Below the red star Corydon sat a fortress of monstrous size, its facade a sheer cliff face of granite-gray concrete set against a background of rusty soil and monolithic protuberances towering half-obscured by scarves of dust and sand. Where the face of the fortress plateaued were flying buttresses scoured the color of corroded metal and supporting tall watchtowers built from ecru-colored stone.
Toward the fortress they moved, in file, through paths of mortared rock that wound between hillocks of jagged sediment. The land here was barren and coal-black and waterless; above them the red sun was waning with the dying of the day, and a pall was coming across the land bringing frigid temperatures that they knew would penetrate their suits' insulation.
The meanders ran long and far and then cut a deep ravine, before gradually straightening; then it sloped upwards, giving way to basaltic surfaces curiously smooth and polygonal. The path broadened until it was a shelf of synclinal rock and there they found the gravity compounding the difficulty of traversing the incline's rising steepness.
They reached the plateau first, he and the rest of the forward-scouting reconnaissance team. He doubled over and rested his hands on his knees because his heart was hammering so wildly he thought it might burst out his chest. Ragged breaths dredged phlegm from his lungs and scratched at his own eardrums.
The fullbody exosuit was a claustrophobic thing ribbed with plastic. He scratched at the visor of tempered glass keeping his breath in, gulping lungfuls of recycled air. The flat of his slingstrap lost its purchase on his shoulder; the weight shifted and clattered and he saw that it was the long blacksteel muzzle of his ZWEN Mark-567 railgun, having scratched a shallow groove of white onto the hard ground below.
A wave of nausea hit him straight in the gut, but he willed it down and it eventually dispersed.
Finally, the weight pressing against his chest started to lighten. His breaths gradually reverted to his control and he was able to stand upright. He returned the sling to its proper position atop his deltoid, hoping the alignment of his weapon hadn't been affected by the bump.
The sky was a cloudless hue of red; under the deep cerise twilight Betelgeuse saw the contingent stretching far back into the narrow and winding pass overhung with protruding spikes of girthy stone. The line of figures suited in white, blimpy exosuits became rough and uneven about the steepest portion of the slope. He hadn't been the only one to have trouble with the incline.
And then he observed behind him in the distant southeast the walls of the fortress-city refulgent in this the thirty-second hour of the thirty-six-hour Desertian day. Now that it was so close it loomed over him like a daydreamt Leviathan whose spanless wings merged with pillars of sand and coal-colored cliffs already in the dusk.
From his vantage point he could see the broad plateau subtly decline and then drop away into an igneous fen enshadowed by a forest of stone formations rising stalagmite-like from a hidden floor below. They'd have to traverse this before reaching the tongue of red sand leading straight to the gates of the city, their destination.
"Saltilla ahead approximately 12.2 kilometers as the crow flies," a voice transmitted in dead monotone.
"Gods Almighty, why couldn't we have taken the goddamn LSVs? It's goddamn stupid," whined someone who could only have been Lawrence Gomez-Evans. Betelgeuse recognized his fellow PLP's callsign, 'LIMP', printed in jetblack majuscule across the chest of white plastic; Lawrence, ensconced within, was crawling pitifully up the slant, and when he had reached the plateau, flopped onto his back, 'LIMP' chestpiece inflating and deflating with his tortured breaths.
"Ash-fuck couldn't be any righter," a mature female voice agreed.
"So right he's homophobic," a man joshed.
"It's the Garvy guy. See, I told you he had cack for brains. Would rather have us die en route than indent a couple'a vehicles. I accosted him you know but he said we'd get shot down and then it'll be his problem. So what the things would just sit underground collecting dust and you know what he told me? That if that's what the Protectorate wanted then that's what would happen," sighed another.
"Silence. The transceiver's only for mission-important information, Jove. Maintain comms discipline," intoned the colorless voice again, which Betelgeuse finally recognized as Instructor Parsiphal's. He turned to-and-fro until he saw Parsiphal, the man standing before a stud of raised sediment, his suit sporting the red chevrons of a Master Sergeant emblazoned across the side of its helmet.
