“So, why do you sound like you have ten different accents?” Fletcher asked, lifting one of his prosthetic legs to step over a protruding root.
“What do you mean?” Xipa sighed, bobbing gently along with Gustave’s gait as she rode on his shoulder.
“Sometimes when you talk, you sound American,” the Earth’nay explained. “Other times, you sound British, sometimes Indian, sometimes Russian. Why is that?”
“I am not aware of your accents,” Xipa explained, a flutter of irritation passing through her headdress. “My people learn languages through mimicry. If a word or phrase is spoken in an accent, then we shall repeat it in the same manner that we heard it.”
“It makes you sound like a parrot,” Fletcher chuckled.
“I don’t know what a parrot is,” she hissed, growing weary of his constant prodding. He seemed to have grown bored since the ambush two days prior, and he now found his amusement in making pointless small talk. “Not all Valbara’nay are obsessed with your kind, you know,” she added.
“That implies there are some who are,” he shot back with a grin that exposed his flat teeth.
“Not a day goes by that I am not exposed to human music or insipid alien media,” she grumbled. “I cannot walk the streets of my city without hearing it bleeding out of the lounges and restaurants.”
“Hey, what’s wrong with human music?” Fletcher asked in mock outrage.
“Imagine listening to a song sung by a creature whose vocal range is one-tenth that of your own,” Xipa continued with a flush of annoyed red. “Every human song sounds like it’s off-key, it’s maddening.”
“But, what about our music? You can’t tell me you hate the sound of an electric guitar.”
“Vulgar, dry,” she grumbled. “Music should flow like a feather dance, and vocals should be a demonstration of the singer’s range and poise. Earth’nay music throbs and screeches. It is rhythmic to the point that it becomes grating, repeating the same bars over and over and over again. Though, it is perhaps foolish to expect more from a species with such a limited capacity for memory.”
“Well, I haven’t heard any Valbaran music,” Fletcher said with a shrug. “I don’t have any basis for comparison. Why don’t you sing me a song?”
“Sing you a song?” Xipa replied, flashing her teeth as a flutter of angry crimson made her suit panels light up. “Singing is the domain of males. Do I look like I belong in a hookah lounge, flashing my feathers for your amusement? I am an Ensi of the Consensus.”
“I asked you to sing, not to striptease,” Fletcher chuckled. “Sounds like these hookah lounges are a riot, though. Maybe I’ll visit one on my way back to UN space.”
“Please don’t,” Xipa muttered.
“What else do Valbarans like about humans?” Fletcher continued, keeping his eyes on the trees ahead as he scanned for threats. Even during a conversation when he was seemingly at ease, he always maintained his vigil, as though he never fully relaxed.
“If it is flattery that you seek, you should know that you’ll get none from me,” Xipa grumbled.
“Hey, you’re the one who said that everyone back home is obsessed with humans. I want to know why.”
“Beyond novelty, and a misplaced sense of gratitude?” she continued. “Oh, how the xenophiles sing your praises. Look at how handsome they are, look at their smooth skin and their short snouts.” Even repeating such things in mockery made her feathers flush pink with embarrassment.
“You think we’re handsome?” Fletcher laughed.
“I certainly don’t,” Xipa replied hurriedly.
“By you, I meant Valbarans in general,” he added with a smirk.
“In my eyes, there is nothing attractive about a featherless, scaleless primate that walks on its ankles,” she muttered. “What mistake of evolution could have created a plantigrade creature? The Krell’nay, on the other hand,” she added as she glanced down at the back of Gustave’s armored head. “Here is a handsome, noble race worthy of praise.”
Gustave rumbled in what might be amusement, the sound resonating up Xipa’s legs like an earthquake.
“You certainly look a lot closer to a Krell than you do a human,” Fletcher admitted.
“I will take that as a compliment,” Xipa replied, turning up her snout. “The Krell’nay embody the feminine virtues depicted in ancient carvings of Valbara’nay war deities. Gustave could have stepped straight off a sculptor’s pedestal.”
“So, they’re like Greek statues to you?” Fletcher mused. “Makes sense. I don’t know about feminine, though,” he added as he appraised the hulking reptile. “When I think feminine, I don’t usually imagine a muscle-bound monster with shoulders wider than I am tall.”
“Earth’nay ideas of masculine and feminine are inverted,” Xipa said. “Males should be submissive, they should have delicate features, and they should concern themselves with pursuits appropriate to their station. Your males are larger and more aggressive than your females.”
“Yeah, maybe a few hundred years ago that might have been the case,” Fletcher replied. “Spend enough time in a SWAR team, and you’ll meet women who make even Borealans look measured and gentle.”
“What do you mean by that?” Ruza interjected, the feline loping along to their rear.
“I don’t mean anything by it,” Fletcher said as he turned to face him, walking backwards through the undergrowth. “It’s just that Borealan girls have a reputation for being…y’know…fucking crazy. I assumed you’d be in agreement, since you seem to have made every effort to get as far away from other Borealans as possible.”
