At some point since he arrived at the Citadel, Sander has picked up a habit. Nothing deleterious, of course- he’s far too disciplined for that sort of thing. It’s so minor that if I hadn’t resolved to pay more attention to him, I doubt I would even have noticed it. But every half an hour or so, I catch him in the corner of my eye, popping a small, amber-colored candy cube into his mouth. It’s a small enough tic that I’d feel strange mentioning it apropos of nothing, so I wait until I see him reaching into his pocket for another one, and ask if he’s got any to spare. His face is hard to read, but I do detect a hint of surprise as he pulls out a second cube and hands it to me.
Unfolding the white plastic wrapper, I pop the cube into my mouth, surprised at the rich, literally bitter-sweet taste. It’s coffee flavored, and I was half expecting to want to spit it out, seeing as I have a general preference for tea or hot chocolate as far as warm drinks go, but it doesn’t taste nearly as acrid as the unsweetened coffee I once tried at the recommendation of one of my fathers. Still, considering how many he must have every day, I suspect this would give Sander’s breath a rather distinct smell. That is, were it not for the gland in his throat that renders his breath inoffensively neutral, one of the many additional bioengineered organs in the modern human body, which makes traditional maintenance rituals unnecessary. It provides a nice complement to the bacterial strain that cleans our teeth for us while we sleep, applied via spray. Apparently on Earth, humans had to clean their teeth by scrubbing them manually with some sort of specialized stick. Positively barbaric.
While the coffee-flavored cube slowly dissolves in my mouth, I return my attention to the main event. Namely, the rest of the Gazelles, running training exercises. I left Sofie and Niko in charge of determining what their respective teams would do for the first half of today’s session, and so far they’ve been doing fine. Niko has one half of his Black Team practicing at a firing range we set up earlier, at his request. Apparently he requested to study the White Team’s corpses yesterday, and was dissatisfied with his side’s shot placement. That didn’t strike me as an entirely fair criticism, considering they were firing more or less completely blind, but if he thinks he can improve their performance, I’m not going to stand in his way. The rest of them are training with landmines and tripwires, so they can rapidly disarm them in the field. While the explosives are live, they aren’t armed with anything deadlier than some confetti. Having to clean up more corpses so soon after yesterday’s bloodbath would probably be a bit much to ask of the Citadel custodial staff.
Meanwhile, the White Team is paired off and running melee combat drills, something Kat in particular seems rather uncomfortable with, which I imagine is why Sofie is her training partner. Of course, none of them are learning any of these skills for the first time- that sort of knowledge can be downloaded easily via the brainband at any time. But knowledge doesn’t equate to skill, and even if you have a natural advantage in terms of skill, as many Nobles do, it doesn’t mean your body has the muscle memory necessary to do something right the first time, a dozen times in a row. Fortunately, you retain most of your old body’s muscle memory through the resurrection process, but many members of my unit never had much cause to develop any in the first place, when it comes to things like guns or explosives, or even hand-to-hand combat. They lived on more developed, urbanized worlds where such skills weren’t easy to come by, and I suspect many of them underestimated how demanding the Citadel would be. I may not have been able to see much of the Imperium from Demeter VII, but at least I learned to shoot straight.
“So, what’s your take?”
At first, Sander doesn’t reply, just grunts to let me know he heard the question. He continues to observe, from our shared vantage point on a rocky outcrop overlooking the open field where we set up shop for the day. There are plenty of training facilities available in the Citadel itself, but I had a late-night stroke of paranoia and convinced myself that the other units must have bugged most of them already, something I immediately told Sofie to put someone on, and changed our plans. So rather than a nice air-conditioned building with plenty of equipment already set up, we’re in a field a few miles out from the Citadel’s walls, at the foot of the mountain the vaunted institution was carved out of. Most of us are pretty sweaty by now, both from the training exercises themselves, and from having to set up the necessary equipment ourselves. Thankfully, we won’t have to walk all the way back- I’ll just call one of the Citadel’s UAVs to pick us up when the time comes.
“They seem dispirited,” Sander concludes bluntly. “Low initial enthusiasm due to yesterday’s events, combined with the inconvenience of a hastily-decided alternate location for today’s activities. I would recommend taking action to improve morale sooner rather than later.”
I’d already come to most of the same conclusions myself, but hearing it all put so bluntly is somewhat discouraging. Still, I’m glad to have people around me that aren’t just going to tell me what they think I want to hear. That would be a good way to end up in a bad spot.
“Good idea,” I reply, before addressing the whole group over the brainband.
Okay, everybody. Finish up what you’re doing, we’re taking a break in five.