If the infomentaries could be trusted, they'd be safe as long as they maintained their formation, given that the Chimerae tended to attack isolated targets and rarely engaged in a full frontal assault of a large body of troops. Betelgeuse could tell they were playing with fire by allowing the movement column to spread out so far. Stragglers were easy targets under the circumstances.
"PLP Sakar transmitting. I recommend a tactical halt–the end of the line's at least three kilometers back. We're vulnerable to attack," Betelgeuse returned, making sure his channel frequency had been properly set to the reconnaissance group comms. The forward-scouts comprised the PLPs and several other Hollows and Whites selected from the ranks of the Grade 1 Personnel. Their objectives were to secure and mark out the path to Saltilla ahead of the main body.
"Not a bad call, but temperature's at twelve degrees C already and still dropping," Instructor Parsiphal replied, his tone stubbornly flat. Betelgeuse could see Parsiphal facing the forest of stone separating them from Saltilla. "I've no clue what Subaltern Mentzer's doing, letting the line get all fucked up like that. Set up all-round defense and await link-up with Subaltern Mentzer, Bob. Jove, take Sakar, Gomez, Jaine and McKay and check out what's down there. Just do a shallow penetration and muster back up here in two hours latest."
"That's what she sa–"
"Oh shut the fuck up Bob. Master Lorenz, why I gotta go?"
"You gotta go because I say you gotta go. Now get to it, Jove. I need the report in so we can decide whether to hole up till tomorrow or keep going."
Grumbling loudly across the comms, Jove stalked across the rockslab plateau and tapped Betelgeuse' shoulder, motioning to form up separately. The reconnaissance squad was now high-kneeling in circle-formation about the slight upraised boss which was the highest point on the plateau. Every soldier comprising the circle-formation faced outwards, railguns held tactically ready, allowing the full range of 360 degrees to be covered by their arc-of-fire.
Betelgeuse sighed and trudged southeasterly across the plateau. That would teach him to try and be helpful.
"Okay, listen up," Sergeant Jove grouched at them over subgroup comms. Now overlooking the descent into darkness, Betelgeuse thought the basin very ominous. Jove stuck himself before them and through his transparent visor Betelgeuse observed gaunt features half-red by the setting sun and half-shadowed by a sharp-tipped nose.
"We ain't gotta do nothing fancy. We go down, look around, then get the hell out of there. Some key things to take note of: vision's going to be obscured by the pillar formations. We maintain the egg-shape; Sakar with me in front, Jaine and McKay watch the flanks and Gomez you watch the rear. One-arm's length between yourself and the next guy at all times. Any questions?"
A chorus of 'no, sir's transmitted through the subgroup channel and they were off, trudging down the bulge of rock toward the edge of the rock forest and into the cold envelopment of shadow.
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The firmament beyond the upraised pillars was a blanket of darkness accoutered with blinking baubles.
Far below the canopy of spears the team of five inched across a closed and foreboding landscape, helmet-attached OLEDs piercing beams of white through strange gassy flows and unknown particles suspended in air.
The rock forest was still as a graveyard, the silence interspersed only by their arrhythmic footfalls upon brittle slate-like gravel. Although the suit's padding was cool against his skin, Betelgeuse felt a bead of sweat forming upon his brow, the uncomfortable tension heightening with every step. He checked his exosuit's reading; the air composition here was different, the largest component by far being carbon monoxide. In comparison, the most abundant gas at the top of the plateau was helium.
A shapeless blob could be seen some tens of meters away, secreted between the monolithic basaltic protrusions. Betelgeuse turned his head, aiming his headlamp thereabouts. Shards of light reflected from what looked like artificially-shaped metal.
Sergeant Jove motioned for them to move in the direction.
They soon emerged in a clearing. A cavernous entrance yawned some tens of meters before them, appearing to lead underground. Upon its lintel was hung a profusion of thick copper wiring splayed spaghetti-like this way and that, the mass of threads taut and threaded to breaking, all linked to what appeared to have been a tall pylon nearby now fallen to pieces. An upraised concrete platform upon which a meter or so of vertical metal framing stood was all that was left of the pylon. Scorch marks littered the ground and the frame's blacksteel piping looked to have been sheared off halfway by some force.
