Brokehorn’s eyes went wide, as much at the insult as the amount of wit and rapidity it was delivered with, equal to any Scytheclaw, the Old Blood Velociraptors. As he turned to face the Tyrannosaurus, a light clap caught his attention.
“Brokehorn, Ripper. I was only able to catch your faith in my leadership, which I found heartening. Is everything alright?” the Illurian asked. His body armor was a vibrant green that clashed against pale blue skin.
“Certainly, Dhimion. My... comrade and I were just discussing matters of strategy,” said Ripper, lowering his head to the level of the Illurian. The male was tall for his race, so Ripper did not need to bend as far as usual. Cruzah placed his hand on the Old Blood’s muzzle in a sign of familiarity.
“You know this... Bladejaw?” asked Brokehorn. He was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Indeed I do,” replied Cruzah. “We worked together during the Malbrion Incursion, and I requested him personally. I would have said something sooner, Brokehorn, but he arrived much quicker than I expected. You have my apologies.” The Illurian curved his arm inward, holding it against his middle, and bowed at the waist.
“There is no need for that,” said Brokehorn, knowing the emotion he felt was called embarrassment. It was far too formal, especially with the gesture. Perhaps Cruzah had heard more of the conversation between the two Old Bloods than he was letting on. Illurians were tricky like that.
“These days, it seems like these butcher-and-bolt missions are more common than us striking into Federation territory,” observed Ripper.
The slightest flicker of a frown passed over the Illurian’s face, and then vanished. He tilted his head to the right then left, exposing the neural strands that passed for hair tied in a tight quirt. “The troopers garrisoned here were recalled to the inner worlds. I suspect they were used for a personal conflict, but the djahn insisted that the local militia here were more than adequate for defense against raids,” replied Cruzah, his voice soft.
Ripper’s eyes narrowed into small slits. “There are a million people spread across the land on this colony. There is no way a colony such as this could survive a protracted engagement,” he pointed out.
Cruzah only gave the slightest of nods. “You are right on all counts, except for one. There are likely less than a million now. Let us hope there are some fish left after this hurricane,” he replied. “I’ll see you both planet-side.” The Illurian saluted, making a fist and pounding the thumb side against his chest.
The two Old Bloods watched him go, and it was Brokehorn who broached the silence between them. “You’ve noticed as well?” he said.
“Noticed what?” asked Ripper.
“That the human colonies are the ones who suffer. I can’t remember the Peace Federation daring to approach the core in quite a while,” said Brokehorn.
Ripper was silent, and then nodded his head once. “Go where the janissaries and their Illurian leaders are not, of course. The Naith call the Terrans ‘terns’ after all,” he paused to look at Brokehorn. “It means—”
“‘Killers’. It is not the original word for killers, but it has replaced the old term they used before,” finished Brokehorn, beginning to walk toward their weapons bay.
Ripper followed alongside, mindful of his tail so as not to strike any objects inadvertently. “How does that make you feel? That the human colonies are the ones who are suffering?” he prodded.
Brokehorn didn’t stop, but looked askance at the carnivore. “You are far too large to be of the Inner Truth, yet that’s a question they would ask.”
“And why would they ask that question? Why is that question considered one that someone would have to be careful who they asked it to?” Ripper pressed on.
“Because...” Brokehorn stopped, and turned to face the other Old Blood. “Why are you asking me this? Why do you care?”
“Because you seem to care what happens to the other blood of Kah, to the Terrans who fight and die for a royalty that no longer seems to value their sacrifices. So I ask again, how do you feel?” Ripper asked, his voice soft.
Brokehorn did not hesitate. “I have seen far too many of these worlds where we were too late for anything but to clean up the Naith feasts. The only Illurians were the ones who died with their human troops. The ruling caste does not care what price is paid for their suffering. You ask what I feel, Bladejaw? It is sorrow; sorrow for those who have died and those who have yet to suffer.” Brokehorn stepped closer to Ripper. “And you? What is it you feel?”
