“It’s definitely broadcasting information,” Vos said as he examined the holographic readout. The forest far below the observation deck was standing still, the carrier hovering in a stationary orbit above the antenna site, its railgun arrays trained on the ground. “It’s broadcasting at frequencies that can traverse solid rock, probably so that they can communicate below ground in their tunnels. The sites are all linked, and they’re sending coded messages back and forth. This is a primitive planetary communication network.”
“I didn’t think the Bugs were capable of something like that,” Fielding muttered. “That means they have total coverage – they can coordinate their operations globally.”
“Not for long,” Vos added.
“Do we have any idea what kind of messages they’re sending? Can we decode their comms?”
“The Jarilans have been working on that,” Vos replied. “We should probably check in with them before we proceed.”
With a few taps at the display on his wrist, he put in a call through to the Constancy. The feed flickered for a moment before a familiar, insectoid face appeared, its chitin plates shifting as it spoke.
“What can we do for you, Admiral?” she asked in a voice that sounded remarkably human. Trying not to get distracted by her branching horn and her ruff of silvery fur, he cleared his throat, straightening up. He wasn’t actually sure whether this was their equivalent of a ship’s captain, a comms operator, or just the pilot.
“I wanted to know whether your people had made any headway with the Kerguelan radio signals,” he said.
“One moment,” she replied, appearing to interact with what must be some kind of console below frame for a few seconds. He could see just enough of her thorax to make out both her upper and lower pairs of arms moving in tandem. “We have determined that the signals being broadcast by the antennas are coded pheromones. These chemical signals are being converted into an electrical impulse and transmitted through the electromagnetic spectrum, where they are then decoded by the receiver. This is a system not unlike the biological computer systems that we employ.”
“Is there any way that you can interpret these signals?” Vos asked. “Maybe we can figure out what they’re saying to each other, piggyback on their comms.”
“Betelgeusian pheromone languages are different from spoken languages,” she began. “There are thousands of scents that can convey anything ranging from raw emotions to complex concepts like mathematics or astronavigation. Having never encountered another hive before, we do not actually know if our language is universal or whether it undergoes divergence and evolution along with the physical properties of a hive. Our guess is that simpler concepts like emotions and signaling pheromones that point to food or tunnel entrances are universal, while more advanced concepts develop along with the hive. This is something we hope to clarify during the operation.”
“What about the signals themselves?” Fielding asked. “Are they encrypted?”
“Not as such,” she replied, turning her strange eyes on him. “It is not that we require a cipher, but without an example of a receiver, we cannot interpret the data accurately. Their technology is alien to us.”
“Perhaps we should try to capture one of the antennas intact,” Fielding suggested, but Vos shook his head.
“I think denying them the ability to communicate is more important. We’ll recover what we can from the site, but the priority should be disabling the antenna. If they have no other means of coordinating across the planet, we’ll be severely reducing the Queen’s ability to respond to threats.”
“Understood,” the Jarilan said. “Will there be anything else, Admiral?”
“That will be all for now,” he replied, the insect nodding respectfully before closing the feed. “Captain, have your railguns target the coordinates of the antenna. Our scans show that it runs deep underground, but we only need to destroy the associated facilities to disable it. There is minimal risk of environmental damage, so feel free to turn the entire area into a smoldering crater.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Fielding said enthusiastically. He opened a line to the Rorke’s weapons officer, audio-only. “Chief Petty Officer, target the antenna and have your operators fire when ready – full artillery barrage. I want that facility leveled.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Firing for effect.”
There was a momentary delay, then the downwards-facing railguns that hung from the belly of the carrier began to turn, a dozen of them pointing their long barrels at the clouds below. From their underslung observation deck, Vos and Fielding had an admirable view, the prow of the vessel extending ahead of them like an armored ceiling. The men watched the guns begin to fire, rocking back in their housings as they absorbed the recoil. The projectiles moved so quickly that they weren’t visible, save for the meteor-like streaks that they left when they entered the atmosphere. Moments later, there were faint flashes from the planet’s surface, Vos watching through the glass beneath his feet. The ventral guns kept firing, their barrages perfectly timed, heat buildup starting to make their rails glow red.
