Flak shells tore from the horizon to pluck Valkyries from the clouds. It was like a meteor storm in surreal reverse. Yellow streaks across the forest were punctuated by red when artillery strikes mushroomed from Aquila.
This was the light they moved by. Flashlights had been stowed, and even the Corporal's cigar was out.
Now came the real workout. The drop had been submissive; the end would be adrenal. But the middle part - this sprint up the hillside - would be the true test of their will. With Kross on point and Grazer just behind, the combat squad cut like spring water between the trees, thighs burning, brows soaked in sweat. They had outpaced the hunter squads sent in to find them. Only five hundred metres behind, Secessionists picked over their ditched grav chutes, while the Elysians themselves became tree and shadow.
Soon new colours joined the palette. Two hundred meters from the Aquilan Road and they spotted light sources. Three pairs of headbeams, dipped low, wavering on run-down batteries. Around them the sleeker zipping of red flashlights. And between the artillery chorus, the sharp exchange of murmurs.
Kross went prone on the slope before the roadside. The others followed suit and fanned out into a drainage ditch. They counted the time - one hundred seconds to become perfectly still, to adjust their senses - the right eye closed to maintain night vision, the left eye open to distinguish shapes in the light.
The Corporal had to do it the other way around. His bionic eye whirred softly, bringing the image ahead into sharper focus.
They were civilian vehicles - a canvas-topped
food truck at the rear that had seen better days. In the middle a boxy,
fifteen tonner that had once been a trash vehicle, now spewing noxious black fumes from its roof exhausts. And at the lead a rusted
ganger car, overloaded with supply bags.
Shapes had disembarked from the front and rear of the column. They stood idle, hugging rags of clothing, their breaths misting in the headlights.
Civilians.
It looked like some of the good people of Aquila had tried to flee the city. A wise choice. But they had taken the unwise road.
The Secessionist Traitors were distinguished by their pauldrons, helmets and shin guards - all blood red. Grazer counted ten - a full squad. One combat team moved around the vehicles, questioning the civvies, shining red lights in faces, kicking through kit bags, tearing off hoods and shawls.
The other five were spread along the road. Three to the north, in the soft cover of the treeline, scopes trained on the refugees. And at the front of the column, to the south, a weapons team had blocked the road.
An
Autocannon... powerful enough to split those trucks in two.
Questions were being asked, accusations thrown. The dance of body language was changing: greater fear in the civilians, greater impatience in the patrol. The vehicles rattled and choked as their jerry-rigged engines faltered. A baby was torn from its mother's arms, the swaddling scoured.
This would not be over quickly.
Grazer focussed beyond the scene, to the hilltop above the road. There, the halo glow of the gun emplacement, slaughtering the skies.
Go around or go through... the decision had to be made.
"Fuck."
Pfc. Vesperin shot up to his feet. It wasn't the slow, lumbering push that came with a man of his size and build, with that much weight on his back. There was a speed there that belied his size. 
The foliage above us hides the chaos of the night sky, but even now you can still hear it. The din of AA guns, exploding shells and Valkyries, debris and shrapnel hurtling down to the ground. The remains of my squad move in formation, quiet save for the occasional spatter of conversation until Aiar speaks up.
