---Snow---

---Chreptrii’s perspective---

---[2685, Terran Calendar]/[28 Years BF]---

I walk atop the crust on a [50cm] deep layer of snow.

How the enemy have managed to stay hidden in this forest, when their bodies are so massively dense that the snow forces them to wade through it rather than walk over it, I will never understand!

Winter on Vissitrith is noticeably colder than on my home planet… [2] or [3°C]… not enough to be life threatening but enough for me to feel the chill through my fur.

Three of my hands grip the improvised flag while my fourth reaches, instinctively, for the sidearm I relieved myself of before setting off.

As a career soldier, even before the War, I feel somewhat naked with no weapon but… I just have to keep reminding myself that I’m safer without one, right now!

I enter into a sloped clearing that was, just yesterday, the sight of a crushing battle.

Bloody patches (in every colour) festoon the area… along with the twisted, frozen bodies of hundreds of my brothers and sisters in arms.

I pause a moment, at the edge of the open space, before thrusting the pole over my head and waving it, such that the white sheet billows back and forth.

I think about what else I can do to both make my intensions clear and attract their notice…

“Sons and Daughters of Terra…” I shout in qiQitni “…I have come to parley! I beg of you to hear my words!”

I repeat in Galactic Basic.

…Silence… not that I expected anything else… Of course, if they’re here, if they’re watching, they likely don’t understand what I’m saying at all…

Neural interface translators are not technology that they had developed, preContact. I can only hope that my tone and the banner I’m carrying indicate my intentions.

I wait… and receive no answer.

I lift up a foot and place it forward… only for a plume of snow to be violently thrown up, [30cm] in front of me, followed by the *CRACK* of explosive propulsion, catching up a [half second] later (limited, as it is, by the speed of sound).

[14 years] of soldierly discipline is all that keeps me from shrieking in terror.

I manage to collect my spilled thoughts enough to determine that that shot was not intended to hit me.

[6 years] of grizzly experience inform me that Terran snipers always hit exactly where they mean to!

I think that was a warning.

I continue to stand, stock still, for a few moments longer. No more shots ring out and I’m still breathing.

I wait for what seems like an eternity…

Eventually, I decide that they clearly aren’t willing to talk and so turn to go.

I haven’t got more than 2 paces before I hear the *fszzt**fszzt**fszzt* of projectiles striking the snow behind me, followed by the *crack**crack**crack* of their propellant blasts catching up to them.

Another warning? ‘Don’t leave, things are in motion, have patience’? Is that what they’re trying to convey?

I return my gaze to the incline and continue waiting.

Finally, a chunk of snow breaks itself from a drift and stands.

With powerful footsteps that cleave through the snow, as if it were but mist, the Terran approaches me.

This Terran does not have the physique of a sniper, in my view. Rather, they look like a line breaker! Even compared to other Terrans I’ve seen, there’s an obvious power to the stocky body in matte white armour advancing down the hill.

The [1.8m] soldier draws up to about twice their own height’s distance away from me.

Clipping their rifle to their back, they point at me and do a twirling motion with their finger before placing their arms behind themself.

In answer I take a boxed translator from a pouch on my sash and extend it to them, slowly and carefully letting them see it.

They glance at the translator, then at me, then shake their head from side to side, in a gesture I don’t comprehend, before, once again, jabbing the same finger in my direction, pointing it downward and twirling it, before briefly placing their hands behind their back.

“I don’t understand…” I say, hesitantly “…if you just take the translator we can communicate freely. Why do you insist on this miming?”

I haven’t a hope of being understood by them, of course… Or so I thought…

After a few seconds of staring unnervingly down at me through their blank, expressionless helmet, they reach up and detach it to reveal almost as expressionless a face!

The heavy features, as well as a layer of fur on the lower portion, indicate that this is likely a male.

Most Humans I’ve ever seen, both in reality and recordings, have been wearing those face obscuring helmets but, of those Human faces I have seen, his is extremely unusual!; a broad, proud nose is topped with an extremely prominent brow, with bushy bronze fur that matches that of his head. Unlike the far more common brown, blue, grey or black irides that most Humans have, his are a vivid turquoise. He has a chin that slopes back from his mouth, rather than jutting forward, as would be normal for Humans.

