by Jack Hanson
His visor filtered out the dust, and he could see where Pairna had thrown himself clear of the blast, but was sprawled on the ground. His armor surprised him, detecting vital signs from a distance and telling him the Khajali was still alive. However, it alerted to a new life form on the other side of the depression, on top of the hill. The response confused him, as it came back that the hulking mass was “probably” Bhae Chaw. What he could see of the outline was far too bulky to be a Bhae Chaw, and it walked on all fours. It raised what Paris assumed was its head and snuffed the air in the direction of the fallen Khajali before loping down the hill.
Paris began to run, firing at the outline as he headed towards Pairna. The rounds were visible as ricochets in his visor, and his armor began running statistical analysis on what was going on. In a few seconds it reported that the creature was likely armored in thrombium or neuronium, which made his rifle next to useless. Laying it down as he ran, he drew his dreamblade, forming the weapon into a massive cleaver.
He arrived at Pairna seconds before the beast did, and was instantly hit with the smell of old blood and rotted flesh from the thing. As the beast emerged from the still-settling dust, he wondered what the Illurians had done to make this monster. It was indeed armored in thrombium, along all four legs, the body, and the head. Paris could see how his armor would mistake it for a Bhae Chaw in general terms, but the hulking furred beast in front of him was easily twice the size of a male Bhae Chaw. The eyes that looked him over possessed no shred of intelligence, only a bestial glimmer that chilled him as he realized that this was perhaps once a Bhae Chaw, but no longer.
Drool dripped from the open muzzle, the huge jaws gnashing once before it began to circle Paris and the fallen Khajali. Obviously some shred of intelligence remained, and it tested Paris’s resolve by lashing out with a massive claw.
The FOSsil parried, bringing his sword about as thrombium rang against neuronium, the impact jarring Paris. He sliced out with his dreamblade, and the battle began in earnest as the beast turned its flank into the blow. Paris’s sword chipped off some of the armor, but that was nearly fatal as the Bhae Chaw swept a claw at him. Paris blocked the blow, but realized too late it had been a feint, and found himself slammed hard by the rear legs of the enemy. The blow sent him sprawling, his weapon spinning from his hand.
The creature roared in triumph as Paris attempted to draw a breath through wincing pain. His hand reached out for something to fend off the creature that was stalking him. It seemed to savor his struggle. Paris’s hand found something, and he grabbed it. As he rolled to his feet he realized it was Pairna’s rai’lith in his hands. It was a little lighter than he remembered Rhulo’s being, but the old forms came to him naturally. The Bhae Chaw snorted, knowing something had changed in the fight. Then it charged.
Paris spun, the blade flashing in the starlight as he struck twice in rapid succession, aiming for the joints of the armor. He was rewarded with a pained growl and the sound of metal crumpling. A dark fluid trickled through; whatever the joints were made of was not thrombium. He grinned behind his mask as he spun the blade, whipping it around behind his legs before charging forwards.
The Bhae Chaw tried to turn and lash at him again with his hind legs, but Paris was not there. He leaped high into the sky before crashing down into his enemy. His weight drove the thrombium blade through the neck piece with perfect precision. He knew his understanding of spatial angles had served him well when he felt the beast shudder and fall under his weight.
He ran towards Pairna as the Khajali begin to stir and raise himself up.
“I saw what you did, child of Rhulo. You saved me with my own rai’lith,” Pairna said as he stood. Paris was stoic as Pairna bore down on him, and slapped him a blow across the chest that should have staggered him. Instead he stood still, holding the rai’lith horizontal across his palms in response.
Pairna nodded, kneeling before Paris. He took rai’lith back solemnly, and then spoke again.
“You are everything we had hoped you would be, Paris,” said Pairna, clasping the Rillik on the shoulder.
“We?” asked Paris, still stunned from the blow that Pairna had delivered.
