You may have seen Terran soldiers on documentaries or dramatizations. Fighting against the Unified Council, the Precursor Autonomous War Machines, the Atrekna, or even one another. In all of those, the Terrans talk. Terse orders from professional, dedicated, and experienced officers with clear cut mission goals, shouted commands from battle hardened non-commissioned officers to rally their men, order complex maneuvers, or direct the devastating firepower of the humans, or even the shouts, war cries, and enraged bellows of Terran soldiers caught up in combat.

It makes for fantastic imagery, but those words, those sounds, those commands, are all taken from records or written by a script writer and recorded. Their communications as well as what they say inside their armor is recorded and archived and used in dramatizations and documentaries.

On the battlefield, for the most part, the Terran Confederate Armed Forces fight in silence to those not connected to their Battlefield Tactical Network.

Which makes them all the more imposing.

Massive heavily armored beings, made huge in their power armor, almost a third against the height of a grown Lanaktallan stallion, twice as wide, their arms as thick as a Lanaktallan's upper leg, their legs massive foundations that root the galaxy's most fearsome intelligent tool using predator to the very ground they fight upon.

Their armor is all black, a light drinking matte black that somehow seems like it should be shiny. Bulky to the point they seem that they should be clumsy. Instead, they move fluidly, as if their power armor is merely another skin. Weapons are built into the armor, particle beam projectors, micro and mini-missiles, point defense systems, indirect fire weapons. They carry as much defenses as my tank: battle screen projectors, steri-field projectors, chaff, flares, micro-prism smoke, and more.

Their suits, contrary to dramatizations, are not blank. They have information for those who know where to look. Terran numbers on the shoulder, forehead, across their back, and on their chest, each set of numbers over a bar-code that allows their officers and NCO's to identify them almost instantly. On their right shoulder is the flash of a unit they have seen combat with. In the case of those who have seen combat with more than one unit, their favorite or the one with the most impressive lineage. On their left shoulder, the symbol of the Confederate Armed Forces underneath the flash of their current unit. Above the barcode and number on the helmet is their rank. Below their number on the left of their chest is their surname, their branch of service below that, and below that up to three specialized training. On the right is merely "TERRAN CONFED" for all to see.

The ones that landed had on their left shoulders what looked like a blue shield, with a Terran symbol for the number '8' in white and a yellow arrow piercing it from the bottom.

To a Lanaktallan, and many of the civilized, near-civilized, and neo-sapient species, it is a dizzying amount of information, but for a Terran it is all easily recognizable at a glance.

Think on that, gentle reader. In a split second a Terran has absorbed all the information given with a mere glance, even without accessing their datalink.

It took weeks for me to remember even where to look for the information I needed to know.

The sides of the orbital drop pods opened and terror walked out on two legs, their weapons readied, their targets locked in.

In complete silence a Terran from each pod directed fire from a harness mounted heavy gun into the front of the Precursors. Part of me expected the rounds to just bounce off or spark as they flattened.

The harsh blue-white actinic flare of antimatter roared to life as the shells tore apart the armored front of the Precursor vehicle. Two Terrans fired missiles before leveling fire from their weapons into the machines around the Precursor heavy vehicle. Their weapons smashed the Precursors into junk even as the anti-matter tore at the mechanical entities that had slaughtered almost unopposed for three days.

The smoke, whitish blue, covered the area as one of them deployed masking munitions.

My tank shuddered as one jumped up next to me, bounding across nearly fifty paces in two short hops that left him crouched down next to me, one hand on the hull of my crippled tank, the other one holding out the compact weapon that was roaring as it fired heavy shells at the machines.

"Is your crew alive, Lanky?" his, if it was a he, asked in a heavily synthesized voice.

I made a motion of assent, my mouth suddenly too dry to talk. I managed to croak out a 'yes' and the helmet nodded.

"Good. The Miss Daisy's intel section spotted you from orbit about to lock horns with that thing. Sorry it was at the last second but it took a few minutes to get here," they told me.

"You are not here to destroy me?" I asked. My body was shaking, the adrenaline and the stimulant shot almost too much for me. The Precursor machine gave an almost biological scream as the superstructure collapsed in on itself.

A Terran fired a rocket into the burning wreckage.

The helmet moved side to side. "No. Not unless you shoot at us on purpose," they told me. "How badly are your men wounded?"

"We're... we're all right for now," I told him. I felt a sudden rush of shame when I realized the Terrans had destroyed, with apparent ease, a Precursor machine that my tank had been ineffective against.

"There's what looks like a forward operations base behind you, about four miles. Can you make it or is your tank inop?" the Terran asked.