He must be one of these ‘walking-extinct’ subspecies of Humanity that I’ve heard about… I know Humans are extremely heterogenous but this can only be a cousin!

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None of his stark deviations from typical Human facial structure are the most striking thing about his face, however… That would be the horrific burn scar at the left edge of his mouth.

He opens his jaws, to reveal a mangled speech organ that even I (with zero education in deathworld anatomy) can appreciate renders him entirely mute.

“Ah… I understand… You wouldn’t be able to talk to me even if you did put this on, would you?” I sigh “Miming it will have to be, then!”

He replaces his helmet and, slowly, points to me.

“Me…?” I query, gesturing to myself.

The deathworlder bobs his head up and down… could that be a ‘yes’?

He places his arms behind himself first this time… changing the previous order…

Unsure what else to do I mimic him, placing my four arms behind myself.

More enthusiastic headbobbing coupled with an extended fist with an upward thumb… I’m choosing to interpret that positively.

Finally, he points his finger down and spins it… to indicate… something…

I take one of my hands from behind myself to mimic the motion, eliciting a frustrated sigh, audible through his helmet.

Seeming to resign the attempt to make me understand his gestures the man closes the distance between us and, with irresistibly powerful hands, turns me to face away from him.

Ah, I understand, now! The finger twirling was a representational gesture! He meant for me to turn around!… I feel a little foolish for not having understood.

I’m relieved of my sash and roughly frisked by his sinewy hands.

I’ve always known that Terrans were… something else but this is the first time I’ve ever actually felt their strength! He controls my body as easily as I might handle a handful of powdered snow!

Eventually, seeming satisfied that I conceal no weaponry, he pulls my lower arms behind my back and loops his thumb and index finger around my wrists, binding them with that hand while he fumbles for something.

I feel a length of plastic being threaded around where his fingers were and then cinched… Ah, a [ziptie]! A Terran device that allows for quick, easy securement of a potentially resistant individual!

I do not resist as he [zipties] my upper arms behind me, on top of my lowers.

My hands bound, the man rounds my front and looks at me, seeming to consider something.

He reaches behind himself and rips a long strip off of his heavy, white, canvas cloak, as easily as if it were made of paper!

He approaches me with the length of heavy cloth and ties it over my eyes.

My world becomes darkness as he deprives me of my vision.

I feel a solid hand reach to cradle my underside, between my front and back legs.

I’m hoisted into the air before being spun around disorientatingly.

I hear the *crunch**crunch**crunch* of this Terran carrying me away through the snow, though I could not say in what direction.

I turn my head down and beseech my Ancestors to bless my task.

---Fang’s perspective---

“Ow!” exclaims the woman, angrily, as I disinfect her newly empty eye socket.

I cock my brow (not that she can see that) and respond “Oh, my apologies, little girl(!) I thought I was treating decorated war hero and certified badass; Commander Miyazaki(!) I didn’t realise I was actually treating a small child(!)”

Pursing her lips, in a way that lets me know exactly what she thinks of my attempt at comic relief, she asks “Tell me, Doc… how many times have you had an eyeball burst from flashboiled aqueous humour?”

“Zero times…” I answer, wearily.

She feigns thoughtfulness “Then… your qualification to dictate what an appropriate pain response is…(?)” cupping her ear as if genuinely curious.

I think about answering that a mostly finished medical doctorate and 6 years of field experience should count for something but, sensing how that would be received, I instead sigh “None…”

She taps her index finger against her chin as if considering “Hmmmm… hmmm… in that case; fucking OW!!!”

I flatten my ears and dip my snout, suitably chastened.

After a few moments of silence as I dress her wound, I ask “Out of curiosity… what species were they?”

“Hmmm?” she frowns.

“The one who slagged your helmet and melted your face?”

She laughs “Lovely bedside manner, Doc(!)”

I smile “Yes, well… if experience has taught me anything it’s that you soldiers appreciate candour(!)… So… what were they?”

