Cry Havoc

by Jack Hanson

  Most impressively, he was the only living member of the Order of the Fallen Lion, which was generally awarded to those who had died performing incredible acts of valor. Brokehorn had indeed died, seven Khajalian knights dead by his actions as well as a company of Naith defenders and a duo of Leitani Butcher tanks, but an incredible effort by the rescue team had brought him back to life. The great scars along his flanks and running down his legs were testament to that battle.

  “Yes, I heard you, reviewing the history of the Empire, and the tools it uses to accomplish its aims. Yet one was missing,” said Brokehorn.

  The Tyrannosaurus cut his eyes at Brokehorn, but the Triceratops did not acknowledge it.

  “Tell me, cadets. What do you think of when I say the words Forward Operation Specialist?” asked Brokehorn, enunciating each of the last three words.

  It was Jane who spoke up. “You’re talking about the FOSsils?”

  “And what does that mean to you? To any of you?” asked Brokehorn.

  “They went insane,” said Paris, remembering what he had overheard from Rhulo. The others turned and looked at him, and it took him a minute before he continued on. “Well, some of them did. The others went after them, and then they were retired.”

  “It wasn’t just for insanity. Truly, you are not so uneducated that you didn’t hear of their acts that drove the loyalists to hunt down their kin?” said the Old Blood.

  Jane filled in the blanks again. “My parents own a copy of the original Histories, by the spymaster Fletcher before it had been redacted. In it he told of how they had been decorating themselves in the skins of the people they had slaughtered. Some had killed their Scytheclaw allies, while others had been warped, like the FOSsils who had ridden them. There are still planets where things will not grow where the rebel FOSsils trod because of the taint they left in their wake. I had thought it was just the author embellishing – other historians have said Fletcher had a talent for it. Is it true then?”

  The two Old Bloods shared a private look before Ripper responded. “I have been to the ruins on several planets, and yes they exist. Do you know what else had happened?”

  Jane shook her head, and Ripper continued.

  “They were gathering an army of slaves, of those they had mentally dominated through their talents, and were preparing to begin to strike out before they were stopped by the Loyalists.”

  “So why didn’t the Empire just wipe them all out? It seemed like the FOSsils were more trouble than they were worth,” asked Sand.

  “They tried, but Fletcher intervened,” responded Brokehorn.

  “I thought that was just more boasting on his part,” murmured Jane, before turning to the old bloods. “You seem like you were there.”

  “No, we were not, or perhaps more of the faithful FOSsils would be here today, and events would have occurred differently,” said Ripper, shaking his great head.

  “Were you close to them, then?” asked Salem.

  Another look passed between the two old soldiers.

  “They could understand us, those of us that fought for the Empire, in a way no other being could, but they were not whole. We could not pity them though, for they demanded the respect due warriors of their caliber, even if they were flawed,” said Brokehorn.

  “We are done for the day, cadets. Perhaps next time Brokehorn will be here sooner to grace us with more of his ‘wisdom’ and haunt us with ghosts of the past. Or perhaps not. I do not know if I have the time to correct his mistakes or listen to him describe his importance,” Ripper admitted, nodding to the cadets as he turned away, ending the lesson on a short note.

  “At least some of us have done something to warrant importance,” shot back Brokehorn, who followed alongside.

  “That was different,” murmured Sand.

  “How’s that?” asked Salem. “I haven’t exactly been around many Old Bloods before.”

  “Just… The Surf Fins weren’t very talkative, and you had to work to follow what they were telling you,” Sand said. “That was…”

  “Like your grandfather arguing with his old friend,” finished Jane, surprising herself. She turned, and saw the other three nodding. “And what was all that stuff with the FOSsils?”

  “I don’t know where that came from, but I honestly expected them to start telling dirty jokes for a minute there,” admitted Paris. “I guess we do rub off on them. Where are we to go now?”

