“You don’t talk much, Ruza,” Fletcher said as they walked through the knee-high undergrowth.
“What would I talk about?” the Borealan grumbled, clearly unamused by his prodding.
“It’s not like there’s anything else to do out here,” Fletcher continued, hopping over an exposed root. “Not unless you like really short games of I-Spy.”
“I am not interested in making small talk,” he added, Xipa watching their exchange from her perch on Gustave’s shoulder.
“I just want to know what makes a Rask go it alone,” Fletcher said, refusing to drop the subject. “I’ve served with Borealans before, and you guys are all about the pack system. You won’t even sneeze without your Alpha’s express permission.”
“How do these packs work?” Xipa asked.
“Each pack is led by an Alpha, who’s the meanest one of the bunch,” Fletcher explained. “Everyone has to do what he says with military precision, or they’re liable to get clawed up. They decide who sits in the big chair through fights where they just beat the shit out of each other until one of them gives in.”
“That sounds barbaric,” Xipa added with a grimace.
“That is because Fletcher did a poor job of explaining it,” Ruza sighed. “Yes, dominance bouts decide who holds the position of Alpha, though those who are abusive or fail in their duties to protect the interests of their charges are quickly ousted.”
“You can’t think very much of packs if you’re not in one,” Fletcher said, Ruza’s round ears twitching with what might be irritation. Despite their reputation for having short tempers, Xipa didn’t get the impression that the Rask was angry. It was something closer to weariness, as though the subject matter made him profoundly tired.
“I left my pack because they made poor decisions on my behalf,” he finally replied. “My Alpha, my crewmaster, and my Matriarch failed in their duties. They made me do things that I knew were wrong, and I obeyed out of loyalty and fear. I suffered the consequences. My kin say that I am disturbed, insane, but I make my own choices now.”
“Insane seems like a stretch,” Bluejay interjected as he walked at the rear of their group. “Are loners so rare on Borealis?”
“You misunderstand,” Ruza continued, the way that he rolled his Rs making it sound like he was growling. “To reject the pack is to reject the hierarchy, to reject all social order. The human equivalent might be one who sequesters himself alone in the wilds – a hermit. There is no place in Borealan society for one such as I.”
“You seem to have exchanged one hierarchy for another if you signed up to be an auxiliary,” Fletcher added. “How is taking orders from a squad commander any different from taking them from an Alpha?”
“I am not an auxiliary,” Ruza replied, gesturing to one of the patches that were sewn onto his leather jacket. There were three characters there, though Xipa couldn’t read Earth’nay script. “I am a private military contractor – I serve neither the Matriarchy nor the Coalition. I decide when and where I work and who I take orders from.”
“So, you’re a merc?” Fletcher asked, appraising the feline with a new appreciation. “That’s one way to get off-planet, I suppose. You must know Vos, right? Don’t see how you’d end up here if you didn’t. I met him through his dealings with my old SWAR team.”
“Indeed,” Ruza replied. “He supported the new Matriarch’s bid to create mercenary companies from what was left of the territory’s forces after the conflict. My application must have caught his eye.”
“I can see that,” Fletcher said with a nod. “A lone Rask trying to register as a mercenary would get anyone’s attention. Especially one with your unique skillset. Rask are usually the ones causing the injuries, not fixing them.”
“After the rebellion was quelled, I took an interest in medicine. We needed more doctors, not more warriors. The Coalition was providing relief and funding training programs for doctors, farmers, and engineers. My instructors recognized my aptitude, and I was trained in human medicine.”
“That doesn’t explain why you ditched the whole concept of packs. Was it just the outcome of the rebellion or something more specific?”
“If it’s not too personal,” Bluejay added, giving Fletcher a pointed look.
“It took us this long to get him talking, he might as well finish the story,” the Earth’nay complained as he threw up his hands.
“I do not like these probing questions,” Ruza muttered, falling silent again. Fletcher scowled at Bluejay as though it was his fault, the insect giving him an apologetic shrug in response. The more time she spent with these creatures, the more Xipa was starting to learn their body language, the individual quirks and expressions of their species. Once, she would have said that no creature could possibly express itself without the aid of feathers to signal their emotional state, but these disadvantaged aliens found other, albeit less direct ways to convey what they were feeling.
As they pressed on, the forest began to darken, Xipa glancing up through the canopy to see a black crescent creeping across the gas giant’s glowing face. Night was coming, or at least, the closest thing to night on Kerguela. There would still be enough light to see by from the ceaseless auroras.
After a couple more hours, it got to the point that Fletcher put on his helmet, tapping at the touch panel by his temple as he walked along.
“It’s getting pretty dark,” he grumbled. “Full-moon dark, but dark enough to twist an ankle. Gonna switch on my night vision.”
“I often forget that humans see so poorly in the dark,” Ruza said, his own eyes glinting in the glow of the auroras like a pair of golden coins. His previously thin pupils had dilated wide to let in as much light as possible.
“We make up for it by being technological geniuses,” Fletcher replied, turning to glance up at the Rask. “The cameras on this puppy make everything as bright as day. You look just as radiant in neon green.”
