Spata Zhai checked his weapon while he and his warriors lay hidden in the copse of shrubs and small trees near the landing field. The company had been slowly assembling by ones and twos to avoid drawing attention, taking circuitous routes to safely bypass the Aggaaddub. The enemy guards stood in formation, protecting the shuttle, though they had grown lax over the past few weeks. With no one willing to challenge them, they now gazed in disdain at the handful of refugees desperate enough to risk earning their wrath.
The Ixian commander smiled to himself. Quintessential Troika arrogance, he thought to himself, exactly what he had hoped for.
His Second crawled up beside him. “The company has assembled and stands ready, Spata,” he reported. “What are your orders?”
“Wait for the signal,” he answered. “Timing for this operation is crucial. Do we have word from our allies?”
“They are standing by. Reluctantly,” the subordinate said unhappily. “Are you certain we can trust them?”
“Do not mistake pragmatism for cowardice,” the Spata cautioned. “They are skilled at their role, but they are not fools. They recognize, just as we do, that the odds are against us.”
The adjutant nodded, taking a moment to inspect his own weapon, even as a sour expression crossed his face, one that did not go unnoticed. “Is something wrong?” Zhai inquired.
“Many of our warriors find the plan's reliance on energy weapons to be… unpalatable,” he explained, finding it difficult to even say the words. “They would rather attack with blades, as the ancestors decreed.”
“As would I,” the Spata admitted. “However, I believe this is one of those moments our Terran allies would point out that to achieve our objective, we must use every tool available. That surprise and overwhelming firepower must take precedence over tradition and honor if we hope to gain any measure of victory.”
The Second nodded, mollified but not appeased, as the Spata returned to scanning their target. “Be of good cheer,” he smiled, relishing the upcoming fight.
“... before this day has ended, you shall blood your blade. Of that, I am certain.”
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“.... they’re almost in position. Two more minutes,” Amar informed Prash.
“They need to hurry,” he answered, his distress plainly evident. “The clock is ticking.”
“I know,” the former Valkyrie hissed back. “Be thankful they’re moving as quickly as they are.”
“You realize we’re signing Blye’s death warrant,” Prash said quietly.
“Damn it, we tried to bench her,” Amar fired back. “Hell, the Spata tried. What else could we do, short of holding her at gunpoint?”
“Nothing,” he sighed.
The Expat crouched down beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Blye isn’t the type to be coddled,” he said with a weary smile. “She’ll always be right in the thick of it… for better or worse.”
“She’s a believer,” Prash said simply, “she always has been. She believes in something greater than herself, and she believes in doing whatever it takes to make this… shitty fucking universe a better place.”
Amar got a distant look in his eye. “So others may live,” he whispered.
“So others may live,” Prash echoed, just as a low whistle caught his ear. A quick glance at his rear confirmed the others were in position and standing by. “It’s time,” he said, rising to his feet.
Amar checked his sidearm. “Then let’s do this.”
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The Aggaaddub guards posted near the shuttle tried to ignore the rain as it sluiced down over them, idly milling about while they waited for orders from Kaihautu Yugha. The commander had briefed them while still aboard the Implacable and explained the two potential outcomes of his experiment involving the mutant and the Ancient computer. Either it would be a failure, which meant the Terrans were, unfortunately, still necessary to their plans, or it would be a success, which would mean they were not. If it was the second possibility, their first order of business would be to scour this camp clean of all life, both Terran and refugee alike.
The guards hoped their commander’s plan was the triumph he’d promised for so many reasons… ten thousand of them, to be precise.
Until then they were stuck pulling guard duty in the rain, a miserable business that all warriors everywhere could sympathize with. Even among the mighty Troika, there were still hierarchies, though the lowest of the Aggaaddub still stood far above any other species. Put one of their own, no matter what their caste, upon an alien world, and suddenly their every whim was law. It didn’t matter if they handled waste disposal on their homeworld; anywhere else, and they were royalty.
At least, they had been back before the rabble banded together and formed the Alliance, not to mention the Yīqún’s sudden reappearance. The Perseus Arm was being torn asunder, with enemies everywhere one looked. It was… disheartening.
But if the Kaihautu’s plan came to fruition, none of that would matter. Armed with the tools and weapons of the Precursors, nothing could stop them. Even the Eleexx and Tu’udh’hizh’ak would kneel before them when the Aggaaddub took their rightful place, ruling the galaxy with an iron fist. Dissension and insolence would no longer be tolerated once those magical devices were in their grasp. That future was so close they could almost taste it.