  Jane pulled out her reader, looking at it and then locating them on the campus map. “We’re right over here, at the Sand Gymnasium learning hand-to-hand combat,” she said.

  It was a short march there, and Jane sang a tune about the different types of janissaries, worried that Black could be watching them from the trees. It didn’t seem out of type for the soft-spoken veteran.

  When they arrived at the sand filled pit, they filed out of their formation and entered. Paris looked at the occupant and stopped short. It was the Khajalian they had seen yesterday.

  Chapter Seven—Scales and Gunpowder

  Our people have lain down with the Matriarchs and the Spiders, and lost their way. The tides have brought us to your shore, and our blades will shed the blood of your foes, if you would have us.

  —Prince Ianviur, the Bastard Prince, Leader of the Schismatic Khajal, at the Yves Summit.

  Black and yellow were the two scale colors of this Khajalian, the contrast of yellow scales along the belly making the glossy black look even more striking. He was not wearing the thrombium armor from before, so the play of muscles under his skin could be seen. His rai’lith was planted butt-first into the sand of the arena, the half cloak hung from it ceremonially.

  Standing fully upright, the Khajalian was almost nine feet tall, towering over his charges. The short tail he sported helped with balance – if it wasn’t held upright it would drag on the ground slightly. The Khajalian’s head was crocodilian in shape, but more compact. Slitted eyes looked them over, gleaming with intelligence.

  Most importantly, the girls didn’t seem to feel the light headed euphoria that came with a Khajalian sending its pheromones into the air. Unique among other species, the Khajali had evolved a singular mechanism for reproduction: if there were no females of its species around, a Khajalian could simply convert females of other races. Consent had played little part for most of the Khajalian’s history, and the chemical reactions the pheromones caused made it a moot point: the females who were enslaved wanted no other type of life.

  The concept of monogamy had simply not existed in Khajalian culture, until its contact with the Empire in the war. Ianviur, disgusted with the degeneracy of his people, had been so taken by the idea that he had led a like-minded group of Khajalians to the Empire’s doorstep, and turned against his own race.

  Now, with the war over, some Khajalians had left the military to explore the exciting new cultures of the Empire, while others had stayed in some capacity, like the instructor standing before them. The corners of his lips moved upwards in what passed for a smile, and his wickedly sharp teeth were visible as he spoke.

  “Ah, my cadets, welcome. I am Pairna,” he said in a deep voice that was almost a series of croaks. He appraised them, nodding his head in the manner of Sergeant Black before he spoke. “I see I have a Rillik among my charges. K’yesh thre’don, Rillik.”

  Paris looked away, but mumbled the reply all the same and held up a hand, palm facing towards the sky.

  “K’yesh na’mar, ar’bakh,” intoned Paris. Refusing to answer could serve as an insult. Since Paris was technically still among the unblooded, he would be untouchable. Rhulo, however, would have to answer for his disrespect. No matter how much he wished he could be something else, his tutor did not deserve the trouble disrespect would bring.

  Pairna snorted. “Black said you would not respond. I said you would. He owes me meat now,” the Khajali said in an amused tone. He gave a lif
t of his head at Paris’s look of surprise. “Yes, he told me about you so that I would not count coup if you forgot what you were taught, but I do not believe Rhulo would give his Breath to a churl.”

  The other three looked at Paris, looking surprised at the Khajali’s response, but Paris only turned his head, taking it. Matters like this were open in Khajalian culture.

  “Your human self-pity is a topic for another time, child of the sea and shore,” Pairna said, using the literal translation for Rillik before continuing on. “I am to teach you how to close with the enemy and fight, how to shatter bones and rend flesh, even lacking as you do talons and teeth. When you learn how to do that, then we shall pick up weapons. Now, I know this is not your first year, so let us see what you know.”

  The cadets removed their jackets and individually squared up with the Khajali.

  “Who is the team leader?” Pairna asked.

  “I… I am,” Jane murmured.