“Rhulo, myself, your instructor Clay, we all wondered what you would become, and you have lived up to the challenge placed on your shoulders adequately,” said Pairna. “When we survive this, you will be accepted among the Khajal as blooded, if that is your wish still.”
Paris swallowed, wondering if this was what he wanted, or what he had been forced into. It took him only a moment to realize that this was the other half of his nature, as much a part of him as anything else that he was. He nodded in response.
“That is my wish, ar’bakh,” Paris said as he opened his palm skyward.
“Then it shall be so. Now pick up your weapons, Rillik, for the enemy comes again, and we will hold this front until the bodies of the foe form a wall,” Pairna declared. “This is our duty, and our honor as the Khajal of the Empire.”
Paris did as he was told.
* * *
Sand ran towards the far end of the battlefield, finding it easier to let his body’s instincts take over as he searched for cover. He seemed to naturally know where the smoke and fire would be thickest, and swore more than once he had passed within meters of an enemy squad. His hand jerked as he heard the muffled footfalls and harsh Illurian orders, but he needed to bide his time to get deeper behind the enemy’s lines.
Soon enough he got his wish. The smoke began to clear, and he found cover behind a landing craft, weighing the best way to proceed. In a minute he had it, and opened a small pouch on his thigh. Extracting a dull black rod, he slid along the back side of the elegant, angular craft that looked like a bird of prey. The ramp was still down, and the Illurians had not taken the time to post a guard back there. However, numbers of bodies were not his goal yet, and he shoved his thumb down on one end of the rod, and chucked it inside the vehicle.
As he turned to run, he found himself raising his rifle instinctively in response to some unseen threat. On cue, a ten-man squad came jogging out of the smoke, only to be cut down instantly by the Reaver. The alien sound of Sand’s assault rifle drew attention he didn’t need, and he could hear sharp cries flying around the Illurian camp.
The beeping grew louder and more pronounced, and as Sand turned to run for cover behind a burnt out hulk, he saw several figures run up the ramp. His worries that his explosive would be tossed out were unfounded. The sleek ship lurched from a massive internal explosion, sending a massive chunk of debris spiraling into the night.
His helmet’s sound and light dampeners kicked in as a secondary explosion struck, utterly annihilating the craft. A chunk of flaming wreckage crashed into another ship, and the process repeated itself as the delicate and volatile fuel systems began to explode. From behind his cover, Sand could hear the screams of the dying, and smell the flesh beginning to roast on the wind.
Peeking around the corner, he saw the coast was clear. He came around sharply, rushing to the first group of dying clone soldiers. His rifle made short work of them. Sand did not think twice about killing, human or no. This was the enemy. This was what he had been trained for.
He couldn’t search for human targets through his radar in order to locate his classmates, since he was surrounded by humans, so he began to make his way towards some of the transports in the back.
As he moved, he felt a prickling on his neck and ducked for cover. A glob of superheated blue plasma flew through the air where he had been just a second ago. Popping out from cover, he shot a burst from the hip that killed the gunner of the plasma cannon, as well as the assistant gunner who was helping him load another canister.
The enemy had taken note of him, and rounds zipped towards him, but never close enough; he simply was not where they fired as he continued his drive forward. His rifle went dry shortly after he cut down another squad. Acting off
a hunch, he stopped over one corpse that was not wearing the odd armor he had seen before and lifted the mask. An Illurian face looked back at him, the eyes wide in death.
He began to move on, but then he could see a file of captive students being loaded onto a transport shuttle. They were bound controlled by the lash and some sort of pain compliance collar around their necks. His anger began to rise, and he started to shout a warning when pain struck him, radiating from his brain through his limbs.
The pain was accompanied by a voice that told him to give up, give in, end it now before he failed and was remembered with disgrace, as opposed to a heroic martyr, sent on a suicide mission by a desperate leader. The voice was convincing; who was he to think he could be a hero? He was just a scrawny little runt, he rationalized as he found himself slapping in a new magazine and racking the bolt action. How could he actually believe—
“Reaver, remember who you are!” demanded a female voice in his head, driving out the suicidal temptations and ending in a roar.