A steel cart lay on its side near them, tarnishing amongst the rubble and cairns of variously-shaped lumps. Nothing moved in the vicinity.
Betelgeuse knew what this was—a mine of some kind. He'd snuck into one before, the forge-mine he once knew as Earthy-Twinkle back on Edom. Coal ore had been its main produce. As for this particular mine, the ore wasn't something he recognized visually, but he supposed it could have been either iron or silver.
Sergeant Jove advanced, the PLPs sticking close, and knelt when he reached the cart. He brushed a band of dust off its surface, the particles puffing up in clouds under their headlamps. Revealed upon the steel surface was an embossed 'N', which Betelgeuse recognized with some effort as the brand-insignia of the Ninsei Zaibatsu. He knew this only because it had been included in the list of enforcement-sponsors of every Provincial Regulation promulgated in the Edom province. As far as he knew, delegates from the Ninsei Zaibatsu sat not only on the Edom Provincial Council but also on a multitude of other governmental bodies throughout the continent.
"It's human," Frederica breathed tremulously.
"Ye thunk? Surely not God or Chimerae," Douglas replied rather facetiously.
After spending several moments carefully inspecting the environment, Sergeant Jove raised himself upright and began punching at the analog buttons of his wrist-tranceiver, inputting his authentication key and then fiddling with the transceiver's frequency knob.
"The cave's radio-quiet," Sergeant Jove said, finally.
"Something's not right here. Really not right. See that dust? It's everywhere. Too difficult to say if this happened recently or not, basically. Reckon we call it and get the hell out of here?" Lawrence Gomez-Evans asked, his tone deeply anxious, yet hopeful. Betelgeuse narrowed his eyes. Lawrence appeared awfully afraid.
"I reckon we could. But I can't get through to Master Lorenz cos' something's blocking the signal. Even our close-range comms is acting up. Let's retrace our steps—I remember there was a small clearing a bit behind the Y-shaped spike," Sergeant Jove replied, his furrowing brow just discernible under the blue-gray bounce of their headlamps.
They had barely started moving when the environment exploded into chaos. Projectile gunfire drowned out Betelgeuse' heartbeat, as a hail of bullets poured out of the depths of the rock forest and sparked off ore and metal, raising large tufts of dust.
"Into the cave!" roared Sergeant Jove, his voice a mess of static, as he crouched down behind the fallen steel cart and then suddenly, before Betelgeuse' eyes, exploded across the air with preternatural swiftness, tracing a blurry arc into the dark of the cave. Moments later, even his headlamp had disappeared from Betelgeuse' view.
"Shit, he's fast!" Douglas exclaimed.
Ignoring Sergeant Jove's command, Betelgeuse shouted across the subgroup comms, "Lights off, prone down!"
"What the fuck! He's left us behind!" yelled Lawrence, already flat to the ground.
"Frag out!" Frederica shouted, lobbing over their prone forms. Betelgeuse pressed his head to the ground. A resounding explosion followed and the ground trembled beneath his chest.
He raised his head. The space was obscured with a dust so thick he could barely see a meter out in front of him.
"There, at the base of the pylon. I'll give covering fire, go!" returned Betelgeuse. As one, Frederica, Douglas and Lawrence regained their footing and sprinted to the upraised concrete base of the fallen pylon; raising himself to a high-kneel position Betelgeuse unstrapped his ZWEN Mark-567 railgun and initiated the solenoid, hearing the high-pitched whine and feeling the weapon hum in his hands. Then he aimed into the dusty blackness and, placing the butt against his shoulder, gunned the trigger.
With a high-pitched scream his railgun jumped in his arms once, twice, three times. Projectiles traced molten arcs through the air, disappearing into the dust and impacting upon stone surfaces with sharp reports.
"Dog Ba–s! Get o–h–e!" Frederica shouted over comms. Even at that short distance, her words broke up into incoherent strands of static.
