You can’t make me. I don’t mind if I stay here for the rest of my life.”

Trouble raised his visor. “Listen to me. If you stay, the rest of your life is going to be about thirty seconds. We have to go.”

“But the goblins, Troub’.”

Captain Kelp grabbed his brother by the shoulders. “Don’t you worry about the goblins. You worry about my foot connecting with your behind if you slow down.”

Grub winced. He’d had that experience before.

“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we, brother?”

Trouble winked. “Of course we are. I’m the captain, aren’t I?”

His little brother nodded, lip losing its stiffness.

“Good. Now you point your nose at the door, and go when I say. Got it?”

More nodding. Grub’s chin was bobbing faster than a woodpecker’s beak.

“Right Corporal. Standby. On my command . . .”

Another fireball. Closer this time. Black smoke rose from Trouble’s rubber soles. The Captain poked his nose around the wall. A laser burst almost gave him a third nostril.

A steel sandwich board spun around the corner, dancing with the force of a dozen charges. Photo Finish the sign said. Or Phot Finish to be precise. The o had been blasted out of it. Not laserproof, then. But it would have to do.

Trouble snared the revolving board, draping it over his shoulders. Armor, of sorts. The LEP suits were lined with micro filaments that would dissipate neutrino blasts or even sonic bursts, but softnoses hadn’t been used underground for decades. A burst would tear through the LEP uniform as if it were so much rice paper.

He poked his brother in the back.

“Ready?”

Grub may have nodded, or it may have been that his entire body was shaking.

Trouble gathered his legs beneath him, adjusting the sandwich board across his chest and back. It would withstand a couple of rounds. After that, his own body would be providing cover for Grub.

Another fireball. Directly between them and the emporium. In a moment the flame would sink a hole in the tar-mac. They had to go now. Through the fire.

“Seal your helmet!”

“Why?”

“Just seal it, Corporal.”

Grub did. You could argue with a brother, but not a commanding officer.

Trouble placed a hand on Grub’s back and pushed. Hard.