“Engage when ready,” Eric said, as he got to one knee and extended the Priminae gravity weapon ahead of him.

“Roger that. Engaging enemy targets in three . . .”

Major Curran was cursing up a storm, trying like hell to keep his voice low enough so it wasn’t picked up by his microphone and knowing that he was failing miserably. The alien . . . things moved like something out of a horror movie, and at the range they were fighting there was just no chance for the battle tank’s guns to lock on.

Screw time. Just give me range, Lord, all I ask for is range!

From two miles out, he knew he could pot these bastards like shooting skeet on a Sunday afternoon. From less than two hundred yards it was like trying to hit greased lightning. Curran twisted around, looking behind him in more than a little desperation.

“Back off! Get us some fighting room!”

“Major, we’ve got the rest of the platoon right behind us!”

“Everyone back up!” he ordered over the network. “If we stay in knife range they’re going to slice us to ribbons!”

The hydrogen turbines whined as the electromagnetic tracks bit into the asphalt, the remaining tanks in the platoon backing off as quickly as they dared. As they did the gunners kept firing, though slower now as they were wary of running completely dry of munitions.

“Riley, Evans, we’re about out of rounds. Lead tanks will split at the next intersection. You two fire as the range clears,” Curran ordered. “We’ll try and get them in a pincer if they chase us, or open some real range between us if they don’t.”

The next two tanks in his column acknowledged the order as they all got under way.

A flicker of motion in the corner of his eye caught Curran’s attention. He glanced to the left and up to see several figures appear on the rooftop just behind his tanks. His first instinct was to initiate counter-sniper contingencies, but he stopped himself short when he realized that he wasn’t fighting humans this time around.

Who the hell are these people?

They were forming a firing line, heavy assault weapons aimed down at the streets he was backing like hell to get out of, and just then Curran realized that he didn’t really care. He saw their plan and his hands were working on his command board before he even thought about what he was doing.

“All tanks,” he ordered, “new maneuvering orders coming through. Execute immediately.”

He didn’t have time for anything fancy, so he settled for altering the last set of instructions just enough. Instead of the two lead tanks peeling off at the intersection completely, they’d angle in, plant their backs to the walls of the buildings, and get ready to fight.