When the fire subsided, Fielding brought up a view of the ground below, manipulating the controls to enhance the magnification. The antenna had been built in a mountainous area, presumably to leverage the terrain for their transmitters. It took the form of a ring of tower-like structures that spanned a mile-wide area. The clearing inside the circle had been filled with clusters of buildings, which were now completely gone, the craters created by the Rorke’s railguns transforming the area into a moonscape. A nearby mountainside had completely collapsed under the barrage, partially burying the site.
“I would call that effective fire,” Vos said, one corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Looks like they’ve stopped broadcasting. Once the other sites are down, the Queen will be blind and deaf to what’s happening in other regions of her colony. That’s the weakness of a heavily centralized command structure.”
“Divide and conquer,” Fielding added with a nod. “Soon, the real ground war can begin.”
“As soon as our enemies actually reveal themselves,” Vos muttered. “The attacks on their infrastructure have so far gone unopposed. We captured all of their anchors, we’ve torched a dozen farms, and we just took out their comms. What’s it going to take to get them to react?”
“Do you think the anchors are secure enough to use as temporary FOBs?” Fielding asked. “We could use them as staging areas, start looking for nearby entrances to the tunnel network. They were massive complexes, they can’t have been built too far away from the Bug highways.”
“Temporary? Yes,” Vos replied. “I still don’t want to hold any territory long-term, it’s not worth the investment, but there’s no point redeploying the battalions that are already on station. Would you do me a favor and call our Jarilan friends again? Have them start dispatching auxiliaries to assist in the search.”
“Of course, Admiral,” Fielding replied.
“I’m afraid that if I keep the Ensi waiting any longer, she’s going to start breaking things,” he muttered as he made his way to the exit.
***
“The admiral says you’re welcome to anything in the armory,” Fletcher said, turning a wheel-shaped handle on the door. Xipa heard the click of the lock, then it swung ajar, revealing the Rorke’s main armory. It was larger than she had expected, the walls lined with weapon racks and shelves full of attachments. Sitting on the deck were tables where people could service and modify their equipment, many of them already sporting partially assembled rifles.
The other members of the team filed in behind her, already knowing where they were headed, fanning out into the room to collect what were probably their personal weapons from different racks. She trailed after Fletcher, not really knowing what she was supposed to do next. He noticed that she wasn’t picking out any of the guns, turning to face her, his prosthetic arms crossed.
“You ever build an XMR before?”
“I’m aware of the XMR,” she replied, eyeing the rows of polymer rifles. “Our Commandos have begun to adopt the platform. Personally, I’ve always preferred the handling of a laser rifle, so…I’ve never fired one.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any laser rifles,” he replied sarcastically. “We could send for one and have it delivered from your ship if you want to delay the-”
“No, no,” she grumbled with a frustrated flush of purple feathers. “Show me.”
“There’s a little firing range at the back,” he added, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “You can test it out there. Come on, let me show you how to work them.”
She followed him over to one of the racks, where there were rows of disassembled weapons.
“These are the frames,” he began, picking one of them up. “They come in small, medium, and large. The acronym means X-species Modular Rifle, because it’s intended to be used by all Coalition species without requiring separate parts. That way, everyone can share mags, attachments, scopes, and all that. For you, we’ll go with a small,” he said as he passed the frame to her. It was surprisingly light, made from some kind of tough polymer, but it was little more than a grip and a mag well. It fit her hands well, clearly made for someone of her stature.
“I’m thinking laser rifles are probably low-recoil, without a lot of effective range,” Fletcher mused as he scratched his hairy chin. “We can aim for something that handles about the same, but even low-recoil for a railgun is…recoil,” he added.
“Depends what you mean by effective range,” Xipa said defensively.
“The reason we don’t use laser weapons is because they scatter off every droplet of water and mote of dust in their path, losing half of their energy before they even reach their target,” he explained. “The average XMR configuration can fire over the horizon.”
“Just show me how to build this thing,” she sighed.