Until that wondrous day, however, they were stuck here, on this mudball of a planet, guarding a shuttle in the torrential rain… but at least they were secure in the knowledge it couldn’t get any worse.
One veteran peered into the gloom, nudging a cohort who glared back in exasperation. “What?” he snapped.
The older warrior ignored the outburst. “There’s something out there,” he hissed, his head suddenly swiveling back and forth.
His partner scoffed at his foolishness; all he cared about was getting back inside and warming up. Maybe even a glass of kuomzou to take the edge off, if no one was looking. “Stop jumping at shadows,” he growled, “those scum aren’t anywhere near…”
The words died in his throat, as he too saw figures moving in the mist.
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The two Knights led a column of refugees towards the landing field, the civilians armed with nothing more than crude quarterstaffs of their own making. Prash carried one as well, though his sword was belted at his waist, while Amar stubbornly held onto the pistol the Valkyries had issued him. The refugees were anxious, glancing nervously about as they neared their objective, fearful of what was to come. The weapons they carried were a poor substitute compared to the enemy’s, their training was a mere fraction of an experienced warrior’s, and none of them had ever faced an opponent on the field of battle. They were heading for a slaughter, and they knew it.
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In fact, they had only two things in their favor; the fact they literally had nothing else to lose, and that they believed. Believed in the legend that was cloaked around Blye, believed in the righteousness of their cause, and believed without hesitation that somehow, by some miracle, they would emerge victorious.
Prash and Amar knew better, of course, but neither of them had the heart… or the stomach… to tell the civilians the truth. They were leading these refugees to their deaths, towards a battle that must be fought, and anything that might weaken their resolve was a distraction they could ill afford. But that reality did nothing to cleanse them of the guilt they carried, and as the pair crested the small hill overlooking the field, each saw resignation in the other’s eyes. They’d made their choice.
Leading a group of underdogs against a powerful enemy wasn’t too shabby, as last stands went.
As they started down the rise, the Aggaaddub finally reacted to their presence, hastily forming a protective shield between them and the shuttle. The all too familiar whine of their pulse rifles coming to life gave many of the band pause, but the others swallowed their fears and continued marching forward. Continuing down the hill, they watched as the enemy’s weapons tracked their movements, awaiting the command to open fire, and still they closed. As the alien warriors’ fingers slowly tightened around their triggers, Prash raised his staff high before slamming it into the earth, bringing the formation to a halt.
The two groups stared at one another across the muddy field until finally, one guard stepped forward. “You are to disperse immediately,” he ordered. “Fail to do so, and we will open fire.”
There were more nervous glances among the ranks as Prash pointed his staff at the Aggaaddub. “You are intruders on this world,” he answered, his words and timbre resolute. “Return to your ship, and leave this planet.”
The Troika warrior was incredulous. “No world is forbidden to us, certainly not from the likes of you. Take your rabble with their sticks, and depart,” he sneered, “lest you learn the price of defiance.”
The refugees didn’t budge. Prash glared back at the guards. “This is our world, not yours,” he fired back, his every word a call for rebellion. “We shall not be moved.”
The warrior scoffed at their resolve. “Then you shall die here,” he thundered, raising his weapon, while those behind him did likewise.
Amar swallowed, looking to his fellow Knight. They were cutting this thing awfully close…
The rear ranks of the Aggaaddub exploded as the Ixians sprang from their covered positions and charged the enemy, firing with deadly precision, the war cry “Yuutsah’Zhoz!” echoing in their ears. Distracted by the refugees’ show of force, they took the Troika guards completely by surprise, who were now only realizing too late where the true threat lay. Even as they pivoted to face this new adversary, more of their cohort fell to their weapons. The poorly armed rabble now forgotten, the Aggaaddub focused their attention on the Ixians, returning fire as the battle was joined.
That was their second mistake.
“Our Lady Commands! Charge!” Prash screamed, rushing forward while the refugees followed, their staffs held high. Amar’s sidearm barked one, twice, three times, as he fired into the crowd. A few of the guards spun back around to face the attacking refugees, firing their pulse rifles with devastating effect. As civilians began disappearing from the energy blasts, some panicked and scattered, but the majority pressed onward, more determined than ever. At the forefront of the horde were many of the Qi-Tam, having vowed to avenge the deaths of their fellows at the hands of the Aggaaddub.