She waves a hand, dismissively “Never bothered learning the whole menagerie… One of the big ones…”

“A Kyklo?” I enquire.

“No…” she negates, thoughtfully.

“A Spelvuk?”

Her face turns hard as she says “If there were roughworlder elites on planet, you think I’d let anyone be ignorant of it!? No!… It was one of those motherfuckers that look like a prehistoric rhino walking upright.”

“What was the horn like? Like a brontotherium or more like an elasmotherium?”

She says nothing, only giving me a hard stare (despite her lack of sighted eyes) that shouts, loud and clear, that she has no clue what the difference is, even though it was her who made the comparison to ancient rhinos!

I sigh “Was it one of the purple, shaggy boys with the two pronged horns or was it one of the hairless red ones with the long, conical horn?”

“One of the purple shaggy boys.” she answers.

“That would be a Threndian… How badly did it hurt?”

She shrugs and answers “Oh, you know… what I assume (bearing in mind this has only happened to me twice(!)) is the normal amount for having molten durasteel held against your face and scalp by your helmet(!)”

I give a forlorn, little whine causing her to burst into laughter. It’s disconcerting to see such a hearty laugh from one with so little face left!

“Don’t make that noise! When you do you remind me of Pochi, the shiba I had as a child!”

I roll my eyes and shoot back “Yes… and when you laugh like that you remind me of a capuchin I saw at a zoo once(!)… Doesn’t feel good to be compared to a semisapient cousin species, does it!?”

She smirks back “…but… you’re such a good boy, Fang(!)”

“That doesn’t even…! Your ancestors never told mine that they were ‘good boys’!”

“Yes, we did, and the ones we told eventually became domestic dogs!” she shoots back.

I frown “You are far too coherent for someone on the dose of painkillers I’ve given you!”

She shrugs “Yeah… I have noticed diminishing returns with every time you’ve given me them.”

“That’s… not ideal… I would switch you to something else but a) it’s probably best if you aren’t absolutely blitzed when Hrom gets here and b) we don’t have anything else…” I say.

Her mouth tightens as I remind her.

I start “Emiko…” but am cut off.

“No.” she interrupts.

“Excuse me?”

“I know what you’re going to say and, if you’re about to give me advice relating to my command, Civilian, then it’s not ‘Emiko’ it’s ‘Cdr. Miyazaki’!” she says, all cheer gone from her voice, an icy chill in its place.

“Apologies, Commander… As you’ve no doubt inferred, I was going to counsel you to attempt to negotiate some sort of safe passage back to Terran Space or, failing that, a surrender conditional on our rights as POWs being guaranteed.”

“We can’t trust any guarantees given to us by people who think we’re monsters! People who think we’re an affront to nature for the crime of existing!” she spits, angrily “Once they have us in a position where we can’t fight back they’ll just murder us!”

“That… might well be the case… but you know as well as I that we’re not going to make it to the next supply drop and, surely, a likely death is preferable to a guaranteed death?”

“Sure you’re not just getting soft, Lowell?” she asks, spitefully.

Now, it’s my turn to get angry “Is that what you think?” I say, with cold fury “After everything you’ve seen me put up with? After everything you’ve seen me do? You think this is just about me not being able to hack it, anymore? Wanting to get back to my creature comforts? Is it so unbelievable that I might have genuine concern about the dwindling supplies of everything?… Including personnel? Who’s going to replace you for instance…? As far as I can see, no one else left alive is even remotely qualified for command!”

She seems to realise that she crossed a line as she says “I’m sorry, Doc… I didn’t mean that…”

“It’s alright, Emiko… You’re doing a remarkable job of putting a brave face on it… but I understand that the pain must be agonising. I’m certain I’d say things I didn’t mean if I were subjected to a hundredth of the pain you must be experiencing, right now.” I say, my voice softened.

“I… I just can’t do it… I can’t…”

“Why don’t you just hear what they have to say… then make a decision?” I suggest.

She looks up, with her sightless, bandaged eyes and nods “OK… hand me my katana…”