I looked at my tank and shook my head. "My tank is destroyed."

"There's a recovery vehicle nearby. Are you in contact with it?" the Terran asked.

I nodded again.

"You'll be all right here. I'm going to leave a three man fireteam. There's a refugee convoy leaving the city and I have orders to protect it," the Terran said. They stood up and looked down at me. "Sorry about your tank, you poor brave bastard."

With that they leaped away, landing easily next to where the rest of the Terrans had gathered up.

I put my hand to my helmet and activated my comlink.

"Mal-Kar, do you read?" I said. My datalink communications were full of pops, clicks, and bursts of static.

"I read you, Most High," Mal-Kar said. I could tell by the relative quiet that he was had taken over driving the armored recovery vehicle, passing the bus to another.

"My tank is disabled. I need recovery," I told him.

"I have your beacon. Ten minutes," he said. He paused for a moment. "There are Terrans in power armor here, on our flanks. They are not attacking us, only the Precursor machines. Other than that, they do nothing but march."

"Ignore them unless they give you a command for your own safety and the safety of our charges," I ordered. "Ha'almo'or, out."

"Mal-Kar, out," he said.

I looked over at the three Terrans that had been left behind. One had a heavy gun in some kind of harness, the linked belt of ammunition connecting the gun to a pack on the back of the power armor. As I watched three of five fins withdrew into the armor. The other two had heavy rifles as well as the compact fully automatic weapons on one hip with a large cutting bar on the other.

The infamous Terran chainsword AKA Cutting Bar Mark Two.

I watched as one of them deployed two drones, small things with mylar wings. They chuffed out, shooting into the air, and unrolled, becoming nearly invisible as they began to glide around us.

I had never seen a Terran before. I knew I still was not, I was only seeing their armor, but I couldn't help but stare.

They looked like the universe's malevolence made manifest.

Finally Mal-Kar arrived and I got out of the tank, shaking with near exhaustion, and helped attach the hooks on the ends of the cables to the lift points on my crippled tank. It took nearly two minutes to winch the tank into place, attach the graviton lifters, and for my crew to get into the recovery vehicle.

I sat on the damaged and destroyed back deck, my plasma rifle in my hands, watching as we left the city.

"Gunner Ha'almo'or, this is Most High A'armo'o, do you read me?" came over my comlink.

"Affirmative, Most High," I said.

"The Terrans are landing in your position. I have spoken to one of their leaders and they will be reinforcing your refugee point. The Terrans are, for right now, on our side," A'armo'o said. His voice was deep and calming. "I have agreed to meet the Terran tank commander face to face soon, and have spoken to his commander, a General No'Drak. The Terrans have agreed to work with you."

"Yes, Most High," I said.

"Do what you must do to save the civilians, Ha'almo'or," his voice was solemn.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"I will, Most High, I promise," I answered.

"I know you will," his voice had an odd note to it. "A'armo'o, out."

"Ha'almo'or, out," I answered.

I sat on the back deck, staring at the city around me. It was badly damaged, smoke rising from a hundred points, houses and office buildings and even factories burning. From the direction of the starport black smoke rose in a massive cloud that reached to the skies before flattening out.

We passed corpses. Most of them were my fellow Lanaktallan soldiers, killed while trying to flee.

But there were civilian bodies.

Too many. Much too many.

Four times I ordered Mal-Kar to stop, climbing down, my cast thumping on the plascrete, to check to see if they were dead.

Under a dead Telkan broodcarrier four pair of eyes stared at me, blinking, holding tight to the blood crusted fur of their mother.

I gathered them carefully, putting them in an empty box that had held rations forever ago. They were quiet, just staring with wide eyes.

I hoped that at least one of their other two parents had survived, but the carnage where a handful of Precursor machines had found fleeing civilians gave me little hope.

Less than a half mile one of the three Terrans made a hand-signal at me. I ordered Mal-Kar to stop the vehicle and climbed down.

"Yes?" I asked, nervous. We were exposed, the buildings around us burnt out husks.

"There are six Akltak life-signs under that destroyed hovertruck. They appear to be immature chicks," the Terran said. I noted that the synthesized voice was the same as the other one that had spoke to me.

It gave me the chills.

The Terrans were faceless, identical in voice and features. Kill one, another identical one took its place. The message was simple: "We are unyielding."

Still, I pushed away my fears, moving over and kneeling down, lowering my torso to look under the hovertruck.

Little eyes looked back.

It took me several minutes to lure them out, the Terrans staying back. One brought a box nearby and set it down, backing up.

They all looked like three black statues.

The little moltlings huddled in the box, not even peeping, and I covered them with some camouflage netting before passing them to one of the civilians inside the recovery vehicle.