“The pack life is not all bad,” Ruza grumbled. “There are elements of it that I miss, even if I have come to the conclusion that it no longer suits me. The admiration of a subordinate, their desire to please. The care and affection of a trusted Alpha, the relief of giving yourself to another wholly and without reservation. Even if I now know that trust to be a mirage, it does nothing to quiet my yearning.”
“Okay, sounds like Ruza needs a date,” Fletcher said as he turned back around. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you set up with a nice human girl when we get back to the fleet, someone who knows her way around a laser pointer or something.”
“Your kind are too fragile for my needs,” he growled, Fletcher shooting Xipa a raised eyebrow.
“I knew a chick back in my old team who would take that as a challenge. Maybe I’ll give you her number, as long as you don’t mind the feeling of cold metal.”
There was a rustle in the canopy above as Bluejay dropped down through the branches, his gossamer wings kicking up a cloud of fallen leaves as he brought himself to a stop just above the ground. He landed on the forest floor, the buzzing ceasing, moving to intercept Fletcher.
“Hold on,” he warned, raising a three-fingered hand. “I’m picking up activity ahead.”
“What are you waiting for, permission?” Fletcher asked sarcastically. “What did you find?”
“There’s a group of Drones directly in our path,” he explained, gesturing into the trees. “They’re twelve strong, two teams of six, it looks like. The only reason they haven’t detected us yet is because they’re upwind of us.”
“What are they doing?” Fletcher asked, frowning. “Drones don’t usually travel above ground, not unless they’re guarding something or attacking someone.”
“I haven’t sniffed out any Bug holes in the area,” Bluejay replied.
“Do me a favor and never use that combination of words again, ever,” Fletcher grumbled. “If they’re not guarding a Bug hole, maybe they’re out here looking for us? Do you think that sniper might have sent some kind of signal to the others? We know they’ve been using radio to communicate.”
“It’s possible,” Bluejay replied with a nod. “Still, they’re not moving in any kind of search pattern, and they’re heading away from us.”
“Away from us, or in the same direction?” Xipa added.
“I suppose they could be moving in the same direction, yeah,” Bluejay replied as he glanced up at her. “You’re thinking they might be investigating the same signal that we are?”
“If we detected the beacon, then it’s possible that they did too,” she said. “That could imply that it was activated recently, rather than being set to run continuously,” she added with a flutter of excited yellow.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Ensi,” Fletcher added. “It could just as easily be a random patrol. Any way around them?” he continued, addressing Bluejay again.
“The moment we get upwind of them, they’re going to come for us,” Bluejay warned. “Unless they veer off on a different heading, which isn’t looking likely, our only option is to go through them. I suggest a preemptive attack – it’s the safest option. We take them by surprise before they have a chance to react.”
“I really wanted to avoid engaging the roaches again,” Fletcher sighed, scratching his head with a polymer finger. “We’re not here to fight, and every shot fired is another dice roll.”
“If we double back and take a circuitous route in an attempt to avoid them, it could add days to our mission,” Ruza said as he walked up beside Fletcher. “I vote we go through them. The longer we spend here, the higher the chance we will encounter a larger force that we cannot best.”
“This isn’t a democracy. Vos put me in command,” Fletcher chided. “I agree with you, in any case. Bluejay, use those creepy feelers of yours to let us know when we’re close. Gustave, make sure the Ensi is safe.”
Gustave rumbled affirmatively, nodding his massive head.
“What makes you think I cannot hold my own in a fight?” Xipa snapped, giving him a ripple of indignant crimson.
“If it was up to me, I’d be hauling you around in a pet carrier,” Fletcher replied without missing a beat. “You’re our VIP. If you get hurt, the mission is over. Stay with Gustave.”
Once again, Xipa suppressed her desire to challenge his authority. With the revelation that the beacon might have been activated recently, finding survivors hiding out in the ruins seemed more likely than ever. All she had to do was tolerate a few more days in the company of these aliens.
“Alright, dial down your voltage,” Fletcher advised as he fiddled with his XMR. “We’ll go subsonic. It’ll still be loud, but the sound shouldn’t carry as far. Gustave, I guess just…don’t shoot unless you really need to. Pretty sure they can hear that thing from fucking space.”
“Can you fire from the air?” Ruza asked, glancing down at Bluejay.
“Maybe one shot before the recoil makes it unmanageable,” he replied. “What I can do is fly to a better vantage point and attack from a concealed position.”
“You do that,” Fletcher said. “Get up high, attack from the trees. Me and Ruza will come up behind them. You think they’ll stop to make camp soon? Is that something Bugs do?”
“Ferals? No,” Bluejay scoffed. “Those things can march for days without resting. We’ll need to pick up the pace if we want to catch up with them.”
“Let’s do it,” Fletcher said, waving them on as he jogged into the trees.
***
“Got eyes on them,” Bluejay said, Xipa seeing his IFF tag in the treetops ahead. Gustave was waiting out of view of the Bugs about eighty meters behind them, keeping her safe, but she could follow the fight on her helmet’s HUD. There was even a picture-in-picture view mode that would let her see a real-time feed from the helmet cams of her squadmates. She switched to Bluejay’s feed, seeing him peering through the branches.