“The same, but in addition my sorrow includes seeing the bright lords and ladies of Illuria consume themselves in hedonism when I remember how... noble they were at one time,” admitted Ripper, shaking his head. “And surprise.”
“Surprise?”
“Yes. That your willingness to speak your mind includes your principles, not just in light of your discomfort. It is a rare thing among all of our species,” granted Ripper, and then stalked past the Lancer.
Brokehorn followed now, and the silence between them was more comfortable as they stepped between the pylons that would equip them with the machinery they wore to battle.
“Ripper,” asked the Lancer. “Why did you ask me that question?”
“Which question?” responded Ripper as armor plates were fitted and locked into place on his torso.
“In regards to the humans.”
“Because you noticed their suffering, and so few of our kind do,” said Ripper.
Brokehorn grunted as he took the weight of his armor on his back, but it was more in reflex than any real burden. It sloped down his tail, along his back, and pressed up against his crest. The Lancer quickly exhaled, so no scales would be pinched as the armor swung down and locked underneath him, protecting his belly. He took a breath, then answered. “And you think that our kind should care?”
Ripper slid his arms into the massive mechanical claws that extended his reach and provided an additional melee option. “Too many of the Old Blood delude themselves into thinking their choice not to fight is without consequence. I see it as fortuitous that the Illurians gave us a choice, unlike the humans, and to say nothing of the Bhae Chaw,” he said, holding still as his helmet locked into place. Twin heavy machine guns sat either side of his jaw, while his eyes were covered by an armored screen before it rose back into the top of the helmet.
There was another pause, and Brokehorn found himself mulling that comment quietly as his weaponry was locked into hard points on his armor. Electromagnetic mortars rested over both hips, and combination machine guns and flamethrowers were mounted to the front near each shoulder. A large twin-pronged fork sparked high on his torso, and a metallic sleeve was placed over the stump of his horn. A helmet resembling a domino mask was placed over his face, with the view screens descending and obscuring his eyes.
Brokehorn’s visual display lit up with glyphs and iconography, much easier for the Old Bloods to comprehend, showing functionality of the weapon systems on the Old Blood’s war harness. The entire rig was powered by the heat generated from the dinosaur added to thorium micro-reactors located on the Lancer’s spine.
“And so what do you think our people should do?” asked Brokehorn.
Ripper stood without answering as his dorsal railgun was loaded into place. “Stand here, next to us, and fight for the humans who tend our wounds when we fall, terraform planets for us to live on, and find our every breath a marvel,” he finally replied. The Tyrannosaurus waited for Brokehorn to finish his pre-battle checks, and then the two walked together toward the transport craft that would take them from the Sea Spray to planet-side.
“A lovely thought, perhaps,” admitted Brokehorn. “But it will be the two of us saving what humans we can from the ruins of their colony.” The Lancer stopped, and looked at Ripper. “Of course I have to wonder, why do we seem more prone to acting more... human to begin with? Do we empathize with them so strongly because we think and feel like them now?” Brokehorn continued walking again, and the
question hung in the air for a moment before Ripper responded.
“I once read the work of a human philosopher who posited that all humanity is born bad. He described the natural state of man as ‘nasty, brutish and short.’ So something or someone uplifted them, and gave them a reason to do all the good deeds that I mentioned before. Perhaps that same force has worked its will on us,” he said shifting within his heavy armor, settling it ready for combat. “Others call it ‘Separated’, meaning we are separate from other Old Bloods in that we feel more compassion for other races.”
Green lights began to flash in sequence, alerting any personnel to stand back as the blast doors to the transport craft began to open. The two Old Bloods would ride down to the surface separately, even though they were being deposited in the same area of operations. If one of the craft went down – a rare event, but not entirely unheard of – it wouldn’t throw the plan of attack into complete disarray.
“I hope we will be able to talk more about this after the battle, assuming we survive,” shouted Ripper over the sounds of the doors opening.
Grudgingly, Brokehorn voiced his agreement. “Likewise, in spite of you smelling like whatever it was you last ate, I find the strength of the discussion overwhelms even your scent, though it is a close thing.”