  Pairna cocked his head. “I thought I heard someone speak,” he said. Obviously, Black had talked to him about more than just Paris.

  “I am,” she said more forcefully.

  Pairna nodded. “Lead the way for your troops,” he directed, and waved her in with a claw.

  Squaring up with the massive Khajali, Jane timidly kicked out with a foot, only to land sprawling on her back after her opponent swerved his hips.

  “We will stay here until you actually attack me. Now get up,” he said harshly.

  Wiping the sand from her arms, Jane stood up, and this time kicked hard, showing the first tongue of anger.

  “Better,” said the Khajali, who sent in a slow blow that Jane blocked.

  Slowly the tempo increased, until after three minutes, Jane landed on her back again. She stood up, and faced the Khajali again.

  Surprisingly, he shook his head. “No, I’ve seen what you can do now. You should remember though, that aggression will save you when timidity will kill you. Next!”

  Paris stepped forwards, but Pairna held up one claw. “No not yet. You, the boxer, come over here,” he said, pointing at Sand.

  The small cadet stepped forwards, craning his neck to look up at Pairna.

  “You were attacked by many I was told. You may be excused from this exercise if you wish, since you are still healing.”

  Sand shook his head. “I’ll be fine. The Bhae Chaw fixed me up pretty good,” he told Pairna.

  The Khajali nodded. “It is their way. As you will.”

  He punched at Sand. Blocking with a fist, Sand pivoted on his front foot and delivered a hook to the Khajali, grunting as his knuckles bounced off the scales. He didn’t rely exclusively on his boxing tricks and threw in a few kicks to mix things up, but he too eventually ended up on the ground, lasting longer than Jane had.

  Sand rolled to his feet with a grunt, the exertions straining his wounds somewhat.

  The Khajali grunted in approval. “I think it is obvious why they brought more than one,” he said.

  Sand seemed buoyed by the compliment, and joined Jane.

  Salem stepped forwards, looking resolved to do as well as Jane. She was a runner, and had a bit more cardiovascular endurance because of it, and was more nimble as well. When the Khajali began moving faster in his strikes, she threw some tumbling into the mix, and was able to surprise him once with a roll to avoid a sweeping tail attack.

  Unfortunately, when she attempted to repeat the move he anticipated it, and the sweep was simply a feint. Instead she was caught in midair by a claw and dropped to the sand with a thud. Shaking her head, she sat up and rubbed her back.

  “It was a good trick when it was unexpected, but it leaves you vulnerable against a skilled opponent, so don’t rely on it,” Pairna advised her, and sent her to join the other two.

  Now Paris stood alone, and walked across the sand to the Khajali, who looked him over.

  “So, how will you fight, Rillik?” Pairna asked, cocking his head.

  Paris didn’t answer, only raising his fists. Pairna nodded, and they began, the Khajali lashing out with a punch. Paris batted it aside and got in close to his opponent, driving an elbow to a nerve cluster under the sternum. Pairna twisted his body so it deflected off his muscles harmlessly.

  “Now you wish to show that Rhulo taught you well?” Pairna taunted, the two beings clinched. Paris’s muscles could be seen straining under his shirt as he continually shifted positions to make up for the Khajali’s greater strength. When the clinch broke, there was a flurry of blows, and the two leapt apart, Paris catching his breath before charging forwards again.

  Paris’ strategy was to neutralize his opponent’s reach and height by staying in close to him, making it more awkward to hit him back. None of the others didn’t know Khajalian physiology the way Paris did. He knew their hip structure made it hard for them to deal with a constantly circling opponent. That helped Paris last over ten minutes as Pairna increased the difficulty. It was obvious Pairna wasn’t using his full skills, but Paris held his own until the blows came in with enough force that when one did land, it drove him to the ground with a thud that made the other three wince.

  Paris didn’t stand up right away, and the Khajali covered the distance quickly. He leaned over Paris and hissed so that only the cadet could hear: “It does not matter if it is a curse or blessing, it is a responsibility. You should have been there for your teammate.”