“Two groups of six, moving through a patch of those tall mushroom things,” he said, training his rifle on them. The Drones were marching along in loose columns, weaving between the trunks of the towering fungi. The overlapping plates of their carapaces were colored in camouflage that matched their surroundings, all shades of red and brown, covered in tiny spikes that looked like thorns. Several of their number were wearing organic backpacks, long antennae jutting from them, bobbing in the air as they walked. Most wore helmets with half a dozen eyes that pointed in all directions, their mandibles like the serrated jaws of a beast. Others had large, compound visors, segmented cables trailing from where their mouths should have been. They looked like they were wearing rebreathers, maybe something to help them resist chemical warfare. They were armed with weapons that Xipa couldn’t identify, grotesque amalgams of flesh and metal.
“We’re coming up on them now,” Fletcher replied. He glanced down at his boots as he moved through the dense carpet of shrubs and bushes, careful to avoid making any sounds that might alert their quarry. Ruza was moving beside him, a few paces to his right, the giant feline somehow even quieter than the Marine on his fleshy paw pads.
It was exhilarating, the rising tension warming Xipa’s blood. She might be thousands of generations removed from her pack-hunting ancestors, but those instincts still lingered deep in the recesses of her genes.
“Let me know when you’re in position,” Bluejay whispered, his reticle hovering over the head of one of his targets. His stability was impressive – there wasn’t so much as a tremor in his hands.
“Fire on my mark,” Fletcher said, his visor highlighting the enemy with red tags. The team were all networked, sharing battlefield information automatically, everything from their onboard computers to their rifles linked wirelessly. He came to a stop, leaning out from behind a tree, sighting one of the Drones.
“Ready,” Ruza growled.
“Three, two, one…”
Fletcher opened up, dumping a trio of slugs into his target’s back. The Drone went down hard, dead before it had hit the ground. The report of his weapon was still loud, but it was a far cry from the deafening crack of an XMR running at full power. There was no sonic boom, only the electrical discharge from the firing mechanism.
Ruza and Bluejay followed up with several shots, sending two more of the Bugs crashing to the forest floor. By the time they started reacting to the attack, three more had fallen, half of their number wiped out by automatic fire. One tried to take cover behind one of the fleshy trunks of the fungi, but the slugs tore straight through its spongy tissue, knocking the unfortunate Drone off its feet.
The enemy was disciplined, and they didn’t know fear, quickly organizing a counter-attack. They dumped rapid-fire plasma bolts into the forest, forcing Fletcher and Ruza into cover, retreating towards the safety of the nearby trees. Bluejay brought down another one with a precise shot to its chest, but they turned their weapons on him, his wings buzzing as he shot up out of the path of the burning energy bolts. Fires began to spread, everything that the Bug projectiles touched igniting under the intense heat.
“Keep the pressure on them!” Fletcher shouted, leaning against a tree trunk as he reloaded his rifle. “Don’t let them maneuver around us!”
Ruza loosed several semi-auto shots, the slugs biting into the trees, sending slivers of shattered wood flying through the air. The Bugs had split into two groups and were moving in different directions now, trying to flank, the software losing track of them as the team’s sightlines were broken.
“They need our help,” Xipa hissed, giving Gustave a tap on the back of his scaly head.
“Orders are to protect little one,” he rumbled in reply.
“There won’t be anyone left to give you orders if they’re all dead!”
One of the masked Bugs appeared on Ruza’s feed, raising a tube-like weapon in his direction. It was almost as long as the insect was tall, a series of thick cables that looked like veins running along its length, terminating in a nozzle made of blackened chitin. It was maybe thirty meters away now, moving around to the right of him. As the feline swung his rifle towards it, the Bug fired. Instead of a bolt of plasma, the alien device released a stream of fluid, spewing out far enough that Ruza had to throw himself backwards to avoid it. It splattered on the leaves of the shrubs below, coating a couple of the chimney-like mushrooms in gelatinous slime. It suddenly erupted into emerald-green flame, the fire dancing along the stream. There was an explosion as it ignited, scorching everything that the slime had touched, the Bug waving the still-burning torrent around to spread the flames in a wide cone.
“Oh fuck, they have a flamethrower!” Fletcher exclaimed.
“I’ve lost visual,” Bluejay warned, soaring over the treetops as he scanned the ground below. “Those fires are fucking with my thermal imaging!”
“They are doing it on purpose,” Ruza growled, picking himself up off the ground. “The air is choked with their smoke.”
A second flamethrower ignited to their left, spreading the blaze, creating an obscuring smokescreen from the burning plant matter. Xipa could see Fletcher cycling through his view modes, cursing in frustration. The thermal cameras could peel away smoke like it wasn’t even there, but the heat of the rising flames blew out the sensor, creating blobs of white that obscured his vision.
“They’re trying to get close,” Fletcher warned. “Fuckers want to dogpile us.”
“Let them try,” Ruza growled, the bayonet on the end of his rifle glinting in the flames. He was holding it more like a spear now, ready to stab whatever came too close.