“Might as well give you a crash course in how the gun works while we’re at it,” he continued, leading her over to a stack of shelves full of stocks. “Your stock is where your battery is housed. Bigger battery equals more juice, but also more weight. You want a nice thick pad on there, too. Trust me. The small ones are…” Fletcher paused, chuckling to himself. “Some joker put them on the top shelf. Here, I’ll get it for you.”
Xipa’s feathers flushed an embarrassed pink as he reached for the attachment, handing it to her. Before he had time to explain how it attached, she had figured it out, slotting it in behind the mag well with a satisfying click. She braced it against her shoulder, testing it, the soft pad cushioning the hard material.
“You got it. Next comes the barrel. A longer barrel means more coils, which translates to more range and more stopping power. In your case, you’re not used to a lot of range, so let’s go with something a bit shorter. It’ll make it easier to handle, too.”
“I was fighting Betelgeusians while you were still in an incubator,” she replied, flashing him a stern look. “I do not need to be coddled.”
“These things kick like mules. I’m not calling you weak,” he grumbled. “Just how old are you, anyway? I can’t tell.”
“I was nineteen when Kerguela fell,” she replied.
“That would make you nearly fifty,” he added, looking her up and down. Xipa didn’t know enough about human facial expressions to tell what he was thinking.
“My people live for upwards of a hundred and twenty rotations,” she explained. “I am not yet so frail that I cannot keep up with an Earth’nay.”
“Good, because we don’t have any tactical mobility scooters onboard,” he replied with a chuckle.
“Scooters would not work in the forest,” she explained. “The terrain is too rough.”
He gave her a questioning look, giving her the impression that they were speaking at crossed purposes. After a moment, he shrugged to himself, then led her over to the other side of the room. He examined shelves full of barrels for a moment, then turned back around.
“Hey, Bug!” Fletcher shouted. The insect was in the process of assembling a weapon on one of the benches, using all four of his arms in a way that set Xipa’s teeth on edge. He paused what he was doing, glancing over at the Earth’nay. “You use a small frame, right? What barrel do you recommend for low recoil that still has more stopping power than an XMH?”
The insect seemed irritated to be addressed in such a way, but when he spoke, it was with a friendly tone.
“Yeah, I use a small. Try a C-three. Good stopping power at intermediate range, very controllable.”
Fletcher searched for the correct label, then pulled one of the barrels from the shelf, handing it to her. It was maybe four inches long, packed with copper-colored magnetic coils, surprisingly heavy as she weighed it in her hand. She figured out how to attach it quickly, the weapon starting to take shape.
Next, he introduced Xipa to the various attachments such as sights, forward grips, and lasers. Apparently, the Earth’nay did make use of laser technology, but primarily for targeting. They attached via an intuitive rail system that was present at various points on the frame, and before long, her weapon was ready to fire. There were several magazines to choose from, which were different from what she was used to. A laser rifle would fire until its battery died, but a railgun used a battery to power its electronic components as well as a magazine that fed ammunition to the weapon. She selected a drum-shaped magazine, then quickly switched to a much smaller twenty-round version when she realized how heavy the tungsten slugs were. Her sight of choice was a scope that resembled those used on the laser rifles that she was accustomed to, with two different magnification modes.
“Looks like you’re ready to go,” Fletcher said, appraising her creation as she lifted it off the bench. They had found her a suitable crate to stand on so that she could reach, but she wasn’t about to let that get to her. “Come on, let’s test it out on the range.”
He led her to the back of the room, where there were five booths separated by transparent dividers. Each one had a small desk where one could rest their weapon or change attachments, and behind those was the range. It was small, even by Valbaran standards, squashed down to fit into whatever space was available on the carrier. The paper targets were only maybe twenty meters away, and the back wall was built up with some kind of protective padding to catch the slugs.
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“Vos made sure we got outfitted with the new models,” Fletcher began, gesturing to a small display on her weapon’s receiver just above the safety. “You can dial the voltage up or down depending on how much oomf you need. Highest setting is two kilometers per second, lowest is two hundred and fifty meters per second. You can go subsonic with low recoil, or you can punch through two and a half inches of steel if you think your shoulder can take it. Give it a try.”