Vaguely he heard a scream as he shook off the fog, and saw an Illurian thrashing on the ground, legs kicking and feet pounding holes into the dirt. Blood pooled behind its visor. In a moment the movement ceased, and Sand investigated, his arms and legs still throbbing from the psychic assault. Lifting the visor, he saw that some force had blown out the eyes of the Illurian. Its mouth and nose still squirted blood.
This was one of the Illurian Thought Police, and while Sand was sure the alien was dead, he didn’t take chances, smashing the face in with his rifle butt. It was bloody and satisfying work, and his rage rose again as he seethed at what this thing had tried to do to him. He tossed the rifle in the air, drawing his dreamblade as he did so and slicing it in half, the weapon flowing instantly to its desired shape.
He turned towards the transport, saw the jets activating, and ran towards it. Sand’s breath whistled between clenched teeth, trying and failing to control the berserker rage that demanded he destroy something, to hurt someone because he had been hurt. He leapt and struck, and his dreamblade sheared through a wing while the transport began to lift. The craft slammed to the ground in an unsightly heap, rolling onto its side.
The ramp yawned open. The pilots inside must have thrown the emergency switch. The young Reaver was there waiting, his blade biting deep the minute they stepped out of the hatch. Tossing the bodies aside, he stepped into the transport, covered in the blood of his foes. Twenty pairs of eyes gaped as they saw him, but no one said a word, only mouthed dumbly. They had been bound together by a long cord that ran the length of the cabin, and were kneeling with their legs crossed.
Sand relished the looks that he received as he cut the long wire that bound them to the floor.
“Go and find friendly lines! Get out of here!” he said, voice made deeper and rougher by the helmet.
The cadets did not need to be told twice, jumping to their feet and running past him in two files. He saw that one of his tormentors from the beginning of the year was there, and there was a moment where he realized he could hold him behind, and slay him at his leisure. As quickly as it came, the thought was gone. Sand realized such acts were beneath him. The bully ran past without incident, and Sand saw another craft land and begin disgorging troops into the field. The killing of one person who had wronged him was indeed below him; his destiny was the slaughter of armies that stood against his will. The young Reaver licked a film of sweat off his upper lip, and leisurely made his way towards the enemy.
The screams began shortly afterward.
* * *
Far away, Clay shook his head. He leaned against the wall, accepting help from one gore-spattered claw to steady himself. Cheera had made his arrival unnecessary – the massive Bhae Chaw nurse had descended into a maternal rage that had left her invulnerable to any sort of psychic attack. Body parts and blood smears now decorated the hallway where Clay had collapsed from a piercing headache, and was now trying to steady himself.
Sand might not have recognized the female voice that broke into his thoughts, but Clay would have, and wondered at what it meant.
Chapter Twenty Five—Prodigal’s Return
It’s going to happen, and you can’t stop it. Three times I have lost what was most important to me, but perhaps I can do some good by being the conscience Fletcher lacks. If you’re not going to help me, then stay out of my way.
—Clay, the Last Reaver, speaking to the FOSsil Remnants
Salem avoided the patrols that were hunting the same prey as she was, using her mirror cloak to slide imperceptibly between the enemy troops. She had already rescued two squads, striking down whatever attackers had been present in a grenade ambush that launched body parts and viscera through the air. Her HUD was registering the location of a third squad, far out towards where the enemy lines began.
She moved quickly, but not so fast as to disturb her mirror cloak’s calibrations. It was a sensitive device, and she was still far from complete mastery over it. However, she could use it effectively enough to ghost across the battlefield, unseen and unheralded. In a few minutes, the squad came into view, and she realized it was Beta Team, with a few stragglers, hunkering behind scrap as they took fire from two different avenues.
The FOSsil made her optics zoom in, and she saw Petra treating a wounded Ostler, tying a bandage around his leg. As she leaned up, a flurry of rounds exploded above the girl’s head.