A barrage of plasma bolts came flying through the smoke, leaving swirling holes in their wake as their passage disturbed the air around them. Ruza was forced from the safety of his tree as its trunk was set ablaze, its heat singing his furry tail. It was followed up by another stream of burning fluid, flushing him out of hiding and into the open. The heat was so intense that Xipa could feel it through her suit, even so far away from the action.
The Bugs were pushing hard, two of the Drones coming racing through the smoke towards him. Snarling like a feral beast, the Borealan met their charge, leveling his bayonet. He caught the first of them in the midriff, lifting the insect into the air with such force that its carapace cracked around his blade like glass. He swung the flailing Drone into its companion, sending them both crashing to the ground, but they sprang back to their feet in moments. What would have been a mortal wound for most creatures was barely a concern for the injured Drone, its jaw-like mandibles flexing as it brandished a long, saber-like blade. It held a pistol in one of its other hands, rising it towards Ruza’s face, but the Borealan was already swinging the butt of his rifle like a club.
The stock hit the Drone’s helmet with enough force to cave it inward, sending pieces of its broken mandibles sailing through the air, its swept-back horn snapping clean off. When it didn’t go down, Ruza lifted his powerful leg, kicking it in the chest with all of his strength. It was sent crashing into a tree trunk behind it, toppling to the forest floor.
Before Ruza could react, the second Drone stepped in from his right, driving a chitin blade into his thigh. It slipped beneath the ceramic plate, biting into flesh and muscle, the Borealan throwing his head back as he bellowed in pain. With a savage backhand, he knocked his assailant off its feet, sending it rolling away across the ground. He reached down to grip the resin haft of the weapon, the blade embedded so deep that its pointed tip was protruding from the other side. He pulled it out, the knife wet with his blood, a stain of crimson spreading down his leg.
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Fletcher was moving to assist, but his progress was stopped by a wall of flame, one of the pyromaniac insects cutting him off with a stream of burning goo. The second group had reached him, two of the Drones leaping over a fallen log to his left with their handguns leveled. Their magnetic rails crackled with dancing electricity, popping off more bolts, one of them catching the Marine in his chest piece. His armor absorbed the energy, spreading it across his torso, dissipating it enough that it didn’t melt through. Still, the kinetic force of the blow knocked him off-balance, making him stumble back.
Only now did Gustave start to move, Xipa gripping his armored collar as she hung on, clutching her XMR in her other hand.
Ruza tossed the bloodied Bug sword aside, turning to aim his rifle at his opponent, but the thing had already pointed its sidearm at his visor. Something came crashing through the trees, raining broken branches and fallen leaves in its wake, slamming into the Bug with enough force to knock it onto its back. It was Bluejay, his shimmering wings extended as he stood atop the downed Drone, pressing the barrel of his rifle against the thing’s head. He fired, its skull exploding like a ripe fruit, splattering the nearby leaves with yellow-green fluid.
Fletcher had regained his footing and was facing off against the two Drones. They had drawn their blades, too close now for him to get a shot off before they closed the distance between them. He let his XMR hang from its sling, then raised his right hand, extending the hidden blade from his wrist.
One of the Bugs was already rushing towards him, swinging its sword in a wide arc. Fletcher did the same, throwing all of his augmented strength into the blow, the razor edge of his weapon whistling through the air. It cleaved through the chitin, severing the alien blade in two, continuing on to embed itself deep in the Drone’s shoulder. It cut through shell and flesh with ease, leaving a deep gash that bled mucous-colored ichor, but the Bug didn’t falter. It lifted the handgun that it was still holding, pressing it against the segmented armor that protected Fletcher’s belly.
He gripped its hand in his own, metal straining against muscle as he dragged it away, a bolt of green plasma shooting out to turn a nearby shrub to ash. Fletcher squeezed, his electric servos whining as the Drone’s hand was slowly crushed, the carapace that covered its fingers cracking. The plasma weapon fired again, then petered out, its frame bent and warped.
Rather than try to pull his blade free the way it had gone in, Fletcher retracted it back into its housing with mechanical speed, like it was spring-loaded. He brought his fist to the Bug’s helmet, the creature fighting against him with its remaining arms, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist him. The concealed blade shot out like a bullet, impaling the Drone through the head, its struggle ceasing. Before he could toss the limp body to the forest floor, its partner made its move, indifferent to its fallen comrade’s plight.
Bolts of plasma sizzled as they struck the impaled Bug in the back, burning shallow holes in its shell, Fletcher using it as a shield as he weathered the gunfire. He drew his sidearm from its holster on his hip, aiming it around the body, firing blind. It was a monster of a handgun, its barrel packed with dense coils. Xipa suspected that it would probably break an unaugmented person’s wrist.
The Bug had to dive out of the way as the slugs zipped past it, the loud cracks echoing through the forest. It was enough to give Fletcher time to throw the smoking body aside, taking more careful aim with his sidearm, Xipa watching as he filled his target with holes.