Xipa braced the weapon against her shoulder, looking through the scope at one of the targets. She was amused to see that there was a Betelgeusian printed on it. After her injury, she had been forced to change her dominant hand so that she could still use a rifle, but rotations of practice had made it second nature. She squeezed the foregrip beneath the barrel, testing the weight and balance of the weapon. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge – it felt good in her hands.
“Make sure you have it set to semi-auto,” Fletcher advised as he stood behind her booth. “Burst mode could be good, too. It’ll fire off three rounds before you really have a chance to feel the recoil.”
Xipa tweaked the settings and zeroed her scope, then switched off the safety feature. The Earth’nay only had ten characters to represent their numbers, which made them very easy to remember, even if she had never cared to learn their script. She squeezed the trigger, a loud crack reverberating off the narrow walls as the stock rocked into her shoulder, Xipa having to brace herself to keep her balance. Three rounds punched holes in the target, slamming into the padding on the far wall.
“How did that feel?” Fletcher chuckled.
“Good,” she replied breathlessly, unable to suppress a flutter of surprised yellow. “I do not know what a mule is, but they must be fearsome beasts if they kick like this.”
“Oh, yeah,” he replied with a grin. “Apex predators. Maybe dial it down a bit to make it easier to control. Even at lower voltages, it’s gonna turn a Bug to fucking paste.”
She followed his advice, then tried again, finding the weapon easier to manage. It had limitations compared to a laser rifle, but there were certain advantages, too. Her instinct was to hold the rifle on her target, but projectile weapons didn’t work that way. It took some getting used to. After a few more shots, she found a comfortable voltage, the coils on the barrel starting to glow beneath their protective shroud as she lowered it.
“It will suffice,” she declared, dropping the empty magazine into her hand.
“We’ll get you set up with a carrier that you can wear over your suit,” Fletcher said. “Pretty sure Valbaran Commando helmets can interface with these systems wirelessly, too. Might need to run a software update for that. It can display your ammo count on your HUD, your charge level, picture-in-picture scope – stuff like that.”
Xipa turned to see what the rest of the team was doing. The one that called himself Bluejay had finished assembling his weapon, built on the same frame as her own, but modified into something that more resembled a precision rifle. The barrel was longer, the scope had a higher magnification, and there were two forward grips to accommodate his four arms. Gustave was wielding something altogether different, however. As she watched, the Krell dragged something out of a corner, heavy even in the alien’s powerful arms. It deposited what looked like an engine block on one of the tables, making it shake, a long belt of ammo clattering as it trailed onto the deck.
“That’s a chaingun,” Fletcher explained, following her gaze. “The tri-barrel design helps with cooling, stops the coils from getting so hot that they slag. It feeds the same ammo they use in anti-materiel railguns from a belt.”
“The Krell’nay carry this weapon into battle?” she marveled, watching as the alien spun the barrel with his scaly hand.
“Just Gustave,” Fletcher replied. “Word is, he pulled it off a disabled Kodiak, and nobody dared ask for it back. That’s probably not completely true, since someone has clearly modified it so he can carry it more easily, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”
As she watched, Gustave turned back to one of the lockers, pulling out what looked like two slabs of metal attached by a tube of fabric. Before she could ask what its purpose was, the alien slipped his left arm into it like a sleeve, tightening straps above his bulging bicep and on his forearm to secure it. It was some kind of armor, split into two angular slabs that were covered over with the same protective fabric that his poncho was made from. She had seen Krell’nay use shields before, so perhaps this was a way to add some supplemental armor while still allowing the alien to hoist his immense gun. Next, he pulled out a cylinder the size of a fuel drum, throwing it onto his back. He secured it with straps like a rucksack, adjusting their tightness until it was snug against his scutes. The thing was large enough that it looked like an Earth’nay could comfortably sit inside it. It was only when he attached the ammunition belt to it that she realized it was intended to feed the weapon.
Gustave lifted the chaingun again, letting out a satisfied huff. It seemed that he was ready. Even as large as he was, it seemed impossible that a living thing could carry all of that weight. Now, she better understood why Vos had assigned him to the mission. It was like bringing a light vehicle along with them.
