Darren’s plans for the day’s lesson were put off with the latest orders. A radio signature had been detected about twenty kilometers northwest of the camp, its encryption unknown to CAST and frequency unused by the Poslushi. They were to investigate, but remain cautious; the locale wasn’t far from the front.
The helicopter departed just before dawn and darted towards the LZ, a clearing roughly two kilometers to the east, burned into the forest by the incendiaries dropped on a nearby resistance base. Darren adjusted his combat heads-up display, freshly mounted on his helmet for the mission. Supposedly, they had been intended for general distribution later that year, but the fear of the Poslushi intruding on the hardware and knocking out soldiers with a word put their issue off indefinitely. Now, they were creeping back into service, their networking capabilities removed for safety.
The ridge fell away and the great, ancient trees of the forest appeared far below. On the horizon, the fire was still blazing away. Pillars of black smoke reached into the sky like greedy fingers, and yet the chopper flew on, undaunted by this apocalyptic display.
The piercing whine of jet engines made Darren wince as a pair of fighters shot past. Suddenly recognizing an opportunity to test his equipment, Darren toggled the night vision on his HUD and was instantly able to make out the insignia of the French Aerospace Force on their wings despite the darkness. The two warplanes continued their course for about a second before abruptly banking hard to the right, out of Darren’s sight.
“Coming up on the LZ; be ready for anything.” the pilot said over the platoon’s radios.
“Roger.” Darren replied. The autonomous machine guns mounted on either side of the helicopter activated and swept the ground below as the helicopter came to a stationary hover. With a hiss, the doors slid open and one by one, the platoon leapt forth from the aircraft, no one staying a moment longer than necessary. Rumor had it that the Poslushi had recently received a shipment of anti-materiel coil rifles, and no one wished to be the first to prove it true.
The thrusters on Darren’s back fired, guiding him gently down into the hellscape. The few trees that had not fallen seemed composed more of ash than wood, and those that had were completely carbonized. The ground was a sickly gray, flecked in spots with hard white fragments, the origins of which Darren didn’t want to know. The rest of the ‘toon seemed as disturbed as he was; Sparrow seemed especially affected, even queasy. The Air Force had greatly refined its napalm mixture since Vietnam.
The forests of Omen were often quite humid, but not now; the fire had apparently expunged all moisture from the air. In its place was the overpowering smell of cooking meat; something–or someone–was still burning. Darren considered reaching for the gas mask hanging around his neck, but didn’t want to take the risk that its limited vision entailed. Instead, he steeled himself and the platoon began its march.
Indeed, they weren’t far from the front. As they proceeded west, low blasts and the chattering reports of machine-gun fire could be heard distantly to the north. Put together, they formed an ensemble without rhythm or melody, a decent allegory, Darren supposed, for the nature of this whole war.
About a kilometer into their walk, Darren put up a hand, a metallic glint in the distance catching his eye. He put one hand to his helmet and zoomed in, finding a pair of fallen crates, one of which was slightly ajar. Darren shouldered his rifle and gestured for them to proceed. They filtered through the trees in a scattered group, with no man outside the view of at least one other. As they arrived at the crates, Darren nudged the open one with his foot and inspected its contents. Inside were dozens of slim white booklets, printed in the blocky, geometric glyphs of Low Ovinisian.
“Any idea what this is, Sim?” Darren held up one for Simmons to grab. She inspected the document for a few moments.
“It’s a copy of the Communist Manifesto,” she noted.
“Well, that settles the question of who’s behind this whole affair.” Pavlov said. Darren, after checking the second box for traps, opened it to find a similar number of flyers, which Simmons helpfully translated as imploring the locals to rise up and throw off the chains of their oppressors. Before we can do the same, Darren thought.
“Eyes peeled, people. AHINT wouldn’t leave these for no reason.” Darren ordered. He began to feel a familiar itching on the right side of his waist, where his sidearm was holstered.
“Found some tracks.” Sparrow called, pointing to a line of bootprints trailing off to the west. They were punched deep into the ground; whoever made them had been moving quickly. Cautiously, the platoon followed the prints; Darren still freshly remembered the events of his prior encounter with the Chinese. As they continued on, the trail became more and more erratic, backtracking at times, before it finally stopped dead. However, what continued in their place was a pair of tire treads, which, as they could see before them, hadn’t gone far.
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The jeep was wedged into a particularly large tree, where it stuck. From the lightly-damaged state of the vehicle, it had been a low-speed crash, but given the distance it had traveled to make the impact, it had still accelerated quite quickly. Darren relayed this to the rest of the platoon.
“Hey, look at that.” Pavlov pointed to the jeep’s rear-mounted light machine gun. Darren approached the car carefully and inspected its weapon. The box magazine was empty, and the ground around it was littered with spent casings. The gun itself was a tad bit warmer than the surrounding temperature, and it still reeked of gunpowder. The fact that not a trace remained of its passengers was more than a little disquieting.
In the distance, a low, pained moan caught their attention. Springing into action, Darren rushed in the direction of the sound, followed closely behind by the platoon. The source of the sound was a fallen soldier propped up against a tree, blood trickling from a deep gash in his torso. His eyes were glazed over and spittle bubbled from his mouth. At his waist was a two-way radio, smashed but still barely functional, continuing to broadcast like a little beacon.
“He’s in shock. Outta the way.” Simmons said, shoving Darren aside and kneeling over the stricken man. Darren then noticed his companion, a soldier stuck in a neighboring tree’s branches, suspended by his rigging. He had long since bled white, and his eyes stared ahead like those of a doll as he swayed silently in the wind.