Gustave skidded to a stop beside Ruza, dragging him away from the flames, even the furious Borealan unable to resist his strength. Bluejay covered them, walking backwards, keeping his rifle trained on the trees ahead. Xipa was still standing atop the Krell’nay’s shoulder, surveying the scene from her high perch.
Through the smoke and the dense foliage, she picked out movement, the flamethrower-wielding Drone stepping into view. The raging flames reflected in its compound eyes, the creature pulling back one of its arms as it prepared to throw something. With all the interference, Bluejay hadn’t seen it yet, and Gustave was too busy helping Ruza to notice.
“Grenade!” she shouted, but too late. There was a flash of green light, her stomach lurching as she was tossed through the air. The wind was knocked out of her as she landed hard in the bushes, rolling to a stop. When she recovered enough to sit up, she glanced around, trying to get her bearings. She didn’t know where she was – every part of this damned forest looked the same, and the smoke limited her visibility to only a few meters in any direction. Struggling to her feet, she raised her XMR, her heart racing as she pointed its barrel into the choking smog. Her eyes darted up to the top left of her visor, but her helmet had been damaged, the camera feeds showing nothing but static. The IFF system wasn’t working either, the usual blue markers that showed the positions of her teammates now absent.
A stab of cold fear pierced her heart like an icicle as she considered that she was alone. Her rational mind told her that her companions couldn’t be more than a few paces away, but she felt like she was drowning in dark water with no idea of which direction to swim.
Movement disturbed the smoke to her left, Xipa seeing the masked Bug stepping through the licking flames out of the corner of her eye. It scrutinized her through those pitiless, compound visors, the segmented tube that hung from its face swinging with its halting gait. It raised the charred nozzle of its weapon, Xipa staring down the fleshy barrel as a green pilot light ignited. She tried to swing her gun around, but there was no time. She was supposed to come back here as a conqueror – she was supposed to take revenge. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.
Fletcher came striding out of the smoke to the Drone’s right, his handgun raised, dumping its magazine into the creature. It slumped to the ground, Fletcher putting a few more slugs into its motionless body for good measure, the coils that lined the barrel glowing red-hot.
“You good?” he asked, turning his opaque visor towards her. She nodded her head, releasing a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in. “Come on,” he added, holstering his weapon. He swung his XMR back into his hands on its sling, turning towards the flames. “We have to get out of here. If the noise doesn’t bring more of them, the smoke will.”
***
They marched away from the rising plume of dark smoke, stopping to tend to Ruza’s wound as soon as they dared. He had fastened a tourniquet around his thigh as a stopgap measure to stem the bleeding – a belt-like device with a mechanical tightening system – and Gustave was carrying him in his arms. He set down the injured feline beneath a tree, then joined Bluejay, the pair keeping watch as Ruza opened up one of his medical kits. He put on a pair of elbow-length gloves, then tore the hole in his pressure suit a little wider. The material was soaked with dark blood, Xipa’s stomach knotting as she saw the two-inch cut where the blade had pierced his tanned skin.
“How bad is it?” Fletcher asked, watching as Ruza inspected the wound with some kind of handheld scanning device.
“It went straight through,” he replied, his face paler than Xipa had ever seen it. He must have lost a lot of blood. “It missed the bone, but nicked a vein. My blood pressure is adapted for far higher gravity than this. My own heartbeat would have bled me dry in minutes if I did not have the tourniquet on hand.”
He produced the canister of foam that Xipa had seen him use on Gustave’s bullet wound, baring his sharp teeth as he forced the nozzle into the hole, provoking a fresh bleed. He stifled a growl of pain, filling the wound channel, shuddering as the antiseptic foam expanded inside him. With unsteady hands, he reached into another pouch on his chest rig, pulling out a roll of what looked like tape. They were sticky bandages of some kind, the feline tearing them off the roll in strips. He placed them carefully over the open wound, cleaning away a little of the foam that was leaking out, stained pink with his blood. There were tabs on the sticky strips, and he pulled them taut, closing up the jagged tear. He did the same on the exit wound, then covered them both in an antiseptic patch. Next, he stabbed himself in the thigh with some kind of hypodermic needle, wincing as he injected its contents. When he was satisfied, he lay back against the tree, his breathing shallow.
“I must rest,” he grumbled, wrapping his jacket more tightly around himself. “Fetch my sleeping bag from my pack, if you would…”
Fletcher knelt by the pack, detaching the roll of fabric and tossing it to him. He draped it over himself, then appeared to fall asleep, his breathing becoming more regular.
“Will he be alright?” Xipa asked.
“Ruza knows what he’s doing,” Fletcher said, sitting down on a nearby root. “If he needed us to poke him with a stick in an hour to make sure he’s not dead, he’d have told us.”
Gustave lumbered over, leaning down to brush his scaly snout against Ruza’s face, the grumpy feline batting him away.
“He’s fine, Gustave,” Fletcher said with a wave of his hand. “Leave him be.”
The reptile rumbled affirmatively, then flopped down onto his belly, the impact sending a ripple through his chubby underside.
“Are we stopping here for the night?” Bluejay asked, resting his rifle over his shoulder.