  Parina turned away, leaving Paris to pick himself up shakily.

  “Obviously, there are different levels of skill here, but you all can learn from each other,” the Khajali began, before pairing them up and having them review basic punch block drills standing up. Soon enough though, class was over, and they all had a fine sheen of sweat over their bodies as they finished up. Pairna viewed them, nodding his head in acceptance.

  “You each gave an acceptable effort today, cadets. I believe we will be able to start with weapons earlier than usual. Hopefully your advisor will join us in this effort,” the Khajali said, ignoring the wide eyed looks that passed between the team. “Dismissed.”

  The cadets marched off, singing about different battles in a humorous way, and arrived at the firing range for their final block of instruction. There they suited up in ballistic helmets and put on battle armor that janissaries wore into combat. Not only did it provide torso protection, but there were pieces that slipped over the arms and legs, allowing movement at the joints. Made up of composite plastics and ceramics, it was also relatively light, and would stop a round if the built-in personal shield generator failed.

  The range master, Illurian Corporal Hai’liam greeted them. His skin was a light blue, shot through with darker streaks. His nose was upturned, and he had thin lips and webbed fingers, all signs of the marine mammals that Illurians had evolved from. His neural strands were woven in a tight soldier’s queue at the base of his neck. Illurian males were smaller than females, so Paris towered over him and he was eye level with the other three. At the same time, his musculature was much denser than a human’s, and his wiry frame suggested strength.

  Some Illurians had tried to follow the survivors of the Armada’s Revolt into exile, disgusted at the idea of serving those they had once ruled, but many saw the Truth in the decision of the military, and were content to serve. The Illurians had made a religion out of truth, worshipping it and believing it was a divine force for all that was good in the world. For all that though, they made excellent intelligencers and covert agents, recognizing the time for both truth and untruth. The Illurian Court turning its face from the Truth had been seen as an act tantamount to heresy in the eyes of many Illurians, and so the ascension of the Terrans from servant to master was seen as a sort of penance.

  The fact that Illurians were still key in many operations across Imperial space, and there was no revenge or call for reparations among Terrans, was not lost on the proud race, who found themselves treated
as equals. Even the Bhae Chaw were restrained from any vengeance on their one time masters after the conditioning was broken, and that act had sealed the loyalty of the Illurians once and for all.

  The corporal did not seem to care about the fact that, as recently as two decades ago, he would have been commanding Terran janissaries as a full officer, never as something as low as a corporal. He accepted his place, and handed them assault rifles chambered in eight millimeters.

  Very little of their weaponry was metal: laboratory-designed plastic, subjected to chemical treating, ruled the day. Lighter than metal and more durable, these weapons were the next step in the basic infantry weapon systems platform.

  Surprisingly, it was Jane who was consistently the best shot, with the other three mixing it up in their iterations of fire. Her attention to detail when she really focused apparently served her well, and even the range corporal commented on it.

  “It’s good when the team leader is the best shot. Always drives me up a wall when we get someone in here who can’t shoot but is in charge of the rest of the team,” he said as he took their weapons back.

  The team stripped off their armor and marched back to the barracks, singing about preparing for war in the early morning rain. The upcoming patrol, the live patrol where they were at a very real risk of dying, seemed very far away at the end of this first day of class. It would be on them sooner than they thought.

  Part 2—Killing Frost

  Chapter Eight—Weekend Pass

  We’ve been fortunate. Historically in a situation like this, the city being so close to the Academy would result in problems between urbanites and cadets, but apparently Empire wide conscription bridges a lot of that gap.

  —comment by Commandant Cantor, prior Commandant of Ganymede Military Academy

  Several months had passed, one fading into the next the way time does in any sort of regulated schedule. Ganymede III possessed a climate much like Terra’s, so the end of summer swept into autumn, changing the color of the trees and everything slowing and sleeping in preparation for next year’s spring.