Simmons cut the man’s top off of him and inspected the wound further. The skin surrounding the slash was inflamed and blotchy. “Shit, he’s got sepsis.” she said hurriedly, trying to bandage him. The soldier’s breathing quickened and he began to twitch. “No, no, stay with me…” Simmons groaned, working as fast as she could, but in vain. The man took in one final ragged gasp and slumped forward. Simmons put her hand to his neck, then pulled it away with a look of frustration on her face.
“He’s gone.” she said.
“Hell happened to him?” Darren asked.
“From the looks of it, probably some sort of strike with a bladed weapon. The coroner would be able to ascertain more.”
“Alright, we’ll bring him back for–”
Pavlov’s hand clapped over Darren’s mouth. Darren quickly removed it and was about to tell him off when he heard the footsteps as well. Then, before they could move, a voice rang out.
“Stand down, stand down. You’ve nothing to fear, humans.”
Darren put his firearm to his shoulder once more. “Who’s there!?”
“First Officer Hjar Tsoladot Thretoman, Twelfth Judicial Guard.” the alien said as they came into view. At first glance, they appeared quite similar to a bipedal platypus with no tail. Their eyes were mounted on the sides of their head, a feature that, Darren noted, would make for a good sentry. They were clad in pale white body armor with golden shoulder pauldrons and a helmet with a tall, elaborate crest. As he strode confidently towards the platoon, his comrades emerged as well, a dozen similarly-armored Poslushi wielding power rifles with long, curved bayonets.
“What kind of creature are you?” Sparrow said, hand hovering over his holster.
“A Dreamwalker, friends. And you appear to have stumbled upon the High Judge’s property. We’ll take things from here.” the alien said, gesturing to the pair of bodies. Three of his men stepped forward.
“Wait, wait, wait. Not so fast. What happened to these people?” Darren stopped him. The fact that they weren’t shooting at each other was worrying enough without having to wonder about what they were planning.
“I am not at liberty to say.” the Dreamwalker replied.
“Then I’m not at liberty to give them to you.” Darren said with a warning tone.
Hjar sighed. “Are you truly willing to die for two enemy corpses, Reaper?”
Darren’s hand twitched in the direction of his sidearm. This did not go unnoticed, as the Poslushi twitched similarly. They were extremely perceptive, well-trained. Darren and his platoon were facing the Poslush Combine’s special forces. Still, he had to keep up the bluff that he was superior.
“Depends. Are you?” he said, staring down the officer. For a few moments, they stayed like this, each waiting for the other to lose their cool. No one dared move for fear of starting a firefight. The silence was deafening, and Darren could hear his heart pound a two-stroke rhythm.
After an eternity, Hjar broke the silence. “Fine. You will take one, and we will take one. Is this equitable?”
“Fine by me.” Darren said, pointing to the body on the ground and marking it as his. Hjar pointed to the suspended corpse and his cohorts marched forward to cut it down. The Dreamwalker spoke again as the body was brought to them.
“Fare thee well, Reapers. I sincerely hope your comrades see reason and hold from their course.”
“What?” Darren asked, but in vain, as the Dreamwalker spun on their heel and took the lead of his column, marching back in the direction of the front lines.
“That… was really weird.” Pavlov mused, picking up the soldier. In absence of better words to describe the situation, all agreed that it was, indeed, really weird.
Darren fetched his radio beacon from his belt and switched it on. Then, the platoon turned around and headed back to the LZ. They said war was Hell, but Darren didn’t think Hell would be so confusing.
—-
“I don’t understand it; all signs point to death by septic shock, but I’ve never seen it set in so quickly. He can’t have been out there for more than an hour or two!” Dr. Schmidt exclaimed, throwing up his hands in bewilderment. Before him lay the soldier, nude but partially obscured by a sterile white sheet. The single wound he possessed was a deep cut from just under the left side of the ribcage to the right collarbone, far too straight and even for anything except a blade.
The door flew open and a smallish Middle-Eastern woman in a suit strode in confidently, a cup of coffee in her hand and dark shades over her eyes.
“Knock, dammit! I’m in the middle of something.” the coroner exclaimed, looking up from his work briefly. Upon seeing Sphinx, his eyes widened and his face paled. “I’m so sorry, ma’am; I didn’t think it was you!”
“Excused, Herr Doktor. What’s your thoughts on our friend here?” Sphinx purred, pointing at the body.
“Well, I would say sepsis or the like killed him, but even if it had already set in, it wouldn’t have had the time to develop. He can’t have bled out; the wound didn’t hit any major arteries and he still has plenty of blood volume in him, even if his blood pressure dropped through the floor.”
“You sure the two didn’t help each other along?” Sphinx suggested, her voice taking on a vaguely-threatening tone. Dr. Schmidt didn’t notice.
“No, I know that it’s sepsis that killed him, but it just isn’t possible. Unless… poison? Oh my God, I completely forgot! I need to…”
“It was sepsis, Herr Doktor.” Sphinx insisted.
“No, I need to check his blood for…”
“It was sepsis, Herr Doktor,” Sphinx said a second time, her warning far more unambiguous. “and if you continue to delude yourself into thinking that it’s anything else, I will have Colonel Suzuki correct you. Understand?”
“Y-yes, Agent.” Dr. Schmidt stammered, hands shaking. Sphinx wondered how much further she’d have to push him to give the old man a heart attack.
“Good. Now put that down on the documentation, take care of the body, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“W-will do, Agent.”
Sphinx took a sip from her cup, then left to continue attending to Kaede. It was ugly work, what she sometimes had to do for the greater good, but it was, indeed, for the greater good.