“It is good to know that if all of our other weaponry fails, you can still likely whine the enemy to death,” said Ripper, surprising Brokehorn again and entering his transport ship, the doors shutting behind him. “‘I’ll see you on the ground’, as the janissaries say,” Ripper shouted behind him.
“Indeed you will,” Brokehorn murmured as he shambled into his own dark craft. The doors hummed behind him and he stood in the dimly-lit space for a moment before the pilot spoke over the airwaves.
“Sir, it’ll be about a minute to planet-side, and we drop in three minutes,” said the human, instantly recognizable by his use of an honorific to address an Old Blood. It wasn’t that the Illurians were rude, but they saw themselves in a much different light.
“I saw in my briefing that there was no anti-aircraft weaponry on the ground, but there’s a risk of interception?” asked Brokehorn. Secretly, being shot out of the sky and falling the rest of the way was one of his fears. He had heard it referred to by some of the human pilots as ‘controlled flight into terrain’ with a typical sense of black humor he appreciated more every day.
“You’d be correct, sir, it being a full Federation raid. We’ve got a good wing of Errant fighters supporting us, though, so we’ll get you to the ground in one piece,” the human assured him. Brokehorn heard the locks disengaging, as the transport craft unlatched from the larger troop carrier.
The inside walls of the compartment shifted inward, limiting how much the Old Blood could be thrown around in case evasive maneuvers were necessary. Deep insertion via lander was never the preferred solution for getting Old Bloods to the battlefield. Drop pods were faster and safer in most cases, but mainly only used if the Dominion would be occupying the planet. When a beachhead was necessary, the tactical advantage was more apparent when an Old Blood was supported by janissaries arriving at the same time.
The Lancer’s claws scraped at the steel grating below him as the craft sharply descended, rumbling as it made entry into the planet’s atmosphere. He had begun counting down from the time of descent, and as he reached twenty felt a sudden blow rock the left side of the shuttle.
Before he could respond, the pilot had already begun talking. “Sir, we picked up a bogey on the way down. He fired some sort of energy weapon at us and disabled everything on my left wing. I can make it back to the Sea Spray, but I need to put you down a few kilometers away from your original drop zone. I don’t think this hulk is going to make it all the way there carrying your tonnage,” he explained quickly, pausing in the middle to shout something to his copilot.
“As long as you don’t put me into a crater you can drop me on the other side of the world for all I care,” said Brokehorn, controlling his breathing and flexing his claws. In response, the front ramp cracked, and he saw the sky flashing by, filled with stars. Fast, he thought, and wondered what kind of effort the crew was giving to keep them aloft.
The ramp began to yawn open, and Brokehorn saw they were descending into a besieged cityscape. The transport seemed to be aiming for an open green space. Brokehorn heard an explosion, and saw the shield flare up momentarily as they landed. The interior walls expanded, and Brokehorn bounded out. “I’m clear!” he shouted.
“Good luck!” the pilot added as his wedge-shaped transport streaked skyward without thirty tons of Old Blood weighing it down. Brokehorn didn’t watch, instead turning his attention to the squad of Naith in the middle of the street a few hundred meters away, firing at the ship.
They were too far for his lighting fork, but perfect for the mortars he carried. Controlling the weapons with his eyes and the fine movements of his face, he sent several rounds towards the green-skinned aliens. One had just reloaded some sort of rocket tube, and Brokehorn saw him raise it just as his mortar rounds blossomed fire into the center of group.
“Lancer, are you alive?” A familiar voice in his ear grabbed his attention.
“Bladejaw, you sound almost concerned,” said Brokehorn, turning himself toward where the main force was landing and deploying his signals suite. He’d uplinked with the ships above, and had a map of the area along with a real-time display of troops identified as foes.
“Only because I don’t wish to be responsible for all this fighting alone,” Ripper said.
Brokehorn began to trot, his senses on full alert for any ambushes. Even if he was of the Separated, even though he had cutting-edge technology aiding him, he was still a dinosaur at heart, and one who had to worry about monstrous carnivores in the distant past. He’d be a fool to ignore his instincts, listening and smelling for any of the telltale signs of an ambush.
