Black troopers with red highlights were filling the spaceport and its surrounding area as quickly as the transports could bring them down. At least 200 troops were on the ground now, fifty of those units were establishing heavy weapon mounts to contend with anyone flying a personal vehicle in the area. Travanix, however, was resting atop a building that was on the dark side of the area with a very high vantige point. The blaster rifle felt cool in his hand, the gravel from the roof eating into his uniform. His breathing was slow and level as he looked through the sighted scope. A small group had begun to fight back against his forces.

That simply would not due. He leveled the rifle carefully, flipping the flash muzzle on. He could have made the shot without looking through the scope, but there wouldn't be as much enjoyment as there was seeing the faces of his enemies. The cross hairs were lined up and he gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle groaned for half a second as the muzzle contained the combine system, but still the deadly bolt of red energy was released and traveled true. The look of surprise and horror on the partner of the victim was so delicious.

He looked in the right direction of the blast, only to see a red bolt headed towards him...

Pot shots. Head shots. Belly wounds.

They all were so easy targets. A part of him missed this kind of action. But now, here he was on his belly, scouting targetsand relaying orders quietly. More troops were being deployed, some transports were staying in the docks, no longer returning. He was whispering quietly into his comm when he saw two large transports land. Nothing came out once they were settled.

There was activity around them however. Reports filtered to him, his troops were filling the streets around his position and eliminating small pockets of resistance. He stood up just as a building be hind home was consumed in an explosion. The black form imposed, casting a shadow down. He reached down to take the rifle and shouldered it, then kept down the length of the building to the streets below. The pockets of resistance did not concern him any longer. Soon, an organized fight would be marching on his position.

Well, some of them would be, some won't make it past the first line of defense.

It takes just under nine minutes from the time he gave the order to the time it took to get all eleven vehicles ready to go and to get two battalions of Marines armed, armored and ready to go.

For the first time in a while, the Colonel has to admit he's impressed.

"Colonel Myers?"

He turns as a corporal comes up at a dead run, coming to a sudden stop a few feet away and snapping off a salute. "The Spartan is ready, sir. The major says some more transports have come down to the spaceport."

His eyes tighten just marginally as he thinks. Probably planned to land there already. Or they might have been detected somehow.

No time to consider that now, though.

He's climbing into the command vehicle moments later, settling into a seat. "What've we got, Major?"

"Colonel, I show several transports have descended into the spaceport in the past eight minutes, exact number unknown, based on heat trails. At least four, as many as seven." The sergeant next to him tweaks a setting on his console and shakes his head marginally. "No significant communication made since they touched down. Seems to indicate they haven't deployed yet."

Or they're planning an ambush, if they were detected. A look to the major confirms that he's thought of this possibility as well.

His face hardens slightly. It's a look any battlefield commander would recognize - the look of a man that knows he's sending soldiers to their deaths.

"Major, I want two fireteams from each company and two LRVs. Have them spread out, converging on where those transports are parked. Give them a seven minute start, then get half of the main battalion and the MBTs moving in after them, with the remaining LRVs and us behind...another three minutes after that the rest of the Third. We'll get the VTOLs in the air in eight minutes, but have them stick to a hover here. When they get called in, it'll be NOE flying, make sure they know that."

Looking over the reports at the Major's console, he thinks for a moment.

"Major, I want the reserve battalion split up between the Argos. Have them get the remaining armor ready for air drops and keep themselves in deployment readiness. Who's flying the transports?"

The major chuckles, turning to let the colonel see his grin. "The twins."

The Colonel returns the grin, nodding. "Good. They already know the procedure."

He gets out of his seat and heads for the front of the vehicle.

As he does so, the first troops begin to move, one hundred sixty heavily armed men moving towards the spaceport in black, sleek armor, fanning out wide before vanishing into the gloom like ghosts. Following them go two six-wheeled light reconnaissance vehicles, their electronic engines pushing them along in silence but for the sound of the ground under their tires.

The walker, in all its glory, took several steps away from the transport. The first one whined and groaned under the power of gravity. The weapon generators began powering up, the hum was without a question something he enjoyed, and had always enjoyed.

"Units, prepare for an incoming assault. They are going to come from any direction." Travanix spoke quietly. The first walker, Alpha as he called it. It was a beautiful piece of technology. But these were not the walkers of the early days of the Imperial age. No. They were special.

They were better. Enhanced. Mark II.

And there were other surprises in wait.

The first shot was heard, the first volley fired. "My Lord, they have opened fire. The first rocket went through the night air. It was very lovely, of course. The stream of plasma as its thrust. He lined the shot up in his own scope and fired, taking out the rocket, causing it to explode violently over the space port.

He smiled darkly. "Open fire, pin point targeting only."

"Sir, we have lost contact with one of the patrols."

He didn't budge from his position as he steaded himself for another shot. "Which patrol?"

"Sir, it was the secondary unit."

Travanix chuckled. "I wonder how long it will take them to learn that I have intermixed civilians with real troopers?" He paused. "Status on the flight?"

"They are already inbound, My Lord."

"Excellent. Detonate the first circle."

