The sun beat down cheerlessly on the two ships that bore a single company of heroes to doom and destruction and loss. The newly christened Roughnecks sat silently at their places, guns already checked some four hundred fold- each. Everyone was nervous, and Mal could only grimace at the green recruits. He had suspicions if some of them had even held a rifle before, let alone fired one. They were probably just placed here as a meatsheild- no doubt to lower his standing among the Brass even more than it was. Who knew that his standing could go into the negatives? You could easily pick out the new recruits- whereas the veterans made sure that their rifles and ammo were in order once, maybe twice; the greenies made a habit of running over their weapon every few seconds or so. Some of ‘em even asked the guy next to them if their gun was in order- rutters. Mal really wished that Zoë was here besides him, but she was in the med unit back at HQ. He had Tracey, which was a plus, but he worried for Kaylee and, to a lesser extent, Simon. They may be less worse off than the recruits, but… tzao gao, damned if he would let his mei-mei get hurt. He made his way forward. In the air beside them was the One Thousand Birds, carrying the other half of his people. He made his way into the piloting area, where the cheery looking pilot sat. Even through the outrageous helmet, Mal could tell that it was Wash; the Hawaiian style knickknacks and plastic dinosaurs made that clear enough. Mal and Zoë had met Wash during the war- for Independence, mind. He was a damned good pilot, except for the fact that he was shot down with all their shitpaper in his hold. He had stayed in POW Camp on the Alliance side until the Bugs came, and had been reinstated as a Pilot. No Alliance, no Independents- just a troopers best friend. Wash waved cheerily (He never went by his first name, “Hoban”… honestly, Hoban?). “Howdy, Mal. Fancy seein’ you this side of the Bug-Hole!” “Mornin’, Wash. You mind tellin’ me how far to the Drop-Point?” “Lookin’ good; we got maybe five minutes ‘til we hit dirtside. Make your boys an’ girls comfortable, Mal; it looks to be in the middle of Bug Country.” “Amen,” said Mal cheerlessly. Just as he was about to leave, the for’ard screen started to screech at him. Wash punched a button, brining up a display. “Xiao tien de. Mal, we got a problem.” “How big?” “Bigger than General Ulin’s pi-gu. Bugs, swarmin’ the air. I ain’t seen nothin’ like it before.” “Yeah, I was briefed about that. Rumors, though.” “Think they’d tell the pilots? Oh, Hell no, lets just let them dangle on their own a bit.” He punched in the other ship, the pilot on the other end sounding a mite less calm than Wash. “Ready for a John Doe?” “That ain’t in the manual!” “Neither is flying bugs,” he answered back a little sharply. He cut off the transmission, speeding up the ship so quickly that Mal was thrown back on his ass. “Lao tien ye, HOLD ON!!!” He needn’t have- humans tend to have an innate knowledge of when the shit has hit the fan. Mal crawled back into the nearest seat, strapping himself in just in time to enter a spin that flipped them on their tail. Several men loosed the contents of their stomachs. Luckily, it all went aft- towards no one. When they were next what Mals’ gut told him was right side up, they somehow had managed to get behind the bugs. And, flying or no, they were no match to the ripper guns on the ships nose. A few explosions of fire from the missile launchers sealed the deal with a kiss. “YaHOOOOOOOO!!!!” Apparently, near death experiences were Wash’s bread n’butter. “Oh, shit. Xiao tien de!” Or not. Mal made his way forward (again!), this time latching firmly onto the pilots chair. “Wash, what in the ruttin’… lao tien bu.” The ship rocked violently, smoke pouring from the starboard engine- easily seen from the cockpit. “Sun of a-!” Said engine exploded brilliantly. When Mal awoke, it was in the wreckage of The Lightning’s Edge, to the sound of bugs crying off in the distance. He unconsciously reached for his rifle, and only realized what he was doing when it was conspicuously not there at all. Someone helped him up; he blearily looked up at the still smiling face of Wash. His helmet was