Betelgeuse was already sprinting for the pylon. His fellows sent a smattering of railgun fire overhead, covering his movement.
He slammed backfirst into the concrete siding, beside Frederica, seeing that it was just tall enough that they could remain completely covered whilst crouching, and long enough to accommodate all four of them pressed together shoulder to shoulder.
The chaos had its intermission and a pall of silence descended.
"What d'you reckon they are? Chimerae?" Lawrence chittered.
"Cudn't see nuthin' in all the dust." Douglas returned.
"What now?" Frederica breathed. Through her dusty visor Betelgeuse could just make out a sheen of sweat which sheathed her slight, upturned nose; he saw, under close-cropped hair, the ragged keloid scar adorning her pale forehead. He realized then that the moon was out.
He raised his head. Larua, the blood moon, watched him balefully.
He craned his neck over the concrete siding. All he could see was a frontage of swirling blackness tinged just the lightest pink.
"We need to get out of here. Think we should link up with Jove inside the cave?" Betelgeuse asked, retracting his head.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
"Fucker left us to save himself! I say fuck 'im!" Lawrence fumed.
"Not so fast Limp. I reckon Dog Balls is asking 'cos there's four of us and an unknown number of them," Douglas said, eyeballs wobbling emphatically within their sockets.
"And we're Ash," Frederica added, "and PLPs. How're we going to explain losing Jove to Parsiphal when—if we get back?"
"Of course, there's also a possibility all of us get trapped in the cave instead," Betelgeuse mused out loud. "If we—"
Their confused discussion was cut abruptly short when something fell onto the ground beside them, bounced, then erupted into a flash of light. Before Betelgeuse had enough time to regain his bearings, the concrete siding behind Frederica exploded into a million fragments, splaying the woman face-first across the ground.
"Into the cave!" Betelgeuse roared, rolling forward and grabbing onto Frederica's armpit and dragging that struggling form upright.
Then he heard a curious noise like a wailing kettle emit from somewhere behind him. Turning, he saw a line of light materialize out of thin air then erupt violently into a purple gash that thundered loud enough to burst his eardrums. The portion of wall he had earlier been crouching behind was obliterated, those bits that remained glowing red-hot like molten slag.
Breathing heavily and momentarily deaf, he turned and rushed headlong into the murky depths of the cave, chasing after the receding forms of Lawrence and Douglas and half-dragging a stunned Frederica behind him.
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In the pitch black darkness they had no choice but to have recourse to their headlamps, to avoid tripping on the track rails and ties running through the middle of the path. The path ran straight and declined gently and the four of them forged onward without looking back.
They had been tearing down the descent for about ten minutes when they reached the first bend. As he rounded it, Betelgeuse couldn't help but slump against the wall and slide down onto his rump, hyperventilating.
Lawrence had already started down the broadening path when he saw that the light beams which had been shining through his legs shift away. Turning, he saw Frederica and Douglas standing against the wall by the bend, their headlamps canted downward and focusing on a winded Betelgeuse.
"You guys… thinking… it's safe here?" Lawrence asked through heavy breaths, retracing his steps in the direction of the bend.
"... Switch… switch off… lights," Betelguese croaked, wheezing into the comms.
Moments later, the environment was plunged into darkness.
"He can't keep up," Frederica managed between her own breaths.
"It's as good a place as we can manage for now, I guess," Douglas sighed. "My suit's picking up a heavy concentration of carbon monoxide in here, though, so if any of your suits are damaged even a little then it's bye-bye."
"I'm good… oxygen stores are good too. What are we going to do with the fucks outside though? What if they come in?" Lawrence queried anxiously, fingering his railgun's trigger.
"At least… we have vantage here," Betelgeuse said, his heartbeat stabilizing. His lungs were unconfortable, as if there were a pool of gelatinous phlegm drowning the alveoli within his lungs.
"Okay, I think we ought to explore the place perhaps, maybe see if we can find another exit…" Frederica trailed off.
"It was sloping downward though, the path… who knows if it won't go down forever?" Douglas inquired.
"Mines… usually have two or more escapeways. That's the standard way they're built, for safety reasons I imagine," Betelgeuse explained. "It can't be too far away."
