The distant thunder of explosive wakes him with a jump. The shelter-net is the first thing he checks by sight, half-dazed brain wondering whether it has been ripped off by wind or by the enemy. Outside men are beginning to shout and cry out. Walker quickly grabs his staser and switches off the shelter-net.

Bevan, who was meant to have alerted the rest, lies with throat open to Holodern IV's persistent wind. Enemy slash, cut, mow down half-awake soldiers. He flicks off the safety as he rises from sand dune ground, letting off uncontrolled bursts into approaching mercenaries. A reptile-looking creature drops.

Hearing movement from behind, a fellow human jumps for him. Walker side steps and lets off more energy bolts into the man's torso. Blood explodes in all directions.

Aiming for another Sub-man, too many of his own get in the way as he attempts to get clear shots; some even try to engage the enemy hand to hand, their weapons lying dormant and spent or having jammed. Half of the blundering troop are wounded- overwhelmed by Sub-men. Groans and wails ring out to the terrified green horn, everything seems to grow in measured cacophony, he fires into the back of a Strakken. Much to his surprise the alien is thrown onto a fellow U.F soldier, a flare of luminescent red erupts.

Two Strakken sweep for Walker. In all directions the Sub-men pour. Differing races of aliens, all bound with the common factor of being rejects from whatever race they were excommunicated from, existing for the allure of money and taking the maxim of greed. Strakken: reptilians in appearance yet still with two arms, two legs, and one head like humans.

Forgetting basic training of continued and controlled staser fire, to stave off main sweep of enemy, most of the U.F. soldiers are now firing in all directions; killing enemy as well as their own, absolute fear coursing through them like a kind of madness possessing their souls. Walker takes down one of the Strakken with a staser burst, no exception to the unadulterated panic.

The second alien brings a mace weapon into contact with Walker's hands, close quarter guerilla fighting a specialty of the Sub-men.

The Strakken is about to bring the mace to bear across the young soldier's face when it abruptly keels over, shot from behind. Energy rips through his hands and infiltrates nervous system, making Walker convulse as his sergeant approaches, firing into the collapsing foe.
*
The men left standing fight for their lives. Sgt. Reed encourages the remaining troop to rapid and steady fire, taking charge whilst trying to save the injured Walker from the enemy.

Within the confusion, the remaining, drop to ground level (after dispensing with close quarter enemy) and fire energy into approaching hordes, falling in to the sergeant's commands. The scene is lit with intensity of bolts that cut down anything enclosing the encircled United Forces. Grenades are thrown into the oncoming Sub-men. Huge chunks of earth rush into air as the pressure of blasts, shaking the bones of those still alive.

"TRI-MORTARS!" Reed bellows.

Bolts still fire at steady pace cutting into the unceasing mass of opponents. The dunes are being mown down by the fire fight. Sub-men slaughtered with grenades and staser bolts redistributing sand built up through Holodern's geographical history, coarse grasses and natural gullies blown apart as tri-mortars contribute to the fray, opening beach head surrounding 'boxed in' troop.

The scene of madness comes through blurred, pained, eyes of the rookie solider, regaining consciousness Reed above him shouting vehement action. His hands are numb but shooting aches shake up his arms as shock sets itself into his body, his head swimming with an odd detachment to all around him. Walker passes out.
*
Medics rush about blasted sand. U.F. troops lying dismembered or out cold or dead, Sub-men slain. Sgt. Reed points in the wounded soldier's direction. The battle contained and the attack subdued as the United Forces advance on the few who are remaining.

A hovering ambulance closes in and shifts across blueness above Walker, white metal moving, engines roaring. Commotion and cries of men seem distant to him, like he is not part of any of it, a visitor in a dream. Visions of what actually exists and shock-induced phantoms pass through his brain, fading as blackness takes hold of him in a painful catharsis.
*

Sgt. Reed surveys the dead United Forces men.

"Poor bastards," he utters, more to his own disgust than for a Lieutenant stood by his side.

"What happened here Reed?"

"I dunno. Must be an Outlander tunnel near here some place. They just took us by surprise," Sgt. Reed answers with resentment, yet another higher ranking soldier who doesn't know what the hell he's doing. 'What does he think happened?'

"I want a full report Sergeant. Start clearing up this..mess," the Lieutenant orders, throwing away the comment as though the bodies are mere rubbish to be swept away. He walks away from the sergeant.