Salem made a low groaning sound in her throat, and found herself beginning to run. Her mirror cloak dissolved in a crackle of lightning, and she saw several sets of barrels begin to whip towards her.
“I’m a friend, I’m a friend!” she said, holding up empty hands as she ran towards them.
Ostler’s eyes went wide, and he barked something at his team. There was a second’s hesitation before the weapons were pointed back at the enemy, giving what little fire suppression they could.
“A FOSsil saving my life again,” Ostler groaned as Petra put pressure on the dressing, breaking the coagulant capsules threaded through the mesh bandage.
Petra looked over, her eyes wide in shock.
“Your kind doesn’t fight anymore,” she said, looking over Salem, not knowing her friend was behind the helmet.
Salem nearly revealed herself then and there, but thought better of it, realizing that it would complicate an already difficult situation.
“Times change,” was all Salem said.
She looked past the six bodies that were still firing. Two more were unconscious, leaking blood, and Petra and Ostler made ten.
“I’m going to provide you cover,” Salem told Petra, as she unslung her assault rifle.
The half-Illurian snorted. “With that one weapon?”
Salem’s retort was bitten off as a brace of fire seemed to go off next to her ear, and her shield flared. A third squad had flanked them, and was now moving to cut off their escape and expose the janissaries from behind their cover. As one cadet turned to deal with this new threat, he was cut down by a burst of fire, his blood invisible on the churned ground.
Salem felt events beginning to overwhelm her, knowing that while she could escape, clouding the minds of her foe, her best friend would have to be left behind. Even as this realization hit her, another cadet fell, gasping as his chest was caved in from a concussive blast.
The FOSsil felt her world caving in as Petra gasped from a grazing wound on the arm.
She closed her eyes, shouting out “Just die!”
She missed the spectacle of eighteen enemy rifles jamming themselves under their owner’s chins, and just as many geysers of brain matter leaping through the air before the bodies crumpled lifeless to the ground.
The firing suddenly stopped around them, and Salem opened her eyes, looking around, and wondering what had just happened. The surviving troops looked at her with a mix of awe and fear, looking away when her gaze moved over them. The realiz
ation came to Salem slowly, and she felt the knowledge of what she had just done settle into her lower stomach.
She reached out for Petra with one hand, and the normally stoic girl gasped and kicked away, not stopping until her back rested against a piece of wreckage. Petra’s chest heaved with her breathing. She was obviously terrified. They all were, with the exception of Ostler.
“FOSsil,” the old janissary said, looking over at Salem. “You did what you had to do to save us.”
Salem swallowed, trying to wet her throat so she could respond.
“I wanted them to die, and they killed themselves,” she murmured, the realization crashing into her when she vocalized it. She tried to stand up, but only managed to slam back down to her knees.
“Survivors, gather the wounded and pass your weapons off to the walking injured. We can’t sit around here all day!” Ostler barked, his voice forcing the stunned troops into action. Quickly, the cadets began to do as they were told, slinging the incapacitated between them and handing their rifles off to those who were wounded, but could still fight.
Before Ostler was lifted off his feet by Petra, he spoke to Salem.
“This time, I will tell what I saw, and I will not let them consign you to infamy,” the veteran promised. Salem looked up at him, wondering what he meant. Petra would not meet her gaze, instead walking after the file of troops, who didn’t look back to see if Salem was following.
The barb of sorrow lodged itself in Salem’s heart as she sat in the circle of enemies who had just killed themselves on nothing more than her command. Tears threatened to come, but the girl was made of sterner stuff, and choked them down, drawing her dreamblade as she did so. There were still more squads that needed help. She shaped her blade into the spiraled horn, and went to go find them.
* * *
Jane was surprised to see lights in the heavens, and turned to Major Hayes. She was holding the enemy forces back, but only just. If these were reinforcements, she didn’t have enough troops to manage anything but keep a retreat from turning into a rout.