The response was barely noticed as the first circle that surrounded the area exploded, creating a wall of fire that "sealed" in ground forces. There was no retreat for those who moved into his territory. "All units, open fire."

~Komodo One - Lead Dragon MBT~

Lieutenant j.g. Allen "Pretty Boy" Watanabe, the commander of the lead MBT, listens to the gunner of the lead Osprey, quickly scribbling on a pad. "Copy that, Dragonfly Lead. Wilco."

The inside of the Dragon Main Battle Tank is only slightly more spacious than its predecessors, a design that has changed little since the M1A1 Abrams of centuries ago...save for some upgrades to armor, weaponry, and - perhaps most importantly - drive and propulsion systems.

No more treads or wheels - this tank hovers over the ground on a cushion of ionized molecules varying from six inches to three feet thick, depending on the driver's needs, and each of the four anti-gravity generators can be individually configured if needs be.

Something that can only be managed by a Vasudan, and the one sitting behind the wheel is one of the very best.

Just above and behind the driver is the gunner, a human. Sergeant Kelly Ramirez, a surprisingly young - and deadly accurate - man. "All right, Growls, I need you hot on the stick. Kelly, I want a shot at these coordinates on the lead walker." Handing the slip over, he watches as the younger man's eyes widen a bit. "You know where we'll have to be to make this shot."

The commander nods, his expression grave. "Don't worry about that...leave it up to Growls here." He pats the Vasudan on the shoulder, who looks up at him and makes a growling sound in his own language that sounds like encouragement - by his own choice, the Vasudan chose to go without his translator in the tank, saying 'it takes up too much room'. They had gradually gotten the hang of at least his general meaning, if not the specifics.

The younger Terran nods, swallows and settles into his seat again, putting his eyes to the scope. Once more the voice of the man goes cooler. "I need to be about a hundred twenty meters closer and thirty-two meters to the left. Get us there quick - this is going to have to be from the hip, and I'll need you to stop on the dime, Growls...and as soon as I fire, move our asses out of the way. We get one shot at this, pup."

The Vasudan growls something back that sounds like annoyance, acknowledgement and amusement all rolled into one, and the tank surges forward like a bull out of the gate.

~The Spartan command vehicle~

"Colonel, I think you should listen to this."

Bryan steps over to the comms station and picks up the spare headset, putting one of the earpieces to his ear. A second later the grin springs forth again - it had been absent since the first explosions.

"Brilliant. Relay instructions to Komodo Two, take up position opposite of One. Give them the same firing coordinates and instructions, and tell them to book it double-time."

~The Dragon MBTs~

It takes about fourteen seconds for the tanks to reach their positions, during which shells are loaded, the cannons aimed, and the gunners in both tanks sighting in.

Another precious second that seems to stretch into infinity as each chooses their moment, watching the gait...waiting...

...and with a sudden jerk the cannon on Komodo One fires, followed by Two a half-second later.

Terran weaponry had changed little over the course of more than a millenium, from the first cannon until now...save for advances in metallurgy, design, aiming, and firing mechanisms.

Each round, instead of being fired by the standard combustible, is instead magnetically accellerated along a smoothbore barrel at near-relativistic velocity.

The rounds themselves are - once again - a credit to the commander of the Odysseus and his ability to think of just about everything. With a core of hardened tungsten steel wrapped in two layers - the inner of depleted uranium for density, wrapped in a layer of collapsed-core molybdenum for added mass and strength - each round weighs just shy of fifty pounds - nearly twice the weight of the ammunition from that long ago Abrams.

Tipping all of this is a cone of a material the fleet had found not long after the expedition into unknown space had begun. Upon analysis, they had found the metallic substanceto be a close cousin of Teflon - only lighter and more malleable.

The gunners of each tank are, naturally, the tip of the sword - the best, in other words - and their aim is dead-on, right under the 'neck' of the armored beast - a bulbous, circular protuberance that the sensor feeds from the Spartan showed was a drive motor.

The armor there is thinner than the bulkier topside, though it would be enough to ward off light weapons fire and the like.

But as each of the armor-piercing shells strike that area - the first on the down-stroke of its gait, the next on the opposite side as it bobs back up - the tips melt under the stress, coating the hardened proctiles as they smash through that thin armor like so much tinfoil.

It's not enough to destroy the walking tank, even as the projectiles continue on through the internals of the transport, taking out whatever else may be inside that armored hull,though they are finally stopped at the far side by the much thicker armor that shields the upper side of the walker.

But it is enough to bring it to cripple it and distract the crew inside from the two swift, wasplike VTOLs that suddenly pop up from among the trees surrounding the combat zone.

Each of the Ospreys carries six missiles and a chin-turret-mounted rotary cannon...none of which is going to have much effect on the huge armored walkers.

Fortunately, both also carry one other armament - two paired sets of railguns, a smaller version of the cannons on the MBTs below. And while they might fire lighter rounds, the light cannons on the VTOLs are capable of doing it in rapid fire.

And Pip had found a weakspot that mould be perfect to use them on.

As the VTOLs approach, they separate and circle, small and swift as insects - and just as hard to hit. And as each passes its firing point, those quadruple railguns open fire...

...right into the neck of the beast.