"Sir, " Reed almost salutes with obedience, from habit, yet he contemplates how nice it would be to have Lt. Rhodes meet with an unfortunate accident.
*
Several hundred feet under the United Forces, Sub-men regroup and chow down. Heal their wounded. Plan their next move. At the head of the misshapen bunch, a strapping human inspects injured men and aliens. Six foot and nine inches, no skinny frame- bulked out like a weight lifter. He puffs on a cigar like an old war hero, enjoying the bitter/sweet taste on his great unkempt moustache and roof of mouth. Even Strakken fear him as he paces through considerable tunnels, never smiling, the spoils of this great war no smirking matter; rich lotto to be gained. He always enjoys the buzz of deals struck with bounty men throughout the surrounding planets.

Wheeler sits upon the floor, back resting against a nice cold wall. The dimness can be irritating. The glare of sunlight on raids can be blinding. Sub-men have no love lost between them, they would cut a colleague's throat for a credit, yet the booty collected:- untapped resources; gold, diamonds, minerals, pretty Outlander women, kids for slaves or Slyth delicacies, Holodern IV once aspiring economy in ruins and now ripe for the picking for such as men like him- it's all there for the taking.

Noises around him indicate a restlessness. Usually they sleep after battle, regaining energy after eating. Wheeler dozes, never letting those around him get close, born with the disposition of being a light sleeper, he can spark into action within the blink of an eye.

His eyes snap open.

Half of his men surround him.

Wheeler rips open the staser cannon from his left leg and taps the trigger. Nothing happens.

His fellow Sub-men draw closer, weapons poised.

He slowly rises from seated position, back scraping hard against rock damp. One or two of them are within striking range. The large mercenary human puzzles over in his mind why they simply just don't attack. The situation is already at a stand off.

A fellow human aims a similar staser cannon at him, "we don't want to kill you Rich'."

"I should have known a fuck like you would leave an empty mag' in a man's weapon," Wheeler sneers.

"it's nothing personal Rich'…"

"That's what they always say!"

"Well since you took over my 'troop' you must have known it would only be a matter of time," Walcott snaps, relishing the upper hand, a contained, premeditated anger ,in the past held in- now unleashed.

"You know I made more profit than you ever fucking did! Ask any of these fuckers " Wheeler gestures to the Sub-men surrounding him; the whole group, aliens and humans alike, nervously move back from his reaches. "What is it? Was I skimming off the top?" He realizes that Walcott has lost a momentary edge, asking the question to buy a few more seconds whilst he slips open knots holding daggers to his thighs.

"Time to hand it over," the elder man refers to the map and pass keys, the all-powerful possessions to Sub-men in their subterranean world, the charge of command.

"Sure," Wheeler stalls sarcastically.

He reaches around his neck and holds the keys. A few feet away from him a fellow Sub-man edges forward. Directly behind his back there is a lock for an entrance to Holodern's surface, he fumbles with the real key.

'I'm gonna buy it. If the U.F. guys get down here it will mean a drastic change in tack for everyone. But I ain't gonna finish it down here for no one,' he speeds the words through his own mind, double-quick, cursing himself for not having seen Walcott's play.

Wheeler clicks open the entrance. A Haggabite, who has been edging forward, turns to observe the slab rising. The cornered man withdraws a dagger and within an instant, slashes the alien down.

Walcott advances in a direct line, his staser cannon jamming. Before he can realign the energy blockage, Wheeler's second dagger is thrust into his guts and carries up through.

The large man shifts but is caught by staser fire in his left shoulder. The sheer energy mass and close range dismembers his left arm clean from his body. As he falls a Slyth aims a staser, point blank, at his head.

"NO! LOOK!!" A human holds back the Slyth as daylight pours into the tunnel, only a few feet from them.

*
A sudden burst of activity below on the ground, far below the soldier who holds up his hands in the flying ambulance, obscuring the view of U.F troops joining an ever increasing affray. His opiate happiness makes him laugh at his burned, clawed hands; the pain killers buzz in his head, all anxiety if he will be ever to use his hands again removed. He catches the sight of his Lieutenant, a tiny body with the rest of his division, shouting at soldiers to move in.

Beside Walker a man lies in stretcher, his right leg is missing. Murmuring, shifting in his doped sleep, the solider smiles wishing to say something of comfort but unable to speak himself.

He turns his head to the open gap of the craft reminiscent of American Heuys used in Vietnam. The firefight below grows distant, cracks of staser fire, explosions repeated as the PV banks. More men pour in the direction of some commotion, which seems to be happening on the ground.

'What goes? Another attack.....Jack?' Walker's mind slips.

His last thoughts integrate with external communications: "-tor 387, bearing 290. Repeat- enemy tunnel located. Sector 387, bearing 290. Repeat- enemy tunnel...