"How would you know? We don't have unlimited oxygen hey?" Douglas pressed.
"There was a mine near my village. I'm not guaranteeing there's another exit, I'm saying that's just the way mines are built, so far as I know," Betelgeuse grunted, regaining his feet.
"He's… probably right. It can't hurt to have a look around," Frederica agreed.
They groped around in the darkness, and when shortly it became clear there were multiple paths branching away from the vestibule-like space they found themselves in, they settled on turning on one of their headlamps, just long enough to gain a passing familiarity with the contours of the place.
The light revealed a high ceiling and four separate paths, a track rail running through each of them, branching out from the semicircular space.
When Douglas' headlamp turned dark again, Betelgeuse made it a point to consult Lawrence as regards which path he considered the most likely to lead to the emergency exit.
He hadn't a clue, Lawrence admitted, but he'd much rather avoid paths two to four. "Call it intuition," he had stressed.
So, on Betelgeuse' urging (and despite Douglas' incredulity), they chose the leftmost path and followed it through the undulating swells and past the point where the track rails ended.
It must have been hours of walking, stumbling, and groping about before they started to notice the path rising again—imperceptibly at first, then becoming more pronounced.
They were walking quickly now, excited about the prospect of leaving the darkness behind. Betelgeuse' eyes were now adjusting slowly, he being able to perceive the dim outlines of his fellows before him. There was the anxious, bobbing gait of Lawrence, the slightly hunched saunter of Douglas and the tall and broad-shouldered silhouette of Frederica. He supposed the presence of light meant that they must be getting closer to an exit.
Their comms crackled to life without warning. Betelgeuse saw the figure that might have been Lawrence jump.
"...eant Jove transmitting, do you read? I repeat, Sergeant Jove transmitting, do you read me?"
"Holy fucking shit, it's Jove!" Lawrence exclaimed.
Betelgeuse sighed. Lawrence had utilized the subgroup comms. Now Jove knew they were close by.
"So y—guys made it—to th—cave," Sergeant Jove's voice filtered through the static.
"No thanks to you!" Lawrence yelled, clearly incensed.
A wispy figure suddenly appeared before them. It looked to Betelgeuse that the dimly outlined thing had dropped from the ceiling, but he couldn't be sure.
The figure turned its headlamp on, and a bright beam sliced through the darkness,rendering them blind.
"Aagh!" Douglas exclaimed, flailing his arms wildly.
"Ack!" Frederica and Lawrence replied, their hands raised in apparent imitation.
Although Betelgeuse had raised a forearm to shade his eyes, he still found his vision erupting into bright spots of white and yellow. Be that as it may, his other arm had reflexively grabbed onto his weapon and pointed it toward the figure, finger poised and ready to depress the trigger.
"Halt! Don't shoot! It's Sergeant Jove," the figure sputtered.
"It is, isn't it?" Betelgeuse returned, his voice flat.
"Yes it is. I'm glad to see you're all unhurt," Sergeant Jove deadpanned.
"You didn't seem very concerned when you were running away with your tail between your legs," remarked Douglas, taking several steps forward and sticking his finger into Jove's face.
"Mind your tongue, McKay! No one knows for sure what will happen on the battlefield, and I had by far the greatest chance of getting the information regarding the Chimerae presence back to Master Lorenz. I acted quickly and made the best possible decision under the circumstances."
Lawrence snorted. "Who are you kidding? You weren't thinking about the mission. You weren't thinking about us. You were thinking about yourself."
"Now see here you god damn Ash-fuck–" Sergeant Jove began.
"Don't you dare raise your voice at us you sorry sack of shit!" Frederica interrupted, erupting with brutal suddenness into white-hot fury, her voice taking on a ferocious edge.
Sergeant Jove became silent as a tomb, his face setting into a rigid mask. He stood before the three figures, unmoving. Lawrence had just launched into a tirade when a strange feeling rose in Betelgeuse' chest and then grasped his heart. The air inside his suit became stuffy and thick with something foul; he tightened his grip over his railgun's handle, not quite sure what was happening, or if anything was happening at all.
