The Biomass Revolution (The Tisaian Chronicles) by Nicholas Smith

gmetal, the polished silver armor glimmering naturally under the gray sky.
    His men watched from the comfort and safety of their vehicles , wondering why he would risk making himself a target on the hood of the Scorpion. But the rookie Knights had not heard the stories of how Captain McNeill gained the respect and loyalty of his superiors. It certainly wasn’t by hiding his face behind the armor of vehicles or the walls of bunkers. He rose to the top of his unit by fighting the rebels face to face for over two decades.
    His skin was a canva s of scars, like a battle map; peppered with red streaks, each scar revealed a different story. It was his bravery, which appeared to some new recruits as foolishness, that earned him the rank of Captain from Commander Augustus personally. His wounds were a constant reminder of all the injuries suffered over his years of service; from his left cheekbone wrinkled and dark from radiation exposure during the Biomass Wars, to his prosthetic knees—they were all medals gained in the loyal service of a Royal Knight. 
    A blast of wind tore into his armor, whistling across the gmetal. He grima ced as his leg began to ache. The memory of the TDU ambush that had caused it slipped into his mind.
    He could recall it vividly, almost able to taste the smoke from the bombs Squad 19 had planted in an apartment building. The trap had wiped out half of his squad.
    Squad 19.
    McNeill snarled. He had hunted the squad and Commander Obi for years, trailing their scent into the tunnels snaking deep beneath the cities and into the Wastelands.
    Are they out there? he wondered, massaging the metal skin of his robotic arm and staring into the distance.
    He shook the painful memories out of his mind and glassed the horizon for the rebels. His eyes read the landscape like a hawk searching for its prey, combing the dark gray ground, dry and peppered with ash. There was no sign of the people who once lived here, save for their charred vehicles and bones. The Wastelands were a graveyard, and disgusted him almost as much as the rebels.
    As his eyes continued to scan the terrain he came across a rock structure jutting out of the ground like the spikes on the back of a prehistoric monster. Underneath the formation were the remains of an old highway. He could scarcely make out the shapes of ruined cars, but there was no mistaking it. He instantly knew it was where the rebels would be hiding. He knew because this was where he too would be hiding if he were them.
    He jumped off the hood of the S corpion; his assault rifle clanking on the back of his armor. 
    “ Hand me your radio,” he commanded, reaching into the vehicle’s open window.
    “Base this is Captain McNeill , over.”
    “Roger, base here, go ahead.”
    “We’ve been ambushed and suffered the loss of one Scorpion. I’ve identified a possible enemy location and request permission to engage, over.”
    The sound of static followed as McNeill waited for a response. The driver of the Scorpion shook noticeably, his armor-covered hands gripping the steering wheel as if he was clinging on for life.
    “Captain, this is General Logsdon. What’s your current location, over?”
    “We’re about 20 miles due west of the walls. The rebels are dug in close to a large rock formation. We do not know their exact location,” McNeill paused for a second, more than enough for any veteran to notice a hint of reservation. Luckily none of the rookies seemed to notice it, or at least acknowledge it.
    The static of the radio blurred to life. “Captain, do you need reinforcements? Over. ”
    McNeill paused and stared at the rock formation in the distance. “No s ir, I can handle this one. Over,” he said firmly.
    He had failed to eliminate Squad 19 many times before, almost losing his own life in the process. This time was going to be different—this time he had them cornered. He didn’t need help to bring Obi’s head to Commander Augustus.
    “Roger. Keep us updated