Ruza rolled his eyes, continuing on through the trees. Xipa reached for her own helmet, slotting her feather sheaths into it as she slid it over her head. She suspected that her vision was better than the Earth’nay’s, but it was getting harder to see, especially in the shadow of the trees. Bluejay and Gustave seemed indifferent to the changing light conditions.
“Yeah, that shepherd definitely isn’t tailing us,” the insect announced. “It’s been a good couple of hours, and the wind has changed direction. I’d have smelled her by now.”
“Her?” Xipa asked skeptically.
“She was female,” he replied, as though it should have been obvious. “Pretty much all Bugs are.”
“But you are male?”
“Last time I checked,” he chuckled. “Winged males would usually make up the Queen’s entourage in the hive. They guard her, reproduce with her. Now, we’re just like anybody else. Except for the wings, that is. That’s why we make such good scouts.”
“Hey, guys?” Fletcher suddenly called out. “What the fuck is that?”
Bluejay hurried over to where he was standing, pointing up into one of the trees. As Gustave made his way over to join them, Xipa caught sight of it too, some kind of fine mesh that was draped over the high branches near the canopy. It looked like fine, white strands, blowing gently in the wind.
The insect popped open his wing covers, rising up into the air, one of the branches creaking under his weight as he landed on it deftly. He reached out to touch the substance, which clung to his hand as he pulled away, sticking to him stubbornly.
“It’s sticky,” he called down to them. “Some kind of…organic fiber, I think. I’m not picking up any pheromones.”
“Please don’t tell me there are giant spiders out here,” Fletcher sighed, directing his inquiry at Xipa.
“I don’t know what a spider is, but I know of no animal that produces such fibers,” she replied. “That said, we had not come close to mapping the moon and cataloging all of its native species. I suppose it could be the product of some unknown creature, but assuming that the insects are responsible is a safer bet.”
“Bluejay, stay on the ground for the time being,” Fletcher ordered as he fiddled with the scope on his rifle. “You’re our canary.”
“Like in a mineshaft?” he asked skeptically, hopping down from the branch. He tried to wipe the sticky substance off his hand on the trunk of the tree, but that only resulted in moss and debris sticking to it. “Aren’t those sacrificial?”
“Just keep watch for pheromones,” Fletcher replied, giving Bluejay a pat on the back that the insect didn’t seem to appreciate.
They carried on, the eclipse making the forest darker with each hour that passed. The glow of the auroras above painted the landscape in wavering greens and purples, making everything look like a painting in motion. It was oddly peaceful. In the absence of any sign of the creature that might have left the sticky strands, they decided to stop and make camp to eat. The team rested in the roots of one of the larger trees, Gustave lying down on his belly as he tended to do, Xipa locking her legs as she searched for a protein bar in her pack. Bluejay remained alert, standing guard like a sentry, his feathery antennae waving in the breeze as he kept watch.
Once again, the scent of roasting meat set her mouth watering, Xipa sparing a jealous glance at Ruza as he cooked over his portable stove. The bright flame from the gel illuminated the surrounding area, not quite as strong as a campfire, but casting the faces of her companions in flickering orange all the same.
“What have you got this time, Doc?” Fletcher asked as he tore open another MRE packet. “Smells good.”
“Beef,” he replied, extending an unexpectedly long tongue to wet his lips. It looked prehensile, covered in tiny, sharp barbs. “I did not think that I would enjoy alien dishes, but the Earth meats they feed us in these MREs always lighten my mood.”
“What do Rask usually eat?” Bluejay asked. “I imagine you’re a little more expensive to feed than we are.”
“Meat, fish, and gourds make up the bulk of our diet,” Ruza replied as he reached into the packet with a fork to stir its contents. “Some grains, also. Little grows in the Rask territory, and our lake leaves much to be desired. Some regions are famous for their livestock, however. I ate well when I served the Matriarchy, but not all Rask could say the same under her rule. The banquet table was laden with meat soaked in dripping oils, salted fish appropriated from trade caravans, and the finest Raises the Hair from Elysia’s wineries.”
“Doesn’t sound all that bad,” Fletcher added, blowing on a steaming spoonful of food.
“For the Matriarch’s chosen warriors, no,” he replied. “But the common pack could scarcely sate their hunger. She drained the palace’s vaults to buy elaborate weapons rather than using the wealth to import more food.”
“Are your people faring any better after the rebellion?” Bluejay added, turning to glance at Ruza. “You said that the Coalition was providing aid?”
“Yes, much,” he replied as he lifted his meal from the stove. He fished inside it, spearing a chunk of meat the size of Xipa’s fist on his fork, chewing on it contentedly. “The newly-appointed Matriarch, Korbaz, cares more for the prosperity of her people. Some whisper that she is merely a puppet of the UNN, installed only to keep the Rask people under their boot, but I do not share these doubts. She has cut many deals with the Coalition, and their technology has allowed farms to flourish where no crops could grow before. I saw many of your kind last I was there,” he added, gesturing to Xipa with his fork. “They were overseeing farming operations and setting up machines that could draw moisture from the air.”
“That sounds like irrigation technology for desert environments,” she mused, taking a dispassionate bite of her protein bar.
Ruza suddenly stopped chewing abruptly, turning his eyes to the forest beyond. One of his round, furry ears swiveled, twitching as he listened intently.