The Troika warriors struggled to hold the line against the onslaught, fighting courageously against ever worsening odds, but the raw fury of their opponents would not be denied. As they closed the distance the Ixians drew their beloved swords and threw themselves into the fray, their blades flashing as they tore into the defenders. The Aggaaddub staggered, broken and reeling, just as the refugees slammed into their rear. Prash howled as he drove his staff into one of the enemy, doubling him over, before whipping around the other end with a vicious thrust to the head. The warrior staggered, losing his grip on his weapon, as Amar rushed to his fellow Knight’s aid and ripped the pulse rifle from its hands. Without missing a beat, he opened fire, blasting the guard and reducing him to spare parts even as he turned the weapon on the remaining alien warriors.
Harried on all sides and realizing their position was untenable, the Aggaaddub fell back to the shuttle, desperate to escape. Unfortunately for them, the attackers had planned all along to take the shuttle for themselves, with fighters in both groups designated to cut off their enemy’s retreat and barricade the airlocks. The fighting grew frenzied as the Troika saw their only means to safety being torn from their grasp; the savagery reaching a bloody crescendo as they fought for their very lives. Their weapons shredded their opponents, but in the end, a tsunami of flesh reared back and slammed into them, overwhelming the ragged handful still on their feet.
When the wave finally receded, nothing living remained.
They forced open the shuttle’s airlock, rushing inside to prevent its departure. They took the pilot prisoner and quickly secured the small craft, while Spata Zhai and the two Knights tallied up the butcher’s bill. Bodies lay strewn across the landing field, a jumble of species, many of them now unrecognizable. The sudden rainstorm struggled to wash away the blood.
“... Holy Mother Terra,” Prash whispered, as he stared at the mangled corpses. Amar nodded in weary agreement, the liberated rifle still clutched in his grasp. “Was it like this, on Sonoitii Prime?” he asked in quiet horror.
The former Valkyrie just shook his head. “... worse,” he said at last, “much, much worse.” Prash struggled to picture that but failed miserably. He turned away, sickened by the sight of those they’d led into this desperate battle whose voices were now forever stilled.
“The day is ours,” a voice announced behind them. The Terrans turned as the Ixian commander moved to join them, his face and clothing splattered with viscous green blood, his hand gripping tightly the hilt of his sword. “Or at least this portion of the battle,” he corrected, “for another still awaits us, aboard Implacable in high orbit.”
The Knights just stared at him helplessly. “How the hell do we ask them to do that?” Amar queried him, as several of the survivors' cries of anguish could now be heard, keening over the bodies of their brethren. “They’ve done everything we’ve asked of them, and just look at what its cost,” he said harshly, his hand sweeping across the battlefield. “And now we’re supposed to tell them they have to do it again, in space? That’s a one-way trip, and you know it, Spata Zhai. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“No… you are not wrong,” the blue-skinned warrior agreed. “But it must be done. And we require their aid, one last time.”
“You tell them then,” Prash snapped, “because I can’t. Give me one good reason I should ask them to join our forlorn hope.”
The Ixian met their gaze. “This world dies, if you do not.”
He hung his head in defeat. “... Shit,” he swore weakly, “just once, could it not be about saving the fucking universe?”
“You will have to take that up with the universe,” Spata Zhai observed sagely. “Hurry. We do not have much time.”
“Of course we don’t,” Amar sighed, slinging the pulse rifle over his shoulder as he trudged back the way they'd come, the others following in his wake. Weary survivors were already at work policing up the bodies and rounding up weapons. There were few wounded, as the damage inflicted by pulse rifles was almost always fatal. They looked up expectantly as the Knights approached.
“You guys fought a hell of a battle,” Amar told the remaining refugees, “and you should be proud. I am… and I know Blye will be too.” Playing so ruthlessly on their beliefs made him feel unclean, but it was the only thing he could think of that would motivate them. “I’m afraid, however, our little crusade isn’t over just yet. We still have that ship in orbit to deal with, and until we do—”
“We understand,” one of the survivors… a Glevack… answered. “How many of us will you need?”
The two Terrans felt nothing but shame as they looked over the remaining refugees. They’d already lost at least a quarter of their band, maybe more, and those that were left were badly shaken, holding onto their sanity only by sheer force of will. They were terrified of what they were being asked to do, and yet, one by one, they stepped forward and volunteered.
“As many as we can cram aboard that shuttle,” Prash said at last, sick at his own words.