At Jove's command tendrils of something black and domineering and invisible emerged from the darkness, penetrating the Ash grades' suits and worming their way to the Incunabulum secreted within their chest-pouches. A tingling sensation blossomed around Betelgeuse' temples, then matured into a searing pain that blurred his vision. He bit his lip, tasting iron, unwilling to succumb to the urge to scream. Were the others feeling the same?
The pain gradually subsided and his heartbeat slowed. Everything became still and tranquil again.
"Okay. Let's continue. Lawrence, take point. The rest, behind him. I will bring up the rear," Sergeant Jove transmitted, his voice raspy and unemotional.
A strange compulsion came over Betelgeuse, making him want to obey Sergeant Jove. His hand left the railgun and his feet moved by itself, shuffling in the direction of freedom. It was the thing he wanted to do anyway, travel in the direction of freedom and openness… why should he disobey? Why should he even want to?
Lawrence, Frederica and Douglas, the last of whom which had just moments before been close to assaulting Sergeant Jove, now obediently formed themselves up in the way he had commanded. Lawrence in front, Frederica and Douglas behind.
Betelgeuse joined them silently, falling into lockstep with Frederica and Douglas. It was just such a natural state to be in, that he could not think of disobeying Sergeant Jove's directive.
The situation persisted until they stood before a ghostly patch of crimson moonlight. This was freedom, the thing that they had wanted. Fresh from the subterranean darkness, the Larua's gift of light seemed to him brighter than Corydon's blaze, and it filled him with such a pleasant happiness that he'd reached here, and that he'd done so by obeying, that the principle of obedience could not but seem to his eyes a dazzling truth.
But within every truth there hides a politics, and within every politics a bent to exploitation.
He knew he trusted Sergeant Jove, but something about that didn't sit right with him. Why should he trust the Sergeant so much when he didn't even trust himself, didn't even trust God, didn't even trust the Democracy to the same extent?
They'd gone out into the clearing by now. And then back into the heavy shadows of the rock forest.
"Sergeant Jove transmitting. We're heading northwest. Do you read me? Sergeant Jove transmitting… curses, we're still being jammed…" Sergeant Jove's growled.
Gunfire. The sharp report of projectiles ricocheting off a shelf of ancient feldspar. His body took over and he fell to the ground prone, then low-crawled to a protruding pillar for cover. Once he reached he regained a crouching position and readied his railgun, whipping his head leftwise to check if his teammates had managed to make it to safety.
He saw the other three jammed behind an adjacent pillar, and Sergeant Jove crouching behind a shorter and girthier column behind them.
"All of you, covering fire!" Sergeant Jove roared, and they brought their weapons to bear.
Their projectiles carved paths of orange-yellow into the profusion of reddish dust. Echoes of impact resounded through the space like ice calving off a glacier.
Betelgeuse turned again, then furrowed his brow when he saw Sergeant Jove had bounded away to a pillar some meters away.
He's using us as bait. He's escaping.
"Again!" Sergeant Jove's voice transmitted.
But Betelgeuse had had enough even before Jove's voice dropped. His mind recoiled, fighting against the compulsion. His brain seemed to catch afire, exploding with pain enough to make him vomit. But he held it in, and he bit his lip again to gain some small measure of respite. He would endure until this compulsion was overcome.
> … to endure all attempts at control.
His fellows fired their weapons into the darkness again. Sergeant Jove loped with incredible speed, clearing a distance of many meters for every stride.
I still have a clear line of sight.
Betelgeuse raised his weapon, found the back of Jove's bobbing plastic helmet within his scopesight, and fired. A hunk of metal lanced across the air, hitting Sergeant Jove in his calf and severing the bottom half of his left leg clean off. The man, who had been tracing an arc mid-air, fell to the ground, raising a cloud of dust where he impacted.
Damn, the zeroing's off.
A tortured screaming like keening white noise flooded the subgroup comms.
Turning, Jove met his eyes, and knew.
"He's going to kill me! Kill him! He's turned traitor!"