“I thought I heard-”
Something bounced off the side of Fletcher’s helmet with enough force to give him whiplash, ringing it like a bell, the Marine letting out a yell of surprise as he reached up to grab his head.
“What the fuck was that!?”
“Something’s firing on us!” Bluejay shouted, darting for cover.
Before Xipa could even reach for her gun, an explosion rang out, knocking her off her feet. She was vaguely aware of the sensation of shrapnel hitting the layer of armor beneath her suit, her ears ringing as she fell snout-first into the dead leaves. As she rolled over, scrambling to her feet, she saw that Gustave had been hit. Smoke was rising from a burn mark on his poncho, the armored panels on his sleeve charred. He seemed none the worse for wear, loosing an intimidating rumble as he rose from his prone position.
“Take cover!” Fletcher ordered, leaning out from behind the nearest tree. Ruza reached down to grab Xipa, hoisting her light frame beneath his arm as he rushed to get out of the line of fire. There was another explosion nearby, narrowly missing them as it took out a chunk of the tree trunk ahead of them. They weren’t grenades – maybe some kind of explosive round?
A moment later, she felt the ground beneath her feet, Ruza depositing her on the forest floor before shouldering his immense rifle.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded in that gruff voice, Xipa putting on her helmet with shaking hands.
“N-no, I don’t think so.” She pulled her XMR from her back, disengaging the safety. Memories of the battle at the spaceport flashed in her mind with alarming clarity, so raw that she could almost smell the burning flesh, but she willed herself to keep her cool. In her fantasies, she had imagined herself leading an army to retake Kerguela, but the reality of being under fire again made her legs turn to jelly. “What is firing on us?”
“Can’t see shit!” Fletcher grumbled over the radio. “Night vision, thermals – I got nothing. Bluejay! You got anything on smell-o-vision?”
“I don’t sense anything!” he replied, Xipa spotting his IFF tag hovering over his head maybe twenty meters away. He was taking refuge behind a tree, bracing his weapon against the rough bark as he peeked out. His helmet was off, his long antennae waving.
Gustave was standing out in the open, raising his heavy chaingun, the triple railgun barrels starting to spool up with a mechanical whine. He planted his feet in the shrubs, protecting himself with the heavy plates of ceramic armor on his left arm, his hood pulled over his snout. Another explosion echoed through the forest, this one impacting his shield. It sent out a puff of smoke and a burst of shrapnel that shredded the nearby plants, Gustave weathering the blow, turning the spinning barrel of his cannon towards the source of the shot.
His loud bellow was audible even over the sound of his weapon as he began to fire, Xipa watching the belt of tungsten slugs start to feed from the barrel on his back, her helmet muffling the series of deafening cracks. The fire rate wasn’t as high as she had imagined, but it still dwarfed any railgun that she had seen. The steady crack-crack-crack of its projectiles shattering the sound barrier was like a hundred hammers hitting anvils in quick succession. Trails of partially-melted metal painted red-hot streaks as they lanced out into the darkness, the glow of the magnetic coils joining them. He swung the weapon around in a wide arc, creating a cone of destruction ahead of him, the forest erupting into chaos.
The hypervelocity slugs tore through the trees like they were made of paper, digging craters in their trunks, sending vicious sprays of splinters tearing into the surrounding foliage like shrapnel. Some of the smaller trees were felled, sent crashing to the ground, the sound of cracking wood rising over the cacophony of gunfire. Branches fell from the canopy, dry leaves catching fire, the weapon cutting through the forest like a saw.
He finally let up, probably to save his barrels from melting, bellowing another challenge that Xipa could feel resonate in her hollow bones. She had never seen anything like it – the beast was like an ancient Valbara’nay war deity given form.
“Guess that’s why they call them walking pillboxes,” Fletcher muttered. He swung out from behind the tree, his rifle shouldered, scanning the ruined forest ahead of them. “Still nothing. You reckon you got them, Gus?”
Before the Krell’nay could reply, another projectile impacted his right shoulder, this one punching through the tough material of his poncho. He loosed a bellow of pain, taking a faltering step backwards, his long tail sweeping through the fallen leaves. This one didn’t explode, but it seemed to have done some damage, the lumbering reptile starting to fire again as he moved to the cover of a nearby tree. Yet another shot hit his armored sleeve, this one creating a shower of bright sparks rather than exploding, a loud whizzing sound filling the air as it was deflected.
“Armor piercing!” Gustave warned, his reverberating tones translated into stilted speech.
“Fuck!” Fletcher growled, putting his back to his tree. “Stay in cover until we can figure out where these fuckers are firing from!”
“No pheromones, no body heat, suppressed weapons,” Bluejay muttered. “What are we dealing with here?”
“Gustave!” Ruza called out, his voice almost as loud as the reptile’s. “Are you injured?”
“The insect stings but does not kill,” he replied, Xipa watching as blood dripped down the front of his poncho. To her surprise, it was cobalt blue in color.
“They’re not firing plasma,” Fletcher added. “We need to get a bead on these bastards before they flank us.”
“They cannot be too far away,” Ruza added. “Their line of sight would be obstructed by the trees.”
“How many do you reckon?” Fletcher replied. “Two or three – a sniper and a spotter, maybe? A squad of Drones would have been all over us by now.”