Ruza was holding a long rifle in his furry hands, the same kind that she had seen other Borealans wield. It was a large frame with a barrel that must have been two meters long, densely packed with coils. On its tip was a long bayonet that was more like a sword to Xipa, its wicked edge lined with serrated teeth.
Fletcher was the last to collect his weapon, which was already assembled. It was a medium frame configured as a battle rifle, what looked like a secondary barrel mounted beneath the first. It had a second trigger, too, along with a canister that projected out from beneath it.
“What is that?” she asked, gesturing to the odd device.
“Under-barrel plasma launcher,” he replied, giving it an affectionate pat. “This baby’ll take down a Bug’s shield in one hit, no need to waste time swapping between firing modes. Come on,” he added. “We’ll get that carrier set up for you.”
“Excuse me,” the insect suddenly said, pulling a tablet computer from the pocket of his coveralls. “I’m being called away. I’ll meet you on the dropship.”
He left the way he had come, Ruza and Fletcher sharing a shrug.
***
The team made their way through the Rorke’s hangar, the strange procession drawing looks from a few of the engineers who were servicing the aircraft nearby. There was a dropship waiting for them, idling on the deck before the gaping maw that was the carrier’s bay door. They mounted the ramp, climbing into crash couches in the troop bay, Xipa shrugging off her pack before hopping up into one of the oversized seats. It had a slot for her tail, at least, even if her clawed feet dangled off the deck. She strapped herself in, setting her XMR down in a slot beside her chair, watching as her bodyguards filed in one after the other. The Earth’nay and the Borealan had no trouble getting seated, while Gustave simply stood in the aisle, reaching up to grip a bulky handhold in the ceiling. He was so large that his oar-like tail trailed all the way to the ramp, his scaly head scraping the roof.
They were securing their helmets now, Fletcher and Ruza wearing similar models with opaque, full-faced visors that obscured their features. Gustave pulled up a hood that was hanging from the collar of his poncho, covering his long snout with it. He was seemingly too large to wear a pressure suit, so the garment protected only his head, sealing at the neck. There was what looked like a rebreather on the end, as well as goggles for the eyes, presumably to protect the wearer from chemical agents. Her own helmet closed like a maw over her head, the HUD flickering to life as she sealed her visor, syncing with her weapon. After the software update that she had downloaded from the Rorke’s servers, it was showing Coalition IFF tags, too. There were icons floating above her teammates, identifying them as friendlies.
The insect was running late. He had vanished back at the armory and had been missing ever since. Had the admiral finally come to his senses and sent the creature away?
To her dismay, she saw him hurrying across the hangar towards them, her visor highlighting him with a tag. His Navy coveralls were gone, revealing that Bluejay was no longer blue. His chitinous carapace had been painted over with streaks of autumn camouflage, matching her own suit and the ceramic armor of her squadmates. It looked as though someone had spray-painted the damned thing like he was a piece of equipment, the same way that one might re-spray the hull of a vehicle prior to a deployment. It was even more unnerving to see the creature uncovered, to see the fleshy joints between the plates of his carapace, a shiver of disgust making her suit panels flush blue.
The carrier that he wore over his torso was similar to her own, a fabric rig with pouches for spare magazines and other sundries. He had his own rucksack, as well as a conspicuous armband that was secured about the bicep of one of his upper arms. She noted that there was a helmet hanging from his belt, too, bouncing as he jogged along. Bluejay mounted the ramp, squeezing past Gustave’s bulk as he made for one of the chairs, the reptile giving him an intimidating rumble that could have been construed as a threat or a greeting. As he sat down, she got a better view of his blue armband. There were patches sewn onto it, one of which sported a UN logo, those below it decorated with Earth’nay script. Perhaps they were name tags or service numbers. Bluejay lifted the helmet, Xipa watching curiously. How would a creature with a horn that sprouted from the middle of his forehead put something like that on?
