"Stay close to me," Ozla instructed the children.
She took light, shallow breaths. The army couldn't hear her; she couldn't let them. It was no longer about her. Her nephews and nieces are unshielded, and since the adults had taken back the blasters, unarmed. Ozla gulped.
Battle raged all around her. Sometimes, when warriors would move, she could glimpse the base. The booby trapped obstacle track spanned almost the whole width and much of the length. A tram track wrapped around the wall. Double aluminum doors with a control panel lurked beneath the track. In another wall stood an egg-shaped door. Also with a passcode pad.
Ozla's hand trembled against her blaster.
Not far away, Relda's hands were lubricated with perspiration. Years had passed since her prime, when her muscles remembered the combat strategies. It wasn't that she hadn't fought. In fact, she had. Relatively recently. But her arms ached. The invigorating adrenaline rush had long run dry.
Back then, she had to fight for survival. An ancient Anmerian indigenous population didn't take kindly to the newer inhabitants.
Now, muscle memory or not, her daughters and grandchildren needed her.
Her arms ached as she lowered the blaster.
"They've got the kids," her opponent said into his collar, pausing long enough to take a blast from Relda.
Memory and adrenaline kicked back in full throttle.
"They've got the kids."
The eldest quintuplets heard it too, and set their blasters to the highest power. Not under their watch.