Another projectile hit the tree that Ruza and Xipa were hiding behind, carving out a crater on the far side, the surrounding shrubs rustling as they were hit by the shower of splinters. Xipa felt the feline’s heavy hand on her shoulder, so large that his hooked claws almost reached her waist. He put himself in front of her, shielding her with his massive frame.
“Hang on, hang on,” Fletcher warned as he poked his rifle out of cover. He must be using the sights to search for the shooter’s position without exposing himself. Clever. “Picking up a faint heat signature. It’s maybe two hundred meters away, up in the branches.”
Ruza took a moment to secure his own helmet, tapping at its controls with the fleshy pad on the end of his finger. He peeked out, peering into the gloom ahead.
“I see it too.”
“Fuck! It moved out of view. Must be behind something solid. We need to rush this fucker before he changes position again!”
“Do you think there are more?” Ruza asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Fletcher replied. “We need to move on him, or he’s gonna flank us. Gustave, get over to Xipa and keep her safe. I want you laying down covering fire to keep him pinned while we move. Ruza, Bluejay, we’re gonna cover Gustave while he repositions, then we’re going to rush the shooter.”
“What about me?” Xipa protested. “I can help!”
“Negative, you’re our VIP. The only order Vos gave me was to keep you alive.”
Xipa’s suit panels flashed red with a blend of indignation and frustration. She wanted to argue, but now wasn’t the time, and she had told the admiral that she would do as Fletcher asked.
“Ready?” Fletcher yelled, Gustave uttering a low rumble in response. “Open fire!”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Xipa had to fight the urge to cover her ears reflexively, her helmet dampening the noise as Ruza leaned out of cover to fire his rifle. It was two meters long, the barrel lined with dense magnetic coils, the recoil rocking it back into his shoulder as he fired it in semi-auto. How powerful was that rifle if even someone as large as him could barely keep it under control?
Bluejay and Fletcher did the same, their slugs cutting through the trees, spraying the forest at random to force their assailant into cover. Gustave began to lumber towards her position, keeping his massive head low for all the good it would do him, able to move surprisingly quickly for one so heavy. He skidded to a stop beside her in the leaves, raising his shield arm, his bulk coming between her and the sniper.
“As soon as Gustave opens up, we move!” Fletcher ordered. Xipa remembered the chaos of the battle at the spaceport, how confused everyone had been. How could Fletcher remain so focused? Was his heart made of steel, just like his limbs?
The Krell snapped his jaws in what might be anticipation, then leaned out from behind the tree to expose the left side of his body. Immediately, another armor-piercing round slammed into his shield, bright sparks spraying as it was deflected with a sound like a steel drum being struck with a hammer. The barrels of his unwieldy cannon began to spin up, another stream of gunfire spewing out into the forest, eviscerating tree trunks and shrubs alike.
“Go!” Fletcher shouted over the radio, Xipa peeking past Gustave to watch the Earth’nay rush out of cover. Ruza followed, the giant feline crossing the distance quickly on his long legs, his claws digging into the ground for purchase in the low gravity. Bluejay joined them, the three men keeping their heads down, only inches away from the molten projectiles that zipped past above them.
Gustave let up as they neared their destination, the three of them slowing to a jog, readying their weapons as they advanced. They swept the barrels back and forth, searching the darkness for any sign of their quarry, Bluejay’s antennae waving frantically. Xipa used the zoom function on her visor to get a closer look, scanning the different spectrums.
From the branches of one of the trees, its trunk pocked with charred craters, something slid into view. It was directly above them, nigh impossible for them to see.
“Above you!” she shouted, but too late.
A long, organic barrel caught the light as it pointed down at them, the sharp bayonet mounted above it glinting. The flesh-like resin was colored in autumn hues, and it seemed to be wrapped in a layer of the sticky webbing that they had encountered earlier. Dead leaves and foliage clung to it, camouflaging it against the canopy, the weapon only distinguishable from a branch by its measured and deliberate motion.
It fired, emitting no sound that Xipa could hear, a projectile lancing down towards Ruza. Like a timed explosive, it erupted only a foot away from the Rask’s head, Ruza’s yellow eyes widening as he swung his rifle up towards the shooter. Rather than shrapnel or plasma, a net made from the same sticky, shimmering filaments extended. Momentum carried it forward, draping it over Ruza’s frame, causing his return fire to stray wide. As he fought to get free of it, it only clung to him more tightly, the tough threads tangling around his limbs.
Bluejay loosed a burst of gunfire into the trees, but the creature was already moving. Whatever it was, it was fast – Xipa catching only a blur of motion as it leapt from branch to branch. Bluejay tried to follow it, sweeping his XMR through the canopy, but quickly lost sight of it.
“Where the fuck is it?” Fletcher demanded, a flashlight beam projecting from an attachment beneath his barrel. He scanned the leaves, moving from tree to tree, but couldn’t find anything.
“Get this thing off me!” Ruza snarled, trying to tear apart the web. It was too strong, resisting even his attempts. His rifle was pressed tightly against his chest, his arms trapped such that he couldn’t aim it.
“Don’t touch it!” Bluejay warned as Fletcher moved to assist. “It’ll stick to you, too!”
There was another rustle from the branches above, Bluejay and Fletcher moving closer together, standing back to back as they aimed their weapons towards the canopy.