off. “See why ya keep it on,” he muttered woozily. “Now ain’t the time to be makin’ a fuss over how pretty I am, Mal. We got problems. Ships a wreck, One Thousand Birds touched down to off load and pick up the wounded. Tracey, McConolly, Kaylee, Simon, and Hart stayed, I know that much. Good news-“ “There’s good news?” “Yep, we’re here. Worst news is that we got no way outta bug central. Any bright ideas?” “Don’t die?” “I figured,” muttered Wash. He was dragging the upper half of Mals body, the legs dangling behind in an ungainly heap. After a moment, Mal managed to get himself up on his own feet. He looked around, assessing his position. He had maybe a hundred folk around him, a goodly portion more than he’d hope green. Rifles aplenty, a few ripper guns. Grenades by the dozen, which meant that he had more’n a few options that merited most of their survival. He made his way to the largest, most ordered group. There, Tracey was lining the men up for roll call, and Simon was treating a few of the injured what didn’t make the first boat. He tapped Tracey’s shoulder, taking over. The Corporal saluted wearily. “Report.” “Ain’t good, suh. Rifles are runnin’ low, rippers ain’t got but a drop to ‘em. Grenades around… two for each guy here, not including the wounded. Simon ain’t got enough supplies ta treat more’n the most shallow wounds. Our hurts gonna have ta go unanswered for a while.” Even more than that; anyone could see the sheer despair that was hard edged written onto the faces of every single person here. Recruits to the most seasoned vets… all knew that they were the sacrifice here. The Cannon fodder. “Alrigh’. Well, might as well move to a place where we ain’t as like ta get et by some bug or other. Roughneck’s, hup!” Like they’d done it a thousand times before, the newly christened Roughneck’s got into a battle formation, wounded to the middle and with the ripper guns as the outriders. Once again, Mal wished that Zoë was still here. You could count the greenies; they were shaking like leaves in the wind for the most part. Mal sighed. They knew the text by heart, most of them could probably recite the generals of all the battles from St. Albans to Du Kang. Didn’t make ‘em soldiers. They moved off, silent as the shadows. Okay, not so much. Mal winced at the innate low buzz of chatter that came from them all. Tracey and Simon made their way up to him. The Doc looked a mite pale, a pistol holstered to his side. Boy weren’t meant for this kind of combat situation; too much lovin’ from Mommy and Daddy in the form of money and being spoiled. He wasn’t as bad as some other core boys what Mal had met, but he sure as Hell weren’t the best. “What?” “Mal,” began Simon. Tracey cut him off. “We’ll be spotted soon just by the fact that these idiots can’t keep a lid on it.” “I guessed that,” supplied Mal. “But,” began Simon again, “If they don’t relieve the stress some way, they’ll crack long before the bugs find us.” “Then, Doc,” said Mal icily, “How do ya propose that we make that not happen?” Simon opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it yet again. He really had no answer. It was Tracey who saved him. “Aw, Hell, Alliance don’t make thinkers, do they? Since they’re already chattering, might as well make ‘em sing fer supper.” “Uh… right, that’ll work well enough.” Mal smirked. “Your call, Doc. But I expect that the bugs’ll die once they pop up. I got your word?” “Qu,” said Simon simply. Tracey took the lead, calling out to the troops. “Alright, maggots! We want the bugs to come to us now, so start ta singing. Kilburn High Road, now!” He raised his hand, and then dropped it like a conductor. He shouldered his rifle, smirking a bit. This was so ruttin’ suicidal, even for Mal. Ah, such is the bread of an everyday life. The soldiers around him began to belt out a tune, voices carrying into the wind, their easily identified fear somewhat fading with the tone of the song. “Many’s the day that I took for granted Breathing the air that silenced some As the North wind blew With it’s head asunder Beating it’s breast with a war drenched song Bathe awhile, awash in slumber Cry what’s left to sleep Where you dream of love lost forever But pity no more nor grieve