“Might as well,” Fletcher replied, reaching into his pack for an MRE. “Ruza’s in no state to keep going, and I think he’ll die of shame if Gustave keeps carrying him. You’re on first watch, Bug boy.”
Bluejay sighed, then nodded, his wings buzzing as he rose up into the canopy.
Fletcher tore open a food packet, inserting it into a flameless ration heater, shaking it to get it cooking. He set it on a stump within arm’s reach, watching as it started to smoke.
“Eat something,” he said, gesturing to Xipa’s pack.
“My appetite has left me,” she grumbled. She slipped off her helmet, then shook out her headdress, turning the device over in her hands. The muscular feather sheaths that were wrapped around her forearms snaked out of the sleeves of her suit, Xipa using them to hold the helmet while she popped open its service panel with her hands. Fletcher seemed amused by the sight. His people lacked sheaths, so perhaps he hadn’t imagined that they could be used in such a way.
“I don’t care if you’re hungry or not,” he chided, ripping open a cereal bar with his teeth. “You’re not eating for pleasure, you’re eating to keep your strength up. Not that Valbarans ever eat for pleasure, judging by the garbage they put in your rations,” he added with a chuckle. “Seriously, that’s an order.”
“Very well,” she grumbled, fiddling with the tiny wires. “I must see to my helmet first.”
“What’s up with it?”
“It was damaged when I was thrown from Gustave’s back,” she explained, narrowing her eyes at the exposed circuits. “I believe some of the connectors may have been knocked loose. Anything that could have done permanent damage to it would probably have killed me in the process.”
“Yeah, that fight didn’t really go the way I planned,” he said as he flexed his mechanical fingers. He extended his blade, the sudden sound of metal on metal making Xipa flinch. There were still flecks of insect blood on it, Fletcher wiping the flat of the blade on his leg. “Those Bugs don’t fight like any Bugs I’ve ever encountered before. They’re smarter. They lay down suppressive fire, they cover each other. I’m used to them just charging straight into gunfire.”
“You…fought well,” she continued, keeping her eyes fixed on her helmet. “It was an impressive display.”
“Praise from the Ensi,” he said sarcastically. “You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Thank you,” she added, a flush of pink passing through her headdress. “You saved my life today. I would have…that thing would have burned me alive if you had not stepped in when you did.”
“Just doing my job,” he replied, his blade sliding back into his wrist. “It isn’t the way you imagined it, is it?”
“What?” Xipa asked, her feathers flashing a surprised yellow.
“I think we have more in common than you realize,” he said as he lifted his ration heater. It was steaming, but the heat was no concern for his polymer hands. “I see a little of myself in you. The person I used to be, at least.”
“I doubt that we have much in common,” she scoffed, examining an unplugged ribbon cable.
“You told me that I couldn’t understand what it’s like to lose a flock, but I’ve lost squadmates, I’ve seen good friends die. Sometimes, fighting can be an escape from that. It keeps you busy, doesn’t give you time to think – to dwell on things for too long. Being angry can feel better than being sad.” She glanced up at him, Fletcher stirring his meal with a plastic spoon. “I would put myself in danger because I thought I was being brave, when really, I was just running from my problems. I tried to always stay ahead of them, because it was easier to fight to the brink of death than to actually deal with everything I had seen – everything I had done.”
“You think that is what I am doing?” Xipa asked. Her tone was as venomous as ever, but she wasn’t sure what she was feeling now.
“It’s too late for me,” he continued with a dry smile, wiggling his prosthetic fingers. “Not just because of the augs, but because I burned all my bridges, I made war my identity. I pushed away everyone who might have been able to help me because that would mean facing it all head-on. I can’t go back now, this is what I am, but you can still choose not to cross that line when you come to it.”
“What line?”
“You want to fight, you want revenge,” he explained over a spoonful of beans. “That might not be what you need, though. Have you considered that you might get to the end of this campaign and feel exactly the same as you do now?”
“Nonsense,” she replied, turning her eye back to her helmet. “My feelings are irrelevant. I am here to do a job, to right a wrong. We crushed the insects in orbit, and we will crush them on the ground, too. We will sweep them off the face of Kerguela and build new cities atop their bones. In time, their occupation will be considered nothing more than a lapse – a blip in the colony’s history. Do I seek revenge? Yes, I would be lying if I said otherwise. That is secondary to my purpose here, however.”
“That won’t bring them back, though,” Fletcher added.
His words stung more than she had anticipated, but she quickly turned her mind to other things, distracting herself from the unpleasant thoughts. She plugged one of the ribbon cables into its socket, seeing the glow of the HUD bleeding out of the helmet. When she slotted it back onto her head, she saw that the IFF tags were working again, as were the feeds from the other cameras. She could see Bluejay perched in the branches some distance away, a serial number in Earth’nay text floating above his head.
“Fixed it,” she said with a satisfied flurry of green. Solving problems always made her feel better.