“We have to help them!” Xipa hissed. Gustave hesitated, sharing her sentiment, but unwilling to leave Xipa’s side. Instead, he aimed his cannon, firing another long burst into the trees. It forced the thing to move, Xipa catching a heat signature on her visor.
“I see it!” she yelled. “The more it moves, the hotter it gets!”
“Contact!” Fletcher added, firing up into the branches. Bluejay joined him, the two coordinating their bursts. Finally, something came crashing down, broken branches tumbling to the forest floor along with it. In a blur of movement that Xipa’s eyes could scarcely track, it burst out from beneath the dead leaves, sending them swirling into the air. It went for Ruza first, the Borealan snarling like a beast as it crashed into him, sending him toppling to the ground. He only became more tangled, taken out of the fight, but not injured.
“I cannot fire,” Gustave growled, keeping his cannon trained on it all the same. “Risk of killing our circle!”
The creature turned to face Bluejay and Fletcher as it stood over their comrade, Xipa finally able to get a good look at it. It was six or seven feet tall, its proportions that of a Drone that had been stretched, its limbs long and spindly. Its powerful legs made up half of that height, ending in three toes with hooked claws that seemed designed for gripping branches. Its helmet sported what looked like a rebreather, the organic armor indistinguishable from its natural carapace, segmented cables trailing down into its chest. It sported a pair of massive, compound eyes, along with smaller lenses that were spaced out all over its helmet. The spiky plates of its shell were patterned with camouflage that matched the forest around it, but there was more to it than that. Strands of the sticky webbing were wrapped around its body, almost as though it had fallen victim to one of its own nets. It was covered in leaves and twigs, pieces of foliage that had clung to the gluey fibers as it had moved through the canopy, tiny pieces of moss and fragments of bark adding to the illusion. No wonder they hadn’t been able to see the thing…
Clutched in its four hands was the rifle that she had glimpsed. It was huge, a hybrid of organic parts and alien machinery that she couldn’t begin to make sense of. It had eyes, just like its wielder, compound lenses and ugly sensory organs jutting from where a sane person might have mounted a scope. As the insect passed off the weapon to its lower pair of arms, her eyes were drawn to the upper pair. Jutting from its wrists were long, pointed blades covered in wicked barbs, sweeping back to interlock with its spiked forearms like the jaws of a monster. It looked like a modified finger, long and hard, the chitin as sharp as a razor. It extended these blades like scythes, squaring off against Bluejay and Fletcher.
They raised their weapons, but the Bug was faster, firing its rifle from the hip as it darted away again. Another of those explosive projectiles detonated with a crack, sending a net sailing towards Fletcher. He was already trying to dodge out of its path, but he wasn’t faster than a bullet, the spreading strands catching him. It hadn’t had much time to expand at such close range, but it was wide enough to cover his torso, the impact knocking him back against a tree trunk. It glued him to the bark, a follow-up shot pinning his weapon hand.
With both Fletcher and Ruza immobilized, the thing turned its attention to Bluejay. He sprayed at it with his XMR, but it darted behind a tree, his slugs digging into the bark. It scaled the far side of the trunk with alarming ease, then leapt from the high branches, taking him by surprise. He couldn’t raise his weapon in time, and it was knocked from his hands with a vicious swipe from those scythe-like blades, sent bouncing across the forest floor. Bluejay drew a combat knife from his belt with one of his lower arms, plunging it into the creature’s side with surprising speed, but a swift kick to his thorax sent him crashing to the ground. The thing was on him before he could react, gripping his face in its clawed foot, pressing him into the dirt as it raised one of those wicked blades high above its head.
Xipa aimed her XMR, the targeting reticle hovering over its torso, but she couldn’t risk a shot with Fletcher directly behind it. The weapon told her as much, flashing a friendly fire warning on her HUD. Gustave was starting to move now, a sudden burst of speed catapulting him forward, but even he might not close the distance in time.
Through her scope, she saw that Fletcher was moving, raising the arm that was still free of the webbing. As he snapped back his prosthetic hand at an unnatural angle, a six-inch, serrated blade erupted from his wrist. He used it to slice through the fibers, their elasticity giving him trouble, but its edge was sharp enough to cut them. When his bonds were weak enough, he tore away from the tree, his prosthetic limbs straining to the point that they looked like they might snap right off his body.
The Bug took notice, turning its compound eyes on him, raising its rifle. Before it could get off a shot, Bluejay reached up to grab the barrel with his four hands, pulling it away. The two struggled for a moment as the creature attempted to tear it from his grasp, but the stickiness of the fibers that were wound around its barrel prevented it. Clicking its scythes against its forearms in what might be irritation, it released the weapon. Bluejay couldn’t fire it, not with all four of his hands glued to its barrel. He was as good as immobilized.
Fletcher reached for his sidearm with practiced speed, but the insect was faster, closing the gap between them before he could even get it out of its holster. It brought down one of its wicked scythes, the chitin blade whistling through the air, the speed and momentum of the strike enough to cleave the Earth’nay in half. There was a sound of wrenching metal, and when the dust cleared, the insect had been stopped in its tracks. Fletcher had raised his arm to protect himself, and the insect’s blade had bitten into the metal and polymer. The two strained against each other, a contest of muscle and machinery, the insect seeming surprised by the obstacle. If Fletcher’s forearm had been flesh and blood, it would likely have been severed, and that sharp blade would have been driven into his neck.