The helmet separated into two halves in his hands – a faceplate and the helmet proper. The insect slotted the helmet onto his head from behind, a special cutout resting around his horn, then reattached the faceplate to seal it up. Xipa remembered the helmets worn by the Bugs that she had faced in the past, the compound visors furthering their insect appearance. Instead, this model had one continuous visor that ran across its eyes like goggles. The material resembled tinted glass, letting her see some of the alien’s features beneath it. There was a protruding panel that was likely a rebreather placed over the mouth, rising to meet it. It was otherwise similar to those worn by the Earth’nay, probably deliberately so. It was a disguise that did nothing to fool Xipa.
“Why are you orange?” Fletcher asked with a lack of subtlety that Xipa had come to expect from his kind.
“The Constancy sent over a pair of Workers to paint my shell,” Bluejay replied. “It’s for camouflage.”
“Yeah, I gathered that,” Fletcher continued. “I just didn’t expect to see you running around in the nude.”
“I’m not nude,” he replied, rapping his fist against his carapace. “We wear supplemental armor plating that matches our shell. It can be hard for humans to tell where one ends and the other begins, I know, but rest assured that I am fully clothed.”
“I’m not,” a synthetic voice said, translating Gustave’s rumbling into speech. The alien huffed, laughing at his own joke, perhaps.
“Is that shit gonna wash off in the rain?” Fletcher asked skeptically.
“It’s bonded to my exoskeleton,” the insect explained. “It won’t come off until a special chemical solution is applied.”
“Does it…hurt?”
“No, but it tickles when they apply it.”
“Gonna add that to the list of things I didn’t need to know,” Fletcher grumbled. “Right, is everyone ready? Can we get this show on the fucking road?”
He signaled to the pilot, who was sitting in the cockpit behind a dividing door, and the ramp began to close. As it sealed up with a hermetic hiss, the interior of the vessel pressurized, Xipa feeling the chair beneath her start to tremble. The engines spooled up, the craft lifting off the deck, slowly sliding out through the hangar’s force field. Through the narrow portholes in the troop compartment, she could see the bright lights of the carrier fade away, transitioning to velvet black.
“Please stay seated until we touch down,” the pilot said, his voice coming through an intercom system. “The admiral has assigned us a Beewolf escort. They’ll follow us down to the landing site for a little added security.”
Xipa felt her stomach lurch as the dropship began to descend, turbulence following once they hit the atmosphere. An orange glow from the flames that were licking at the hull outside poured in through the portholes, Xipa gripping the oversized armrests of her seat, the sounds of straining metal filling her with the fear that they were about to be shaken apart. Finally, it subsided, the fiery glow giving way to blue skies as the craft began to glide. It circled for a while, shedding the velocity that it had built up during reentry. Each time it banked, Xipa was able to catch a brief glimpse of the red forests below, the sight filling her with a strange blend of emotions.
She was coming home, yet it was a home that no longer existed, like returning to the site of a house that had burnt down to sift through the ashes. What did she hope to find here? Did she really believe that there could be survivors after all this time, or was she clinging to the false hope that what she had once known was not entirely lost? It was too late for introspection…
The familiar browns and oranges of the canopy rose up beyond the windows, the dropship slowly lowering itself to the ground. She felt it bounce as it touched down, then the ramp began to open, the pale light of the system’s binary stars bleeding through. For the rest of the team, this was a routine drop. They waited impatiently as Gustave laboriously turned his bulk around to face the ramp, then sprang out of their seats. They retrieved the packs that held all of their supplies, shouldered their rifles, and hurried out into the sunlight.
Xipa swung her pack over her shoulder, then picked up her unfamiliar weapon, hesitating as she peered through her visor at the forest beyond. The team had spread out to create a perimeter in the clearing, kneeling with their rifles raised. Gustave was standing by the ramp, guarding it like a sentry. Grateful that none of her companions understood the significance of the colors that were flashing across her suit panels, she made her way out of the craft.
She felt the Kerguelan soil between her clawed toes, glancing up above the treetops, the breeze blowing the rust-colored leaves. The blue sky burned with vibrant auroras, and above them, the gas giant – Te’tat’zin – shone like a beacon in the sunlight. The same storms that she remembered studying in school still raged, unchanged in the time that she had been away. Xipa reached up to tap the side of her helmet, her visor popping open, the scents of the forest flooding into her nostrils. A rush of nostalgia overwhelmed her, the aromas bringing back flashes of memories long buried.