That percolates through the unit quickly, and I see them wrap up their ongoing activities, set down their rifles or cut the last wires on their mines, and head to the drinks coolers set up off by the side of our little encampment. The flora of Akademos is as beautiful here as anywhere else I’ve seen on the moon, with blue-tinged grass and a ring of violet-leaf trees encircling us, their gnarled branches quivering every so often as a gust of wind blows through, providing us all with a momentary respite from the heat. It’s worse down here, further from the Citadel’s climate-controlled environment, although I’m fairly used to temperatures like this, having grown up on a farm-world. Luckily, none of us need to worry about sunburns, thanks to standard genetic modifications made to all of our bodies in order to prevent cancers of the dermis. Nobody complained much about that, since it’s no longer necessary to ‘sunbathe’ in order to get tan skin, you can just change your own hue manually during the resurrection process.
Having a chance to cool off a bit does seem to be doing the unit some good. I notice Sofie is retrieving a sandwich from the bag, and send her a wordless request to grab two more for Sander and I. She complies, tossing them up to us on our perch where I catch them both deftly and pass my bodyguard one. He didn’t ask, but those coffee candies can’t be a good source of protein, and if he’s too busy watching out for me to look out for himself, that means it’s my responsibility.
While he’s unwrapping his sandwich, I take a seat, legs dangling off the side of the rock. It looks to have fallen from the mountain itself, most likely dislodged during the Citadel’s construction. Sturdy enough to have survived the initial impact more or less intact, it’s now firmly rooted in the ground, the exposed areas weathered by exposure to the elements. All that’s to say, it makes for a decently comfortable seat. After a moment, Sander seats himself beside me, seeming less stiff than usual.
“Do you think they’re ready?”
This time he doesn’t grunt, just takes a bite of his sandwich and shakes his head.
“No, but isn’t that the point?”
“Yeah, true. Still, I think I’ll let ‘em eat a bit first. Only seems fair.”
Sander shrugs, and we continue eating, watching while the rest of the group follows suit, breaking off into small clusters to sit amidst the azure grass and chat amongst themselves. For the most part they appear to have self-segregated along the same lines by which we divided them earlier, White Team and Black Team, but a few have crossed that divide without prodding. I can’t make out any details, but it seems like they’re conversing amicably. Bret’s managed to worm his way into one group, who seems unwilling to tell him to leave, though it’s plain to see on their faces that they have no interest in whatever he’s saying.
Obviously, I have more planned for today than just some standard drills. That includes things I haven’t told anybody but Sander about. Springing a surprise on the rest of the unit might not be very fair, but it’s not without purpose. They have to be capable of acting with grace under fire, both literal and otherwise.
As Sander and I are finishing our sandwiches, I surreptitiously retrieve a small remote control from my pocket, and turn the dial from zero to one. There’s no immediately visible change, but I see Sander give me a look, then descend from our perch to go join the rest of the group, as discussed. Normally, he’d insist on remaining by my side, especially during a situation like this, but I’m safe up here on the rocks, and I need somebody to be my hands down on the ground. After discarding our sandwich wrappers in the trash bag, he heads over to the firing range, and starts inspecting the guns in a manner I suspect he thinks is innocuous. While he doesn’t quite manage to look totally guileless, nobody pays him much mind either.
It’s hard to make out over the low roar of chatter amongst my Gazelles, but if I focus, I can hear the faint sound of footsteps, too fast to be those of a human, rapidly approaching. They grow louder by the moment, and slowly some members of my unit start to notice, glancing around with mild confusion. A few seem to write it off as the ambient sounds of the outdoors, while one or two respond correctly, by jumping to their feet, ready for a fight. Unfortunately, it’s a little late for that.
A fierce howl signals the arrival of seven furious scalehounds, bursting into the clearing through the treeline. As the name suggests, they’re canids, but with black scales rather than fur, and lethally-sharp claws to boot. Predators native to Akademos, they’d ordinarily avoid a gathering like ours, which is why I deliberately drew them here, using a hidden speaker to broadcast a sound pitched high enough that only their sensitive ears would hear it. The sound is enough to drive them into a frenzy, but rather than flee, they followed their aggressive nature and sought its source, so they might destroy it. Unfortunately for the Gazelles, they happen to be in the way, meaning the scalehounds are now looking to destroy them as well.