For we’re the kings of it all From the day we were born Now we’re the kings of the Kilburn High Sure we’ll always take a drop and we’ll never leave a sup Your empty glass is but a tear filled eye We were the kings of the Kilburn High

Listen to the sound of dead men dying March as they flee but exile bound Their ship once sailed no longer anchors For gone is the green And their hallowed ground

Toast to tears of times past glories This ageless clock chime stalls Where to kiss the lips of love forgotten To fly where no others have soared

For we’re the kings of it all From the day we were born Now we’re the kings of the Kilburn High Sure we’ll always take a drop and we’ll never leave a sup Your empty glass is but a tear filled eye We were the kings of the Kilburn High

Toast to tears of times past glories This ageless clock chime stalls Where to kiss the lips of love forgotten To fly where no others have soared

For we’re the kings of it all From the day we were born Now we’re the kings of the Kilburn High Sure we’ll always take a drop and we’ll never leave a sup Your empty glass is but a tear filled eye We were the kings of the Kilburn High

‘Oh Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight’". As the last peals died away, they heard cry that made their hearts skip a beat and their mouths run dry and blood run cold. The screech that heralded their fall from the Heavens. Within moments, they came. A swarm of a thousand, at least. Giant flying bastards; beady eyes that reflected the sun in a thousand thousand directions. Infernal flapping and buzzing, the screeching making men fall to their knees and scream in terror. Each had a single spike sprouting from behind them, like a bees stinger. Thank God above for bullets. No matter how scary they were, they were less so when one and a half wings were falling a few feet away from the actual bug. “FIRE AT WILL!!!!” The rippers opened up, spewing death into the swarm. Many screeched and died in a puff of blood and gore where they fell far to the ground. They kept coming. Tracey winced as the man next to him wasn’t fast enough to dodge the dive bombing rutter that came for him. His blood mixed with the bullet holes, red mixing with an unhealthy green color. He gurgled once and died; hands still feebly clutching at the spike that protruded from his midriff. Tracey forced himself not to dwell on it. He’d end up like that if he did. Next to him, Simon was keeping low, pistol out. Tracey wasn’t sure what it would do; pistol rounds had a hard time piercing a bugs hide even from point blank. You had to get it right in the eyes to bring it down. Mal could do it, but Simon was, frankly, one of the worst shots that Tracey had ever seen. He couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from ten paces, and that was an optimistic view of things. Kaylee wasn’t much better off. Least aways, the pilot, Wash, he had some sense in his skull. He had grabbed a rifle (a few of those were lying around, now), and was shooting at the swarm. That was the good thing about bugs; get a big enough chain swarm and you only had to shoot in their general direction to hit someat. Tracey did likewise; they were too far away to sight individually yet. Mal was just having a grand old time of it; he had fought the Bugs back on Paquin in the very beginning. Lost too many friends to ‘em not to hate them with a passion. He had somehow found a ripper gun and was laying indiscriminately into the swarm. They dropped like… well, flys. He yelled out almost joyously, which was a strong counterpoint to the hollow sound of the soldiers around. “Laws o’ Physics, boys,” he yelled out. “More of ‘em there are, easier it is ta kill ‘em!” If there had been time, Tracey would have stared at him in disbelief. As it was, he just continued to shoot at the swarm above them. Unfortunately, while Mals’ prediction held true, it also held true in reverse; less of ‘em there were, less likely you were to hit ‘em. Tracey gulped as his own rifle ran dry. He cast about for another, all the while taking in their increasingly untenable position. Around him, the men who he fought alongside were being killed. Not easily, and not quickly; several hundred of the enormous swarm above them were in pieces around them by now. But their numbers were telling, now. The screeching had died down a bit, in favor of the sounds of the dieing and the damned. Two dozen had stopped groaning by now. Tracey found a rifle. A hand was still attached to it. He cast another look around. Mal had finaly given in to battle lust; he and maybe forty others were making some type of last stand on a low hill, spending the last of their ammo on the thinned swarm. Simon and Kaylee were there, taking the occasional pot shot with their pilfered rifles. The sound of rifles crackling was slowly thinning out; the ripper guns had lond since run dry. Around him, McNab, Harold, and Derekson, and several dozen were slowly gravitating towards Mals’ position. The rest of the soldiers here, some odd forty were laid out, a few still moaning in pain as they tried vainly to pull out various barbed spikes from their persons. Tracey crossed himself, and accepted his death. They were sent out here as fodder, to get rid of the last remaining vestiges of the Independents. Gorramit, Alliance still held a grudge against his folk. Weren’t it enough that a good three quarters of them were dead by now? They wanted the body count even higher? Bastards. “Xiao tien de,” he said. It was all a farce, wasn’t it? Whatever they had been sent out here for was most like dead; or at least Intel expected it to be. After all, in the middle of bug country? Impossible. A screech made itself heard behind him. He winced; it really was as much a weapon as the damned spikes that seemed to grow off the bastards. He spun, rolling left to avoid the thrust that followed. He fired the rifle. Click He fired again. Click. “Oh, great holy flying fuck.” He rolled again, under the swarm bug. He took out his knife (always a handy thing in a war), and stabbed upwards through the thin armor of its’ underbelly. It screamed, like a thousand nails across three chalkboards. It died on top of him. He pushed it off, standing up quickly. It then dawned on him that he was surrounded by five of the bastards. He gulped, knife constantly flicking in one direction or the other. The bugs were silent, for once. He awaited the fated charge. It never came. The bug in front of him looked at him quizzically, almost as if asking why he was wielding such a strange toy at it. Then, its head exploded. Literally; spouts of blood and flesh drenched his tattered brown duster. The swarm started to retreat, several of them falling dead from the sky with a similar predicament as to the ones that still defiantly blocked Tracey’s body with their bodies. He looked at Mals position; some hundred men and women now stood around him. What surprised him most, however, wasn’t the amount who had survived (he had honestly expected none of them to survive). Nor was it the young girl, not even sixteen, who had obviously just saved his life. Nor was it Simon, who broke out of the lines and captured her in a hug. “River? Mei-mei? Is that you?” No, for Tracey, what surprised him the most was when Simon fell to his knees, screaming, clutching his head in pain as his little sister looked on indifferently.

TBC.