The gathered townspeople now numbered between seven and eight hundred—several times the size of First Company. But armed only with tools meant for chopping wood and tilling fields, and outdated firearms from a bygone century, they might stand a chance against the local sheriff or police—nothing more.
Compared to the nobles and office clerks of the Terran Empire's core worlds, the colonists here had forged resilience and fearlessness through constant struggle against nature.
News rarely reached these remote lands. The sheer might of powered armor and the Federation's brutal crackdown on revolutionaries were things the ignorant peasants of this backwater had yet to comprehend.
"So you're saying... you're a 'revolutionary'? And your entire demand is for Loon Town to secede from the Federation—or at least gain more autonomy?" Warfield's face twitched. He didn't want to shoot civilians.
The representative of Loon Town shook his head. "We're not revolutionaries. We just want freedom."
"Listen," Warfield said, his tone low, "I sympathize with what you've been through. But as a Marine who swore an oath to protect every citizen of the Federation—and to eliminate any rebels seeking to tear it apart—I have a duty."
He exhaled sharply. "This is my final warning. I'm giving you what little mercy and patience I have left: put down your weapons. Otherwise, we will open fire. Think of your families and friends. Then maybe you'll realize just how foolish this is."
At Warfield's command, First Company formed four hollow, closed squares—each platoon a unit, each squad forming a side. At their centers stood soldiers bearing rocket launchers and heavy machine guns. This formation, once used to repel cavalry on old Earth, was now being deployed to defend against threats from all directions.
Suddenly, with a roar, the crowd surged forward toward First Company. Convinced the Federation troops wouldn't dare bear the blame for a civilian massacre, they marched boldly, forgetting—or ignoring—that they were now armed aggressors, legally no different from terrorists.
In Augustus' squad, Tom Omer, who had never faced anything like this, trembled so violently that those beside him thought he was about to pull the trigger.
"Don't piss your pants, Omer," said the rifleman next to him, Kurt Josephine.
"Screw you! You're the one pissing his pants!" Omer barked back, trying to puff himself up with the kind of dirty language he'd learned from Harnack. But lacking confidence, his voice came out weak and trembly—like a lamb trying to bleat fiercely.
"Josephine, ease up," Augustus said flatly.
Seconds passed. The townspeople kept advancing toward the center of the square. The nearest ones were now within two hundred yards—well within range. At that distance, with their helmets' auto-targeting systems, even Raynor couldn't miss.
"What the hell are they doing?" Raynor muttered over the comms. "This isn't some protest march. And we're not beat cops with batons and tasers. Do they really think we'll just turn tail and run? Maybe that works with sheriffs, but if we back down now, we're the ones who'll lose our heads when we get back."
"That's enough! Fall back!" Zander' voice cracked as the moving crowd crept closer. "I'm serious—we will shoot!"
Close to a thousand residents of Loon Town, armed with all manner of weapons, had now surrounded the central square. Over two hundred guns were aimed directly at Augustus and his squadmates. But the Marines didn't budge. In perfect sync, they raised their rifles and aimed at the townsfolk.
Now, it was a question of who would blink first—or fire the opening shot.
Augustus gripped his Gauss rifle tightly. If these people attacked, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd shoot to kill.
No one spoke. The atmosphere in the square was so tense it felt like the very air might shatter.
Then, suddenly, Augustus realized these people were insane. Modified trucks burst from side streets and alleyways, charging straight toward the Marines. As if rehearsed, the townspeople quickly split to either side, clearing a path for the vehicles.
The trucks' cabs had been reinforced with Presteel frames—thick reddish-bronze pipes and plates welded over the original, flimsy aluminum structures. On the more crudely modified ones, steel pipes and plating had simply been tied on with thick, twisted wire.
The standard glass windows had clearly been replaced. Some panels didn't even fit their frames properly, jutting out awkwardly as a telltale sign of makeshift reinforcement.
The Presteel pipes and plates were covered in deep crimson rust and brass-colored oil stains, as if they'd just been dragged out of a junkyard. Each truck had a dozen or more sharp spikes and blades welded to the front, all roughly filed from scrap metal.
The same crude design extended across the entire body of each truck. Everywhere you looked, you could see jarring add-ons—components slapped on with no regard for symmetry or aesthetic coherence.
Each axle bore an upright spike. At first glance, these monstrous trucks looked like savage metal porcupines.
If that wasn't enough to clue the marines into how dangerous these things were, the Kel-Morian Cutter Railguns mounted on the hoods and roofs certainly made the threat clear.
Four or five crew members sat beside each railgun, wearing either miner's hard hats or wide-brimmed caps. Every one of them held a standard-issue Kel-Morian electromagnetic rifle.
There were three of these modified trucks in total, speeding in from the east, west, and south sides of the central square.
Once the trucks had passed through the crowd, the townsfolk charged in behind them, sprinting into battle with their crude weapons, opening fire. Some of them clearly weren't new to handling guns—their aim was sharp. Two or three bullets even managed to hit Augustus's powered armor.
Augustus simply watched calmly as the small-caliber rounds struck his chestplate and ricocheted high into the air, doing nothing more than scratching the fresh silver-gray paint.
"Damn it, those are Kel-Morian trucks. This is exactly the kind of crap they'd pull," Warfield growled, issuing orders over the comms.
"Open fire! Soldiers, burn through every last round you've got!"
"Shoot! Take down your enemies!"
In an instant, everyone pulled their triggers and began firing.
One of the modified trucks was charging straight at Augustus. If it wasn't stopped, it would barrel into the marines' hollow square formation within seconds.
At the same time, the railguns atop the truck opened fire—but their operators were terrible shots. The rounds landed wildly off-target. One electromagnetic shell struck more than a hundred yards from Augustus, unleashing a pale blue pulse wave that leveled the ground and blasted open a crater dozens of feet wide.
In the blink of an eye, Augustus made what he felt was the best call—he ignored the truck's armored frame and zeroed in on its right front wheel. Disengaging the capacitor lock, he fired a rapid high-frequency burst. The recoil from his Gauss rifle pounded repeatedly against the shoulder plates of his armor.
At the same time, at least five others from First Squad, including Augustus, did the exact same thing. Even though the truck's fenders had been reinforced, they couldn't withstand the Gauss rifles. The tire blew out instantly.
The truck lost control at once but still crashed headlong into the ranks of the marines. Fortunately, Augustus and the others had already begun moving while firing, dodging just in time.
The other two trucks had their tires shot out the same way by different squads. One of them careened into a group of marines who were spreading out, flattening a soldier who couldn't get out of the way in time. The comms channel filled with the sickening screech of metal scraping against armor—and a scream of utter despair.
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