Fletcher pushed the insect back, his adversary having to wrench its arm free, the sharp barbs stuck in the polymer housing of his limb. He tore off his tattered sleeve, exposing the shining metal, taking up a defensive posture with his fists raised. The concealed blade still protruded from his wrist, its edge glinting in the light from the auroras. As Xipa watched, it began to extend, sliding out of its housing until it was near the same length as his forearm.
The creature gave him no time to breathe, lunging again, sweeping its scythe in a wide arc. Fletcher swung his blade with more strength than an unaugmented person could have mustered, the steel edge biting into the chitin. The tempered metal won out, severing the insect’s limb near the joint, the thing recoiling as pus-colored ichor spewed from the wound. It skipped back a few paces, maimed but undeterred. It might not even be capable of experiencing fear or doubt.
The two began to circle one another, Fletcher juking from side to side, his fists clenched. He darted in to deliver a swift punch to the thing’s face, his prosthetic limbs moving like they were spring-loaded, carrying enough force to crack one of the creature’s compound visors. The insect reeled under the blow, the speed and ferocity taking it by surprise. He took advantage of its temporary confusion to drive his blade towards its torso, his opponent reacting quickly as it moved its lower arms to grip his wrist, but it lacked the leverage to stop him. The blade slipped between the segmented plates of its midsection, the steel sinking a good few inches into wet meat. His triumph was short-lived, however. Rather than collapsing, the insect threw him back, lifting him off the ground with a swipe from the flat of its remaining scythe. He landed in the leaves a few feet away, his assailant raising its remaining chitinous blade as it rushed over to finish him off. Fletcher reached for his sidearm again, but the thing had already closed, its scythe cutting through the air.
Gustave came barreling in from their left, slamming into the distracted insect like an out-of-control maglev car. He lifted it off its feet, carrying the helpless creature with him, careening into a nearby tree. Its branches shook as the Krell’nay crushed the Bug between his bulk and the trunk, Xipa hearing the crash from where she was standing, the crack of splintering wood joined by a wet squelch. As fallen leaves and twigs rained down on him, Gustave took a step back, the limp body of the thing glued to the tree by the sticky strands that were wound around its thorax. It had been pulverized, its carapace shattered, fluids and organs bulging between its cracked plates. Gustave snapped a few of the strands that were clinging to his shoulder with a wave of his powerful arm, then turned to Fletcher, cocking his massive head.
“You are hurt?” he asked in his rumbling speech.
Fletcher struggled to his feet, rolling his shoulders.
“Nah, I’m alright. Thanks to you,” he added, glancing at the squashed Bug. “Always nice to have a Krell on call.”
“Will one of you please free me from this net?” Ruza growled, still struggling on the ground. He was covered in a blanket of leaves, twigs, and dirt that had stuck to the strands.
“My knife seemed to do the job,” Fletcher replied, making his way over to the feline. “Let me handle it.”
He knelt beside Ruza in the leaves, retracting the long blade until only a couple of inches were still exposed. Carefully, he began to slice the sticky fibers, freeing him by the time Xipa had jogged over to join them.
“Are you all alright?” she panted, locking her legs as she caught her breath.
“We all seem to be in one piece,” Fletcher replied, trying to shake one of the strands off his blade. “Bluejay, you alive?”
The insect climbed to his feet, his four hands still firmly glued to the barrel of the strange rifle.
“I’m alright. Better than that guy, at least,” he muttered as he nodded in the direction of the ruined Bug. Fletcher walked over to him, Bluejay extending his arms, letting him cut away the fibers that bound his hands.
“Didn’t you just get done telling me how weaponizing prosthetics is illegal?” Xipa asked, watching him as he helped Bluejay peel away one of his hands.
“Only illegal if you get caught,” he replied with a grin. He succeeded in freeing Bluejay, who passed off the organic rifle to him, Fletcher holding it by the grips gingerly. “What the fuck is this thing?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bluejay replied, struggling with a clump of webbing that was gluing two of his fingers together. “It has organic components – high-end biotech. It seems to be able to switch ammo types on the fly. Chemical propellant of some kind, I’m guessing.”
“It has eyes,” Fletcher muttered, grimacing at the thing. “It’s heavier than it looks, too.”
“We’d better just leave it,” Bluejay warned. “It won’t be any use to us unless we can interface with its optical nerves, and we don’t have the right sockets. Trust me.”
“You talk like you’re familiar with this kind of shit,” Fletcher added, glancing up from the alien weapon.
“We call it wetware,” he replied. “We use a lot of biotech on Jarilo, usually small, genetically-engineered organisms that serve as microcomputers or which bridge mechanical and biological systems. We don’t use controls to drive our vehicles, we hook them into our nervous systems. Organic eyes for targeting, pheromone-sensing switches, self-moderating circuit breakers – you name it.”
“Why did you not sense the creature?” Xipa demanded, interrupting their conversation. “Is that not the reason you were assigned to the team – to warn us of such things?”
