by Jack Hanson
“How are you feeling, Salem?” Jane said.
Salem paused a moment before answering, perhaps remembering the look of horror on Petra’s face after Salem had commanded the enemy troops to kill themselves. Jane remembered how hurt Salem had sounded when she’d told Jane about it.
“I’m fine, just tired. You?” Salem said.
“I’m about the same, and a little hungry too. Any idea how long we’ve been asleep?” Jane asked as she slid from her bunk. She had seen a fridge unit when they had been shown the room, and she opened it, revealing a small trove of food and drink in the soft glow of the light.
“No clue,” admitted Salem. She moved out of her bunk and looked over Jane’s shoulder before making a noise of approval. The two girls grabbed ice tea, sandwiches, and some fruit before sitting on the floor against the frame of Salem’s bunk.
“What happens now?” asked Jane after the girls had taken the edge off their hunger, and were working on a ham and cheese sandwich.
“Clay said he would brief us in the morning when we woke up,” said Salem.
“I mean more with our parents and our family, Salem. What are they going to be told?” asked Jane.
Salem shook her head, thinking of the household she had left behind. “More questions to ask him, I guess.”
Paris spoke up from his bunk.
“Our parents are being told that we’ve been selected for a special unit detail and our communications will be limited, at least that’s what Pairna told me the plan was,” the Rillik informed the girls. He rolled out of his bunk as well, and walked on the balls of his feet as he made his way to the food. There were raw strips of meat for him, and he sat across from Salem and Jane as he made short work of them.
“Do you think our parents will believe that?” Jane asked Paris.
He shrugged as he guzzled from a large bottle of water. “I imagine they will. Fletcher can be very convincing. Supposedly there’s a base on Aurelius that we’re going to work out of,” he said.
“They must mean one of the moons. Why would they base us out of the ‘Glimmering Halo of the West’?” asked Jane.
“I wouldn’t be complaining if they did, so you better not be,” said Salem, who stroked Jane’s hair and smiled to take a bit of the bite out of her words. “Didn’t Sand take a vacation near there over Exodus?”
Paris thought on that, rising to his feet.
“Let’s ask him,” he said as he walked over to Sand’s bunk. He reached out to shake him and then withdrew his hand. Jane and Salem made their way over to see what Paris was staring at.
Paris stared at Sand. Two IVs ran into Sand, and bandages had been wrapped around his ribs. A black eye was slowly fading, and Salem reached out to push a large scab from his forearm. It flaked away with no resistance, revealing smooth pink skin underneath.
“What happened out there?” Salem asked softly.
“He was killing them as soon as they landed,” said Paris. He half remembered the Illurian communications he had scanned over, the translation instantaneous and consisting of equal parts screams of pain and orders to kill whatever monster was butchering them. There was terror in each word, and Paris wondered what Sand had done when Jane had cut him loose in their ranks.
Touching Sand’s hand, Paris jumped as an image flooded his mind: The Reaver bore the severed head of an Illurian in one gauntlet, grabbing it by the neural strands and thrusting it towards the backs of a fleeing knot of clone soldiers. He had retracted the lower part of his helmet, and was screaming at them unintelligibly with thick spittle flying from his lips. He threw the head at them before picking up an abandoned janissary weapon and firing it into their flanks, laughing as they were cut down by the thumping fire of the assault rifle.
Salem looked over at Paris as he started, misinterpreting his reaction.
“Did he say something that awful?” she asked, the edge of a smile on her lips.
Paris swallowed, and then shook his head, keeping the revelation to himself. “He was just intense,” the Rillik said, giving her a half smile in return. Internally, Paris was still shocked by what he had seen, and wondered how much of the casual brutality was real, and what the implications of it were.
Jane brushed back Sand’s bangs, stroking his forehead. “I hope he wakes up okay,” she said.
Salem squeezed Sand’s hand. “He’s tough; he’ll be alright. I’m just thankful that…”
“…we all made it out alive. Together,” finished Paris.
The two young FOSsils looked at each other in surprise, and then shared a laugh. Paris put a hand on her shoulder as they saw Sand’s eyes begin to open, looking up at his three comrades smiling down at him.
Read on for a small extract from Forlorn Hope, the second in the Secret Files of the League of Silence series.
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Extract from Forlorn Hope
The Utahraptor genus, which we have taken to calling ‘Scytheclaw’, is proving to be among the most intelligent of the species we’ve resurrected. They understand sarcasm, idiom, and wit, as well as how to utilize them effectively in conversation, in addition to showing a talent at mathematical computation. I recommend a series of changing locks, as well as a rotating guard shift to be placed on their quarters immediately. Intelligence and charm is a dangerous combination, and all too easily I can see them escaping from the facility well before their time.
—Illurian notes on the scytheclaws
Paris never saw what blasted him from Rick’s prone form, but he whipped his rai’lith up instinctively, seeing only teeth snapping toward him and feeling a massive weight on his chest. The teeth gripped his weapon and tried to rip it from his grasp, and he was only barely able to hold on. He could see a flash of scales and feathers, but right now his world was a massive set of jaws trying to get around his weapon.
The other three hadn’t been able to register the massive form that flashed between them. It resolved itself into a beast of green scales the size of a horse, clad in dull grey armor. The long tail lashed in the air, its huge jaws wrestling with Paris for his rai’lith. On each claw, one of which was planted on Paris’s chest, was the talon that gave the Scytheclaws their name.
There was little time to wonder at the creature that was speed and fury made flesh, as they were surrounded now by three more Scytheclaws, each one bearing a rider wearing the similar armor to their own, colored white, black, and tan. Together, they shimmered the silver of a mirage, pulsed the green rot of the deep woods, and glimmered equal to freshly worked gold. The First and Second Generations had arrived.
Forced back to back, the three younger FOSsils were at a disadvantage as the massive Utahraptors bit at them, spittle flying from their jaws with each lunge. When Jane went to strike at one, she her blow was parried by the figure in tan, K-2 on his shoulders and a series of tines on his helmet. Their weapons screamed as his blade flowed around hers, but she had the presence of mind to try and thin the blade out.
The FOSsil in black didn’t so much strike with his dreamblade as his weapon exploded into a cacophony of tendrils, wrapping around Salem and binding her limbs while his Scytheclaw watched dispassionately.
Sand saw Paris, struggling against the Scytheclaw that was pinning him down, and felt himself beginning to drift in and out of control. He knew that, in the eyes of the FOSsils, he must be exploding into the bright red of fresh blood as he struggled to remain in control of himself
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