At one point a handful of Precursor machines roared by overhead. For the last two days they had owned the skies, hunting and killing at will, with nobody to stop them.

This time they were heavily pursued by three blocky and unfinished looking grav-strikers flanked by a dozen flying power armors on each side.

They had stopped firing as they came close, but resumed as they passed over us. Heavy shell casings fell from the sky, a waste of bronze as the shells rained from the sky to dance and chime on the pavement.

The Precursors ruled the skies no more.

The lemurs had arrived, with fire and thunder and steel.

Two blocks later we saw a strange sight. Two immature Tukna'rn, still large and muscular, were pushing a ground car limousine being steered by a Plekit who was sitting on a plas crate, with a Cemtrary sitting on the front seat, where the door had been ripped away, holding a stun-stick normally carried by Law-Sec.

One of the Terrans broke into a jog, catching up. The two Tukna'rn nodded, their faces covered with sweat, and climbed onto the trunk.

The Terran started pushing the vehicle effortlessly, easily keeping up with the recovery vehicle.

I saw over a dozen heads poke up from one of the back seats before a Ikeeki hand pushed them back down.

All children.

We made another three stops before reaching the refugee point. Each time they joined us. Once a ground car was being pulled by a dozen Telkan that had attached chains to the front end and were pulling the chains, dragging the car behind them while a Plekit drove.

They had all heard that safety was just a little ways further down the road.

I prayed that it still was.

My chest ached, a dull burning pain in my upper torso, but I ignored it as the recovery vehicle dragged my poor dead tank into the lot and toward the repair bay.

I climbed down, standing and watching as the two vehicles, both them knocked out by an EMP days ago, were pushed by Terrans into the lot.

Part of me shriveled inside of me at the memory of how many dead I had seen.

"Get me another tank," I told Karelesh, staring at the city we had just left. "There are those who still need us."

"As you command, Most High," he said, turning and moving away toward the line of tanks that sat neat and orderly, having been abandoned by those fleeing the battle.

"Pardon me, are you the officer in charge?" A Terran asked, moving up to me. This one was in hard plate armor, the faceplate of the visor was clear and I could see their face. I did not know if they were male or female, but their close set eyes burned with a predator's stare.

"There are no officers, only me," I stated. "The others were killed," I paused for a moment. "Or ran."

The Terran nodded. "Then you're it until I find someone higher ranking, someone better, or you get killed," they said. They held out a hand. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Jessica Martin Laverty, One-one-nine Combat Sustainment Battalion. We're here to assist you, General No'Drak's compliments."

I thought for a moment. "What does a Combat Sustainment Battalion do?"

The Terran explained quickly. They kept combat units in the fight, rapidly repairing or rearming entire brigades, providing medical care for the wounded, and keeping supplies flowing. An entire company of medical, another company of mechanics, a company of ordnance, supply, fuel, heavy vehicle operation, weapon maintenance, communications, a platoon of electronic warfare specialists, and a company of light powered infantry.

When they said light powered infantry, they waved at the two heavy power armor soldiers standing near me.

Only Terrans would consider a half ton suit of power armor to be 'light powered infantry.'

"Our Ordnance tech, Sergeant First Class Grist, says that you've got a nice dug in spot to start fabbing up munitions for your tanks," the Terran said. They waved toward the pit I'd ordered dug to store the plasma rounds. "She's setting up a nanoforge right now. She copped the specs for your ammo by scanning a few of your rounds and a few of your tank main guns."

The Terran stared at me for a long moment.

"Your current ammo is next to useless. You can't fight them with it," they said.

I nodded. "I have adapted a strategy that works against many."

The Terran gave a slow nod. "Be that as it may, if you give my men twenty minutes, we can fix that. I've got some of the best Ordnance techs in Eighth Infantry Division right here."

"I will take any help you can give," I said. "My priority is to get the civilians to safety."

"Eight-Two-One Combat Engineers are working with your people right now. They're digging shelters and assembling them as fast as possible. They'll survive an orbital strike," the Terran paused. "Whoever turned those ammo lockers into shelters was smart. They're designed to handle atomic or orbital strikes. They won't be comfortable, but they'll do the job."

"I thank you," I told her. "I did not know what else to do."

The Terran stared at me for a long moment. "Do you mind if I ask your military occupation?"

"I am a Gunnery Specialist Fifteenth Class, specializing in tank main gun weaponry," I said. I waved my hand at my surroundings. "All of this, I just guessed."

The Terran nodded again. "You did well."

I held up my cast, which was dark with blood. "I must see a medical personnel about my foot. I have bled through the cast."