Fletcher gave him a look of unspoken agreement, Ruza glancing over at him as he struggled to clean the glue from his fur. If Bluejay was offended by the accusation of not doing his job properly, he didn’t show it, merely walking over to the crushed Bug. It was still stuck to the trunk of the tree, its guts and fluids seeping down to the forest floor below, painting the cracked bark. Now that she could get a closer look, the damage that had been done by the two-thousand-pound Krell was catastrophic. It looked like it had been crushed beneath a giant boot.
Bluejay leaned close, his antennae waving, near enough that their feathery tips brushed its shell. He shuddered, pulling away in what might be disgust, his expression difficult to discern.
“Its guts reek, but it’s not putting out any pheromones,” he explained. He appeared to steel himself, turning back to it. If the scene was gruesome for a vertebrate, what must the insect feel, seeing one of his cousins in such a state? “It’s like it’s mute,” he continued, examining it again. “I’m guessing this caste was purpose-engineered for stealth. It doesn’t put out any pheromones because they would give away its position in the event that a hostile hive invaded the planet. Or, y’know, we did,” he added with a shrug. “It’s an odd adaptation. This thing worked alone, probably lived alone. I’m not sure if it would even be able to communicate with other Bugs.”
“So, what?” Fletcher asked as he took a few steps closer. “They just send a bunch of these things out into the wild to act as…biological trip mines?”
“Maybe,” Bluejay replied with a nod. “We need to keep an eye out for more of them.”
“Look at this,” Fletcher added, prodding at the creature’s broken shell with the tip of his blade. “These look like spinnerets from the arse-end of a spider. They’re all over it. This must be how it secretes that webbing. It covers itself in those sticky filaments, then it rolls around in the undergrowth until it’s perfectly camouflaged. It can make its own ghillie suit that matches whatever environment it’s in.”
“We know how it evaded Bluejay’s nose,” Ruza said, walking up behind them as he nursed a bald patch on his forearm where the webbing had torn out his fur. “But how did it defeat the thermal imaging?”
“It heated up as it moved,” Xipa said, joining in on the conversation. “I saw it on my visor.”
“Maybe it’s metabolic, then,” Bluejay mused. “That makes a lot of sense, actually. When Bugs travel between planets on hive ships, they enter a low metabolic state to conserve as much energy as possible. Their bodily functions slow to the point that they’re practically dead. If this thing is expected to stay out in the wilderness on its own until it encounters a target, maybe it can enter a similar state of suspended animation. That would lower its body temperature until it’s practically the same as its surroundings.”
“Fucking hell,” Fletcher mumbled as he glanced up at the trees warily. “We could walk right underneath one and never notice it.” He reached out to give Bluejay a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, by the way. If you hadn’t grabbed that thing’s rifle when you did, it would probably have put an AP round straight through my visor.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, the praise taking him off-guard. “We’re just lucky it didn’t open with that, or you’d be missing your head right now.”
“Bounced right off my helmet,” Fletcher chuckled, reaching up to rap his knuckles against it.
Xipa watched their interaction curiously, her heart still racing, the adrenaline rush wearing off now to leave her drained. How were they so jovial after such a close brush with death? They had barely come out on top. If the events of the fight had played out even a little differently, they would all be dead. Was combat really so routine to them that they thought nothing of it?
“Come,” Ruza demanded, beckoning to Gustave. “Let me tend to your wound, large one.”
“Bug bite,” the Krell’nay rumbled, but he lumbered closer all the same. He set down his monstrous cannon on the ground beside him, then lifted up his poncho, exposing the bullet wound in his shoulder. The blue blood had already stopped flowing, and Xipa could see where the projectile had broken through his scales. It must have been carrying a lot of energy if it had punched through the armor, but not nearly as much as a railgun, thankfully.
“It did not penetrate deep,” Ruza said as he touched a padded finger to the scales beside the wound. “The armor and your thick hide saw to that. Still, it will be necessary to retrieve the bullet and to flush the wound of any foreign bodies that it might have carried with it. How averse are you to moderate pain?”
The Krell’nay’s only reply was an intimidating rumble that wasn’t translated into speech.
“Very well,” Ruza replied. “No local anesthetic, then.”
They walked back over to their small camp, Bluejay pausing to retrieve his knife along the way. Fletcher resumed his meal as though nothing had happened, examining the furrows on his polymer forearm that the Bug had carved with its scythe, grumbling to himself as he traced one with a fingertip.
“Fucking things aren’t cheap…”
Xipa had lost her appetite, so she stood and watched Ruza instead, the feline tending to Gustave’s bullet wound. He opened one of the many pouches on his chest carrier, pulling out a pair of long, latex gloves. He slid them over his hands, then pulled them higher, all the way to his rolled-up sleeves. They covered his furry forearms, likely so that no strands of his sandy hair contaminated the wounds he was treating. Before she had a chance to wonder how his razor claws didn’t pierce the material, she saw that there were small, rubber pads at the end of each finger.
Next, he reached into another of his pouches, producing a sealed plastic packet that contained a pair of metal tweezers. There was also a sprue with a dozen small vials of clear fluid, the Rask twisting one of them off. He raised it to Gustave’s shoulder, giving the container a gentle squeeze as he held it between his finger and thumb, squirting it into the wound. He used the rest to wash away the drying blood on the surrounding scales.