The backwash from the dropship’s engines whipped fallen leaves into the air, blowing the shrubs that had made the clearing their home. A sharper, louder noise rose over their low hum, and she turned her snout to the sky to see a Beewolf circling overhead.
Remembering her mission, she hurried to get clear of the dropship. Gustave followed behind her, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground beneath her feet. The craft lifted off, rising on its thrusters until it was high enough to engage its main engines, quickly transitioning to level flight. It began to climb, the Beewolf falling into formation beside it.
They were on their own now, deep inside enemy territory.
“Clear!” Fletcher said, popping open his visor. He took a deep breath, letting his rifle hang by his side. “Fuck, I’d almost forgotten what fresh air tastes like.”
Gustave pulled back his hood, letting it hang down his back, the rest of the team removing their various helmets. They clipped them to their belts and packs, Xipa doing the same. Nobody wanted to march for days with a stifling helmet on.
“We should get moving,” Fletcher added, gesturing to the edge of the clearing. “If any roaches noticed us come down, they’ll be looking for us here. Let’s stay off comms while we can, too. We don’t know if they can detect radio signals. Better safe than sorry.”
Xipa adjusted her pack, then followed after them as they made their way to the trees. They were soon beneath the shade of the canopy, every plant and mushroom sparking recognition in the Ensi. Somehow, she had expected everything to be different. It was still hard to accept that the Betelgeusians didn’t ravage the planets that they captured, driving its species to extinction and destroying the biosphere. She had walked these same forests in her youth, looked up at the same sky, admired the same auroras.
“It’s always forests and jungles,” she heard Fletcher mutter. “We never get to invade a beach planet.”
“The gravity here is even lower than on your carrier,” Ruza grumbled, stumbling a little as he trudged through the dense undergrowth. “I feel as though I may float away.”
Xipa found it far more comfortable. It was only around ten percent lower than the gravity on Valbara. The human ships were oppressive in comparison, making her feel like she was carrying around a pack full of rocks. She had been feeling her age more and more lately, but in this low gravity, she felt positively spry again.
The team walked until the clearing was out of sight, then stopped by the foot of one of the giant trees, the tangled roots breaking through the ground to form twisted knots. Gone were the greens and purples of Valbara’s foliage. Everything here was red, orange, or yellow. Even the fallen leaves that carpeted the naked ground matched the color palette, making it feel as though the canopy extended all the way to the forest floor.
“Where to next?” Fletcher asked, addressing Xipa. “It’s your colony, your signal.”
“Do you humor me?” she asked with a flutter of irritated red.
“Only because Vos told me to,” he replied with a smile.
She brought up the computer on the wrist of her suit, dialing the radio to the old emergency channel. She still remembered the frequency, drilled into her memory during her guard training.
“I have it,” she replied. “It’s due East of us.”
“Lead the way,” Fletcher said.
“I’m going to get a bird’s-eye view of the area,” Bluejay said, stepping away from the group. “See what I can see.”
“Go for it,” Fletcher replied, watching as the creature shrugged off his pack.
Only now, without his coveralls, did Xipa see the two protective pieces of shell on his back. They rose up above his shoulders, opening to reveal a pair of gossamer wings. They looked like shards of broken glass, shimmering in the sunlight, crisscrossed by tiny veins that separated them into individual membranes. She noted that the underside of the protective casings were still blue, having not been painted over with camouflage. The wings began to beat, quickly becoming a blur, blowing away the surrounding leaves. Bluejay rose up into the air, his rifle still in hand, vanishing into the canopy.
“They…can fly?” she asked, her panels flashing a surprised yellow.
“That’s why the males make such good scouts,” Fletcher explained. “It’s like having a surveillance drone on demand. As much as working alongside a roach rubs me the wrong way, I’m kind of glad he’s here.” He stooped to pick up the insect’s pack, throwing it over his shoulder. “Lead on, Ensi.”