Madame Guillotine

of the real trouble.
Aboard Reaper 66 in overwatch fire support position, Reaper Actual again had a good picture inside the room she’d been eyeballing through her scope. Oh-Two had lost a little altitude, coming down closer to the tiered rooftops of the housing district they hovered over. Residents and students snapped images on their datapads of her on the hovering SLIC, N-18 clearly aiming at something.
Through the third-story window she saw the Soshie in full gear, minus mask. The specialized scope she used for her work was identifying military-grade body armor, rather than the typical Soshie black leather jacket. He also had flashbangs on a carrying harness. Not a shootable offense at this stage of escalation, but something the shotcaller watching her feed should have spotted. The shotcaller would interface with a Legion point sent in by the House of Reason to make the decision on trigger pull.
But so far…
Then she saw it. A Type 92 Steiger Arms subcompact blaster.
And… a sniper rifle against the back wall.
“Got a Mulotti high-capacity leaning against the back wall. He means business.”
There could be no doubt about that rifle. It was a specialized weapon system that kept ending up in the hands of terrorists and insurgents on various worlds. It was excellent at killing legionnaires at medium range, and could kill marines and Republic Army effectively at long range if the shooter had some chops. It used half a charge pack per shot, but it could be loaded with up to ten micro-charge packs that gave it an excellent sustained rate of fire for a shooter in a target-rich environment at close range.
And for shooting down into the streets at exposed marines supporting an armored convoy… yeah, it’d do the job just fine.
“Bingo!” whooped Oh-Two over the comm, hoping to alert the shotcaller’s attention back at Command. “We have a player. Confirmed banned weapon system. We good to shoot, sir?”
No reply as the SLIC hovered in closer. Oh-Two nudged the craft forward over an apartment building to get out of an updraft coming up off the oddly empty street below.
Both pilot and shooter aboard Reaper 66 heard the whooooosh.
One of the crew chiefs in another bird called out, “Incoming!”
Alarms began beeping inside the SLIC but just as quickly died down as it became clear that Reaper 66 wasn’t the target.
A few streets over a rocket streaked up from an alley and smacked into the side of one of the matte gray marine SLICs over the main convoy at the front of the riot. A moment later the bird was trying to climb, spinning and spilling black smoke at the same time, then autorotating down into the seething streets not far from the clash of forces.
“Bird down! Bird down!” Oh-Two was calling out over the comm as the day went from bad to South of Worse in an instant.

02
“We are en route to secure the crash site, over.”
“Copy that, Switchblade. Pulling marines back to Thirty-Second and Park. Be advised drone feed says the rioters are approaching the wreck.”
The assault shuttle carrying the Legion quick reaction force identified as Switchblade lifted off from a small apartment building rooftop inside the district known as the Prosperity Sprawl, west of the main riot.
The Prosperity Sprawl, or simply the Sprawl, had once been the neighborhood of choice for shipyard workers who assembled the massive power plants of the old battleships, which were then disassembled and shipped to Tarrago for installation. Back then the place had been called the Boilermaker District—a solid middle-class suburb with nice houses, new speeders in garages, good schools, and well-maintained parks. Now it was little more than a zone of eroding and lifeless streets controlled by a violent gang that specialized in the distribution of the dangerous drug H8.
The gangbangers knew the legionnaires were there, on the roof in their hood. But they didn’t bother them. Because you don’t pick a fight with the Legion. Not if you have anything to lose. And while the Sprawl wasn’t much compared to the still-affluent sectors of the city, those who owned the streets lived like kings. And none of them wanted to be dethroned by taking on a Legion that was pretty much minding its own business.
The Legion sergeant in command of Switchblade, Sean “Shaker” Lopez, had decided to get involved after listening to the shotcaller and the point in charge of weapons release argue about what should be done next now that a bird had been shot down in the streets.
“Negative, Sergeant Lopez… you do not have permission to effect a rescue at this time,” said the point over L-comm as the shuttle lifted off from the rooftop. “We are working on less politically volatile solutions at the moment.”
Cave, the team’s number two, gave Shaker a tilt of his bucket. They were all getting the “stand down” orders over their L-comm from the point.
Shaker took one hand off his N-4, tapped his bucket near the ear, and indicated bad comm. Then made a knife-edge gesture to continue.
The shuttle blew dust and grit off the roof and pulled itself up into the smoky sky over Detron, correcting course toward the crash site.
* * *
“They’re dragging the pilot out of the wreck.”
She said it matter-of-factly. Plainspoken despite the implications. Reaper Actual’s transmission was the opposite of almost all the traffic over the comm. It was calm and sure where everything else was confused and chaotic. Outlaw Nine, the marine gunship shot down by the rocket, seemed to be the sole topic of discussion. The shotcaller gave orders to various marine elements located in the area of operation. And those multiple elements were all talking over one another trying to get the job done.
“I see smoke but no fire,” interrupted someone over comm who’d failed to identify themselves. They sounded breathless and hurried. Like they were running. Blaster fire could be heard in the background of their transmission.
“Dammit…” swore the Legion point. “Who’s firing? Is that us or the civilians? They’re not supposed to be armed.”
Reaper Actual watched