“Good. Now you can eat,” Fletcher replied. He seemed to have realized that a change of subject was in order. She took off her helmet and returned it to her belt, then reached for her pack reluctantly. “I can’t sit here and watch you suck down another one of those fucking insect protein bars,” Fletcher said, Xipa pausing. “Here,” he continued, tossing her a large packet of food. She snatched it out of the air, finding it unexpectedly heavy.
“What is it?” she asked skeptically, turning it over in her hands as she examined the plastic pouch. “Do you expect me to eat Earth’nay food?”
“And maybe take inspiration from it, yeah,” he said with a nod. “If you can convince politicians to build space stations, you can probably convince them to give their troops a decent meal, too.”
She opened the packaging, having seen Fletcher and Ruza do the same many times, finding several smaller packets inside.
“I don’t know what any of this is,” she sighed.
“Can’t you read English?” Fletcher asked. “I thought you guys had photographic memories or something?”
“I cannot read Earth’nay script, no,” she replied with a flutter of irritated red. “The Galaxy does not revolve around Earth, you know.”
“Sure looks like it does from where I’m standing,” he chuckled. “The big one is the main course. I gave you the number five menu – shredded beef in barbecue sauce. You’ll like it. I’ve got chicken, too, but I thought that might be a little too close to cannibalism.”
“I don’t know what a chicken is, so I will assume that is a compliment,” she grumbled.
“It isn’t,” he said with a grin. “Don’t open the packet yet. You gotta cook it first. See that brown pouch – the one that’s empty? Put the packet in there, then fill it with water, but only up to the dotted line. That’ll activate the heating element.”
She did as he advised, pouring some water from her canteen into the pouch, folding over the top as it began to steam. While she waited for it to cook, she fished out a bar from the MRE, holding it up so that Fletcher could see it.
“What is this?”
“Chocolate,” he replied. “It’s derived from an Earth plant. I dunno what Valbarans eat, but if you have a sweet tooth, you’ll probably like it.”
“Sweet tooth?” she mumbled to herself, but the meaning was obvious enough. She tore off the wrapper, seeing an unappetizing, brown substance beneath. After an experimental sniff, she took a small bite, finding it a little softer than it had looked. A sweet, nutty flavor spread across her tongue, accompanied by a flurry of pleased green in her feathers.
“Does green mean happy or disgusted?” Fletcher asked, watching her curiously.
“It is…an interesting flavor,” she replied, taking another bite. “There is nothing quite like this on Valbara. Not to my knowledge, at least. Not that I’ve had much time for sampling delicacies as of late.”
“Why not?” Fletcher asked, scraping the last of his meal from the bottom of its packet. “You’re an Ensi, right? Isn’t that like a mayor or a president or something?”
“An Ensi oversees the day-to-day operations of her city, as well as military affairs in times of war. I suppose we are roughly the equivalent of your admirals. Keep in mind that Ensi usually operate in flocks, however. My…unusual lifestyle means that I must take on the work of many.”
“And everyone is fine with that?” Fletcher asked, fishing in his MRE for his next course.
“Consensus is valued greatly among my people,” she explained, pausing to take another bite of her chocolate bar. “The more individuals weigh in on a decision, the wiser it becomes. The Ensi are one of the few who can be trusted to make a decision on their own, as their many duties often require flocks to split up and travel to different areas of the city. It is considered a burden to be separated from one’s flockmates for any duration of time, but it is a burden that they must shoulder as part of their responsibilities. As such, a lone Ensi is not too much of a stretch. I had advisors and assistants, naturally,” she continued as she returned the rest of the bar to the MRE. It was too large for her to eat in one sitting. “Still, it was an uphill battle to prove my competence. My opponents were quick to label me as unstable, emotionally disturbed.”
“It worked, clearly,” Fletcher said as he gestured to her with a fork. “You ended up in the captain’s chair of a flagship rather than in a padded cell.”
“Coupled with my work on the stations and the new ship designs, I had very little time for recreation,” she continued. She reached for the steaming food packet, giving it an experimental prod with her finger to see if it had cooked through yet. “I like to keep myself busy, and the work was of the utmost importance, so I welcomed it.”
“You haven’t taken a day off in thirty years, have you?”
She didn’t reply, reaching into the warm pouch to retrieve her meal. When she tore it open, the scent of cooked meat wafted to her nose, setting her mouth watering. She was brought straight back to the seasonal feasts on Valbara – one of the few times that fresh meat was available in abundance. It was downright decadent that the Earth’nay ate it for every meal, and she was certain that it was procured through less than ethical means. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to turn it down when it was being offered to her so readily, not even to spite Fletcher.
Picking up a plastic fork – which was too large for her hands – she reached into the steaming packet. Inside were shredded strips of meat drizzled in some kind of orange, gooey sauce. It didn’t look terribly appetizing, certainly nothing like the grilled Geu’tra breast meat that she favored, but the scent enticed her to bring the fork to her mouth. The dish was both sweet and savory, the flavors complementing the meat, her headdress breaking out in green and yellow hues as she went in for another mouthful.
“You’ve gone green again,” Fletcher noted, a satisfied smile on his face. “Better than eating all your food in bar form, right?”