The Terran stared at me. "You aren't like other Lankys, are you?"

I made a non-committal motion. "I am simply one of the Great Herd."

The conversation seemed over so I limped to the medical tent. When I pushed my way in I stopped and stared.

Before it had been chaos. Medical supplies had been non-existent, only slings and what medical kits we could scavenge out of vehicles.

Now Terrans in their uniforms moved through the patients. The Matron now wore a type of uniform that made her look official, and she was leaning down to watch a Terran work quickly with a device that stripped away burnt flesh and fur and left behind gleaming pink tissue. The younger filly was being talked to by two Terrans in silverish-gray power armor that had a red crescent on one side of the chest and a red cross on the other. They were showing her tools and giving some kind of instruction before putting them in the satchel the filly carried.

The Matron saw me as I removed my helmet. She made an excuse to the Terran and moved over, looking down.

"You have bled through your cast, Most High," she said. She touched my neck, her fingers finding the artery there. "Your heart is racing, you are sweating, and your pupils are constricted."

"We were nearly killed," I admitted. "Luckily, the Terrans arrived in time to provide assistance."

She nodded, looking solemn and regal, despite the fact she no longer wore the sash, vest, flank covering, and jewelry of a noblewoman.

"I will have the doctor examine your foot, Most High," she said. She put one hand on my armored chest. "What you do here, it may not be remembered by history, but there are many who will remember your actions."

"And many who will not," I said softly. "Too many."

"You cannot save them all, Most High Ha'almo'or," she said gently. "You can only save those you can, and you have saved many who were abandoned."

I nodded, feeling emotions I did not understand well up inside of me.

Thankfully, the Terran medical specialist came over at that time.

"I am Specialist Grade-Six Eleonore Michael Chidi, a Field Medical Specialist," they said. Again, I did not know if it was a male or female. "Where are you wounded?"

"My foot has bled through my cast," I stated, pointing down.

The Terran looked down at my foot. "Scan him, we'll treat that foot first unless his armor is hiding anything life threatening."

It was not, although the Terran insisted I remove my armor. When I broke the environmental seal the stench of scorch and burnt hair and hide assaulted my nostrils. My left flank was covered in small pinprick scabs from when the interior of the tank had exploded into us and pieces of battlesteel had penetrated my armor.

The Matron and the Medical Specialist Grade Six smeared glittering clear gel on my flanks, then went to work on my hoof. Pain I was only vaguely aware of receded as whatever the gel was did its work. The Terran gave me an injection in my foot that relieved the pain but did not deaden my foot.

They were almost done when a Terran came in, carrying new armor.

"Compliments of Lieutenant Colonel Laverty and the Battalion Armorer," the Terran said. "It's virtually identical, just better laminate armor and kinetic shock packs."

"Thank you, Terran," I said.

I meant it.

Despite the Matron's objections, I put on the new armor and limped out into the wan sunlight of the dying day.

Grav-strikers roared by overhead, flanked by air-mobile power armor.

The Terrans were all moving quickly, purposefully, in some cases running from place to place. Construction machines roared, the tanks were being worked on by Terrans as well as the robotic systems, and I could see a conveyor line moving new tank rounds to the tanks being fixed.

The Terran commander walked up, their movements assured and brisk.

Part of me wished I could move with such assurance and authority.

"There's a tank loaded and refit for you, Most High," the Terran said. I looked at her, wondering if they was joking. I had told them my rank, but instead, they spoke to me as if I was a peer. They saw my look and shrugged. "This is your base, your people call you Most High, out of respect I will use the rank they feel comfortable with."

They gave me a long, serious look. "I would prefer if you stayed here, to remain in command of this forward operations base," They turned and looked at the city, which burned and filled the sky with smoke then turned and they watched a podling being carried by an Ikeeki who's feathers were scorched. The podling's eyes were wide, the fur of their face damp with tears as they clutched tightly to the avain. "However, I understand what you are feeling."

Their eyes grew far away, shadowed with a pain I did not understand.

Or rather, I had come to understand all too well.

"This isn't the first city I've seen burn. When I was a little girl, the Mar-gite attacked my world. I saw the city of my birth burning as I was evac'd out. As an adult, I've seen cities burn, but I remember none of them as clearly as I remember shining Vulmera burning with white fire," their voice was full of something that I suddenly understood.

Regret and loss.

"Carry on with your mission, Most High Ha'almo'or," they said. They paused for a long moment. "The Terran Confederacy will support your mission to the best of our ability."

The podling's eyes followed me as I limped toward another tank.

--Excerpt From: We Were the Lanaktallan of the Atomic Hooves, a Memoir.