“This is just sterile water,” he explained, peeling open the packet that contained the tweezers. “I must dig out the projectile. This will be painful.”
Gustave stood firm as Ruza pushed the metal prongs into the wound, Xipa feeling a shudder roll down her spine as she watched them sink uncomfortably deep. They provoked a fresh flow of azure blood, which Ruza was quick to wash away, keeping the area clean.
“Found it,” he muttered, changing his angle a little. Gustave loosed a low rumble of pain, but kept remarkably still. Judging by the old scars and burn marks that pocked his leathery hide, this was far from the first time he had undergone surgery in the field.
Ruza began to withdraw the tweezers, gripping an object between them. It looked like a sharp piece of metal, covered in blue blood, its pointed nose flattened and deformed by the impact. The feline reached out to pinch something between the rubber pads on the ends of his claws, peeling away a tiny piece of fabric that was stuck to the end of the bullet.
“I have it,” he said, seeming pleased with himself. “I think all of the kevlar is here. Just try not to get shot in the same place again, or it will go straight through you this time.”
He tossed the bullet aside along with the tweezers, presumably because they couldn’t be reused, then reached for a holster on his belt. He withdrew some kind of canister that was painted white with a green cross symbol emblazoned on the side, then raised it to Gustave’s shoulder.
“This will hurt more,” he warned, then he pressed its conical nozzle into the hole. He squeezed the handle, Gustave uttering another pained growl, Xipa watching curiously as some kind of white foam began to pour from it. When the wound channel was full, he drew back, putting the canister away. Finally, he produced a square-shaped patch of adhesive and slapped it over the area.
“What was in that canister?” Xipa asked.
“Antiseptic foam,” he replied. “It will seal the wound and combat any bacterial infections. Not that a Krell needs any help in that department – their immune system is very highly evolved.”
“Why is the blood blue?” she continued, watching as Gustave rolled his injured shoulder experimentally.
“Hemocyanin,” Ruza explained. “Our blood is red because of an iron-rich protein called hemoglobin that transports oxygen to our organs and tissues. The Krell have evolved to use a different method. They have no blood cells – instead, oxygen is carried using proteins suspended in hemolymph. They are copper-based, rather than iron, which makes them look blue when they are oxygenated.”
“Are there benefits to that?” she wondered, watching the Krell’nay replace his poncho.
“Krell are ectotherms,” Ruza continued. “It means that they cannot regulate their own body temperature as we do. They must bask if they wish to warm themselves, or enter water or shade to cool down. They have slow metabolisms, too, which is why Gustave does not eat with us. As for the benefits, well…”
He gestured to the giant reptile, who peered back at them with his expressionless, scaly face.
“I suppose the benefits are obvious,” she conceded.
“Built like a tank, and the about the size of one,” Fletcher added. “They say nobody has ever seen one die of old age.”
“The Krell are an archaic species, very highly adapted to their native environment,” Ruza continued. “They have likely remained practically unchanged for longer than our species have existed in any recognizable state.”
“I’ve never heard a Rask talk like a biology professor before,” Fletcher chuckled, Ruza shooting him an exasperated look. “No wonder you caught Vos’s eye.”
“My people are not stupid,” he grumbled. “The problem is a lack of access to education, which is now being remedied. Twenty years ago, the Borealans had no idea that there were worlds other than their own. They knew nothing of superlight and Coalitions and interstellar wars.”
“Now look at you!” Fletcher replied, gesturing to him in a way that came off more than a little facetious. “Doctor Ruza, PhD.”
Ruza peeled off his gloves, then returned to his seat near his collapsible stove. It had been knocked on its side in the commotion, and he set it upright, growling to himself when he saw that the food packet he had been cooking had spilled all over the ground.
“Hey,” Fletcher said, Ruza turning to glance at him. He tossed the Rask another packet, Ruza catching it in his furry hands. “It’s beef ravioli. I know it’s just a snack by your standards, but you said you liked beef.”
Ruza tore open the packet, giving it a tentative sniff.
“Thank you,” he said, Fletcher nodding in reply.
“We’ll have to move a little more carefully from here on,” Fletcher added between spoonfuls of his meal. “There’s no way to detect those sniper things until they decide to show themselves. If we haven’t encountered any up to now, maybe they’re not hiding in every other tree, but let’s stay alert.”
“It should be two or three more days until we reach the source of the signal,” Xipa said, checking the display on her wrist.
They ate for a little while longer, then Ruza rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head.
“I must relieve myself,” he announced, walking off into the trees. Fletcher and Bluejay paid him little mind, making small talk, but Xipa found her eyes following him. He didn’t go far, stopping a short distance from their little camp. He fumbled with something in one of his pouches, keeping his back to his companions, Xipa catching a glint of metal as he raised something to his forearm. It was a needle, Ruza pressing it into his skin, slowly injecting its contents. He waited a minute more before he turned back, Xipa quickly looking away, not wanting him to know that she had seen him.
He returned to his seat on a raised root, leaving Xipa to wonder what he had just injected himself with and why it was something he wanted to keep a secret from the rest of the team.
“Let’s get moving again,” Fletcher finally said, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “The quicker we find the source of that distress signal, the sooner we can be out of this godforsaken forest.”