[right][h3]Corte IV
Phase Line Bravo, Groslk Reserve[/h3][/right][hr]
Corte sat in the gun nest, cradling her A280 with eyes on the wilderness no-man’s land between the lines. The distant sound of rockets and blasterfire echoed through the woods. The Mark II repeaters, on her left, were online and ready to fire at the first on her order. That order would be coming soon.

Behind her, Sergeant Valkheva directed her squad. “Private Previc, Private Miklovic, on the guns. Corporal Illievec, take Novacs and Syndulla on the line. Starr,” she added, addressing the platoon’s medic, “I want you behind the lines, on the wounded.”

“Lieutenant,” a gravelly voice addressed Corte, and she turned to see Glaato descending into the nest. Corporal Illievec and the two privates pushed past the burly Nikto on their way into the trenches. Glaato was a blooded veteran of half a dozen conflicts with the Empire across as many worlds. He bore the scars of those defeats. A particularly ugly blaster burn marked the left side of his face, just below the eye, where he’d taken a grazing shot from an E-11 on some distant planet. “First Squad reporting in. I have Corporal Jurvec setting us up on the line.”

“Good. How many casualties did the squad suffer, Sergeant?”

“Two wounded, one dead. Privates Da’lya and Juricec are receiving medical attention now,” he answered. Corte rubbed her temples with a sigh. The Second Platoon was now reduced to fourteen combat ready soldiers. It was her fault. She’d take three casualties over seven any day. “I didn’t see the Second Squad on the line,” Glaato said slowly. 

“They didn’t make it. Corporal Xier and I were the only survivors from our post,” she said. “Sergeant Huvec and his men fought bravely.” They hadn’t. One of the privates, a jumpy, barely-trained Uslamer with more patriotism than common sense, recruited from Lorya to replenish the company’s depleted ranks, had opened fire prematurely and compromised their position. The Imperial troops turned their guns on the post after that first shot. Huvec and his rifles had held the line for barely thirty seconds against the barrage.

“Understood. Orders?”

“Wait. Hold the line.” Corte shrugged. Glaato crouched next to her and offered her a flask. She took it and threw it back, expecting water. It was whiskey. She swallowed a gulp with a wretch. Glaato took a swig after her. 

“It’s going to be rough,” he said, offering the flask to Valkheva next. The short Uslamer woman declined with a wave and returned to her macrobinoculars, scanning the forest for contact. Private Previc and Private Miklovic, at the ready on the Mark II’s, stared intently into the distance, shallow breath visible in the morning cold. “But we’ll make it through.” 

Corte pursed her lips. “How sure are you about that?”

“I’ve done a lot of fighting, Lieutenant,” the platoon sergeant said, “you get a sense for it. Life and death. The ground is good, the defenses are good. The men and women on the line are good,” he said, nodding to the gunners, both of whom had turned an ear to the conversation. “Very good. We’ll make it through.” He took another swig of whiskey, pocketed the flask, and stood to return to the line. 

“Stay sharp,” Corte ordered as he left, returning her eyes to the kill zone. The gunners likewise turned their attention forward. “Let’s make it through.”