“Your cuisine is better than your music, I’ll give you that,” she replied as she licked her scaly lips. “Then again, one would have to make a conscious effort to spoil good meat.”
They finished their meals, Xipa sampling a little of each of the dishes in the MRE. There were beans that were almost as meaty as the beef, some kind of energy bar that tasted sickly-sweet and gritty to her, and a dry disk of grain called a cracker that did little other than cover her suit in crumbs. There was a small packet containing a viscous substance called peanut butter that stuck to the roof of her mouth like glue, much to Fletcher’s amusement.
It wasn’t long before Bluejay returned, landing in the dry leaves nearby with a crunch. His entrance disturbed Gustave, the Krell exhaling through his snout in a snort of disapproval before rolling onto his side. The reptile scratched his scaly belly with one of his clawed hands, making a sound like a knife being dragged across old leather.
The insect made his way over to join them, having finished his watch, Fletcher greeting him with a wave of his polymer hand.
“Might want to announce yourself before you drop in like that, Bug boy,” he joked. “You’re liable to get mistaken for a roach, and some of us have trigger fingers that move faster than our brains.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, giving Fletcher a smile that even Xipa could tell was false.
“Let’s give your helmet radio a test,” Fletcher added, turning to Xipa. “Better make sure it’s working before we set out again.”
She nodded, his meaning obvious enough, slotting her helmet back onto her head. She slid her feather sheaths into the tubes that hung from the back, then switched to a private channel with Fletcher, who was sliding down his visor.
“Does it bother you that Bluejay never gets angry?” he asked. “I’ve seen you two interact – you treat him like dirt, but he always responds with a smile. There’s something off about him.”
“We have spoken briefly on the subject,” she replied. “He told me of how his father taught him to always be polite and cooperative, and that his kind are burdened with making a good first impression due to the negative perception towards Betelgeusians.”
“I don’t care if his dad told him he’s the reincarnation of Mahatma fucking Gandhi, it’s not natural to just take shit from people with a smile,” Fletcher muttered. “If there’s really any human blood in him, he should get angry sometimes, he should defend himself.”
“I do not care what he does or what he feels as long as he remains cooperative,” Xipa replied. “I would have him be subservient rather than combative.”
“It doesn’t sit right with me,” Fletcher said, turning to watch the Bug through his opaque visor. Bluejay was settling in between two raised roots, preparing to sleep, both pairs of arms crossed. “He’s got a fake face and a fake attitude.”
“I objected to his presence from the moment I saw him,” Xipa added. “If you mean to get rid of him…”
“Hey, he’s still a member of the team,” Fletcher warned. “If you’re thinking about fragging him, you’d better drop that idea.”
“What is fragging?” she asked, repeating the unfamiliar word in Fletcher’s accent.
“Fragging is when you knock off an ally on purpose – kill them intentionally. Used to happen a lot back when we still had conscription. Giving a guy a box of grenades and then treating him like shit is a bad idea – who knew?”
“Nothing so dramatic,” she protested. “I would merely have suggested sending him back to the carrier.”
“We couldn’t do that, even if I agreed with you,” Fletcher sighed. “We’re on our own out here. We can’t send signals to the fleet without the risk of the Bugs picking them up, not until we get to the city and secure a landing zone for a shuttle. Besides, I want Bluejay here. Vos was right – he always is – that Bug has saved our asses more than once.”
“I suppose he is useful,” Xipa conceded.
“I’m going to keep an eye on him,” Fletcher added, glancing over at the sleeping insect again. “I trust him to do his job – he’s already proven that he can kill Bugs – but I don’t buy this sunshine and rainbows shit.”
He rose to his feet, raising his rifle.
“I’ll take this watch,” he said. “Go get some shuteye while there’s time.”
***
Ruza tested his leg, putting his weight on it tentatively, gripping a low-hanging branch to support himself.
“How is it?” Fletcher asked. “You going to be able to walk out of here on your own?”
“I am accustomed to pain,” he growled, taking a few experimental steps. “I can still fulfill my duties.”
“Just don’t push yourself too hard,” Fletcher warned, adjusting the straps on his pack. “Right, let’s keep moving. Bluejay, I want you up in the air again. Keep an eye out for the city. We can’t be far off now. Keep one eye on our backs, too. I know the Bugs won’t have ignored that giant plume of smoke we created yesterday.”
“We should make our pace brisk,” Ruza added, taking a few limping steps. “If our enemies do not need to rest, then we need to put the city walls between them and us as soon as we are able.”
“And, we’re sure that the place isn’t going to be overrun when we get there?” Fletcher asked. “I know that we didn’t see any activity in the cities from orbit, but it seems odd to me that the Bugs would just ignore them. I guess they’ve had time enough to strip all of the resources they wanted.”
“Bugs spend the majority of their lives below ground,” Bluejay explained. “They build fortifications on the surface, maybe some infrastructure, but that’s about it. I doubt they’d have any use for an abandoned city.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Fletcher muttered. “Come on then, let’s get moving.”
Gustave leaned down to let Xipa jump up onto his back, and she took her usual perch on his shoulder, the reptile lumbering along as the team moved out.