Betelgeuse fired again; but this time, Lawrence, leaping with self-sacrificial intent, had got in the way. The glowing bolt pierced through his chest and left a smoking hole in its wake; Lawrence fell, twitching, face-first into the gravel.
This power that Jove has over us… he's obviously a White, but this kind of power is… some kind of Silver grade bullshit I haven't heard the likes of before.
Frederica and Douglas were making a beeline for him, Frederica transmitting her rage through the comms. Everything was chaos in his ears as he was accused of treason by Frederica, of being a satanist by Douglas…
Betelgeuse stabbed the muzzle of his rifle into Frederica's visor, causing cracks to spider across the tempered glass and sending her sprawling backward. Then he crouched to dodge the swing of Douglas' riflebutt, pumping his thighs and barreling forward straight into Douglas' shins, sending the latter tumbling over Betelgeuse' back.
He straightened and saw that Jove had already sealed the hole in his exosuit's leg, the spent cartridge of expanding plastic sprayfoam lying upon the ground, its curved surface glinting in the moonlight. Despite his monoleggedness, Jove was limping away faster than Betelgeuse could hope to match.
They'll be on me immediately. I have to be quick. One last chance.
Betelgeuse found a receding Jove once more within his scopesight, the egg-shaped surface of his head-piece bobbing into and out of the cover of intervening stone pillars. There, Jove had reached the moonlit clearing, redpainted chevrons atop his helmet mixing with Larua's crimson pour. Angling up and to the right, just above the topside glint reflected from the thermoplastic dome, he fired.
The bolt hit Jove square in the back, burrowing a hole through between his clavicles. He saw, through his scopesight, that figure drop face-first onto the ground, motionless.
"You're killing us all!" Douglas babbled, now on his feet. But Frederica was there and holding Douglas back, speaking in stutters so strange they seemed to Betelgeuse an alien tongue.
Betelgeuse crouchcrawled over to Lawrence and flipped him over. The pool of blood and ichor collected on the inside of Lawrence's visor drew coagulating spokes as it ran down sidewise the inner curve. The projectile had punched through the dead man's chestpiece and half-cauterized the wound. Betelgeuse looked through the 'O' of 'LIOP' and saw gravel drizzled with a dressing of blood curd.
His first two kills: one an ally, one an enemy. Both humans.
"He's dead," Betelgeuse managed, cutting through the confusion of his fellows. "Jove was able to control him—control us—somehow."
"—it was, wasn't it? Some kind of mind control that turned us on Betel and made Lawrence…" Frederica jabbered.
"—mind control? Sounding like fools trying to pull one over—"
"Don't you remember? We were in the cave, we'd almost come to blows with Jove, and all of a sudden we were just okay with him and… and… now… he's dead… they're dead…" Frederica trailed off.
They had just fallen into a contemplative silence when a white beam shot through the space above their heads. Instinctively knowing what was to come, Betelgeuse barely had enough time to jump to the side when the sliver of light gushed purple and then erupted like a thunderous flashbang.
Damn lasercannon. I see what they mean when they said the Chimerae were cowards.
Betelgeuse regained his feet before his ears stopped ringing, lunging over to Lawrence's body and inspecting the exosuit's inner thigh.
There—emergency release.
The exosuit snapped open with a hiss. The visor flipped upward to reveal Lawrence's face, now dipped in blood and garbled in death, his eyes staring walleyed like Douglas'. He retrieved the corpse's Incunabulum from its front chest-pouch—it had a sizable hole in it, the Incunabulum, where the projectile had shot through.
TAF regulations dictate that we are to retrieve our fallen fellows' Incunabula whenever possible, for the purposes of their funeral ceremony. I'm more interested in finding out what was in their Incunabulum—especially Jove's!
"I'm gonna get Jove's, then we gotta split!" yelled Betelgeuse into the subgroup comms. "I don't know how many Chimerae are out there, but they don't seem to be advancing. We need to leave while we still can."
"Okay, okay…" Douglas grumbled, coming to his senses and scrabbling across the ground to cover. "I'm beginning to think Limp was the lucky one."