Instead of the subtle signs of a waiting attack, he heard screams to his left, and the high whine of a flechette cannon. Down the wide street, green flames began to creep up a high building, casting a rounded shadow that looked to be one of the Naith personnel carriers. It was away from his destination but the screams were what drew him. He heard another series of screams, and swung himself around wide to get a better view instead of rushing directly to the scene.
It seemed ridiculous such a massive being could be stealthy, but the enemy Peace Federation soldiers had other tasks at hand. Beside the armored vehicle, a Naith was standing beside a Khajali, and the Lancer assumed they were discussing the disposition of the humans they had bound under a pain web. Nearby, a squad of Naith stood idle. Every now and then one of the humans would shift too much beneath the wire lattice and the device would activate, sending wracking pain through the entire group.
The humans had been put to one side. The Khajali’s back was to Brokehorn and seemed to be arguing with the smaller Naith. Brokehorn assumed the Naith was female, and Brokehorn imagined she was frustrated by having to argue with a male of any species. The Khajali male was three meters tall, covered in scales that could turn a bullet and thrombium armor tougher again. He bore claws and teeth that would rend even the toughest flesh. The female would listen.
Their argument was Brokehorn’s opportunity though, and he took it. As he came around the corner he used the jets positioned along the back of his armor, firing them off in sequence. His speed rose over a hundred kilometers per hour in short order and he covered the distance between himself and the enemy before they had a chance to do much beyond notice the sudden attack.
A force field shot from Brokehorn’s armor and slammed into the Naith vehicle, launching it toward the two enemy aliens. The different responses of the two races showed the gulf in their mastery of war. While the Naith were standing in the middle of the road firing ineffectually toward Brokehorn, the Khajal had attempted to clear the tumbling troop transport by leaping to the side. He’d even brought his spear-cannon around, a Khajali ritual weapon known as a
rai’lith.
If the vehicle had spun, so that it was parallel with the road, it might have missed the Khajalian. Instead it stayed sideways, and clipped him in midair. The carrier smashed into the rest of the squad and then rolled. Mangled bodies flew into the air – those that weren’t hooked on pieces of jagged metal – leaving blue smears and limbs tossed about casually on the street. Brokehorn didn’t congratulate himself, but instead rushed forward.
As he had suspected, the Khajali was only wounded by having a tank tossed on him. He saw the alien holding the flesh of one leg together as it rose, its half-cloak torn and rent. It turned as Brokehorn charged, and raised its rai’lith in one last act of defiance.
The Lancer’s nose spike turned the blade, and his one good horn smashed the Khajali into the side of a building. Still, the enemy warrior attempted to rise, not quite dead even though an arm hung limply at its side. Brokehorn reared up and smashed the Khajali under his bulk, both front feet slamming onto the alien. The thrombium armor was scratched, but not deformed. The body inside ended up a leaking bag of purple blood and crushed flesh.
Brokehorn looked down at the Khajali, and tried to think about how many of them he’d killed now. Thirty-one? They never died easily, or first for that matter.
“Bladejaw?” the Lancer broadcast to the other Old Blood. “I just killed a Khajali. Watch yourself.”
“Watch myself? I’m surrounded by janissaries and Illurians. You’re the one behind enemy lines trying to make a name for himself,” Ripper said.
An Illurian voice entered the net. “Brokehorn? Are you all right? The shuttle pilot said there was some trouble on the way down,” said Dhimion Cruzah.
“I’m fine, Dhimion,” Brokehorn answered. “I seem to have interrupted a discussion between the Peacers in regards to the disposition of captives.”
The Lancer moved toward the humans under the pain web. “I need to remove this device, but it will hurt,” he told them. With surprising accuracy, the Triceratops used his parrot-like beak to grab the thick wire and haul it off the trapped humans. There was another series of short screams as it was whipped off them and hurled against a wall.
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest Page 14