The few who noticed something was wrong act first, and are rewarded for it, as Sander tosses Ibrahim a rifle while Colleen unsheathes her blade. Everybody else, however, is caught unawares. Grant is tackled by one of the scalehounds, which knocks him onto his back. Before it can sink its teeth into his throat, he grabs it by the neck, holding the ravenous beast back. His desperation is little match for its frantic fury, however, and I watch as one of the scalehound’s claws sinks into his shoulder, provoking a cry of pain. For a moment, Grant’s conversation partners are frozen. Then Bret scrambles backwards, moving like a crab for several seconds before he remembers how to stand up straight, and uses that skill to flee more efficiently. Amalia, on the other hand, gets to her feet immediately, and goes to help wrestle the scalehound off of Grant.
Nobody else is helping, mostly because the rest of the pack is busy creating other problems for them to contend with. One of the hounds knocks over the table containing the explosives, scattering them across the clearing. Most are already defused, but when one lands in Kat’s lap, she flinches, then swiftly grabs it and hurls it away. Tai, who was heading for the drinks cooler when the hounds attacked, gets his leg slashed by one of them and falls to the ground, though Mars intervenes before it can do any more damage, smacking the beast with the butt of a rifle, which he must have gotten from Sander at some point while I wasn’t looking.
The other hounds are running roughshod through our encampment, searching for my beacon, although they seem to be easily distracted, particularly by the scent of fear. More than a few Gazelles have decided that their best option is to run, only to realize that there’s nowhere to hide except in the trees, which is the last place they want to be. Moreover, as they attempt to flee, the scalehounds drive them back into the clearing, and their strategy becomes clear. They aren’t just rampaging mindlessly, agitated though they are. After the initial attack, they’ve drawn back, attempting to encircle the unit. Several of our people seem to have been injured- Tai’s on one knee, and Grant’s got blood running down his chest from the gash in his shoulder. Sofie seems to have it the worst, though, with both hands pressed to a stomach wound, as Niko helps her towards the center of the clearing, where everybody is gathered.
Laying her down, he calls for assistance, and Ada rushes over to apply first aid, while Sander passes the last remaining rifle to the Stormwolf. We only packed four, meaning just about everyone else is unarmed. A few people brought their own weapons- I see Nikitha unsheathe a combat knife, and Valent draw a pistol from his shoulder holster, while others are seeking improvised weapons, like Amalia, who snaps off the leg of the fallen table, hefting the jagged end to use as a spear.
It’s fairly impressive how quickly they managed to set up a defensive formation. The wounded are in the center, with Ada, who’s taken on the role of combat medic, doing her best to treat them. Most of the others are helping to maintain a perimeter, though Kat and Bret are situated inside of the circle, unharmed but unable or unwilling to help. One of the scalehounds ceases circling and darts in, seeking to strike, only for Mars to drive it back with a burst of rifle fire. He successfully clips the creature’s shoulder, sending fragments of its scaly armor flying, and provoking a cry of pain. As it returns to the safety of the pack, however, I see that more hounds have arrived, drawn both by my beacon, and the scent of blood in the air. Scalehounds are some of the most vicious predators on this moon, and the Citadel likes it that way. It keeps them alive for precisely this purpose, to test and train Nobles. That’s why it was so easy for me to get ahold of the correct frequency with which to attract them.
So far, the hounds are leaving me alone, presumably because they know they can’t scale the rock on which I’m perched, and because there’s easier prey available. The Gazelles, however, are beginning to remember that I exist. Amalia looks up at me, keeping her makeshift spear leveled at the nearest scalehound, and calls out a question, though without any anger in her voice.
“Commander! Is this a part of our training?”
“Sure is,” I shout back with a wink. “Hold out for half an hour, and I’ll call them off! Don’t forget, you have a defensive strategist down there with you!”
Immediately, all eyes not fixated on the hounds turn to Kat, who goes white as a sheet. Part of me feels guilty putting her on the spot, but this is her specialty, and she’s going to have to prove herself sooner or later.
Nobody says anything at first, and Kat remains frozen, evidently more scared of others’ expectations than the threat of disembowelment facing her. Then Amalia speaks again, this time not to me, but to her.
“Okay, Katrina. You’re in charge. What do you recommend we do?”
“Oh! I, um. I don’t know?”
Not even confident enough to express her lack of confidence as a statement, rather than a question. I start to regret hinging so much of this plan on her, when Amalia continues.
“Think. Our priorities are to keep everybody alive, and to remain alive ourselves for thirty minutes. How can we best accomplish those goals?”
Kat is silent, glancing around swiftly, and I worry for a moment that she’s about to pull her plug. Then she starts speaking, first quietly, as if to herself, then with increasing intensity and speed.
“We could, um, we could set up some kind of fortification to protect the people who got hurt. Then our defensive line wouldn’t have to be so spread out!”
“Good thinking,” the amber-horned scout says encouragingly. “What kind of fortification?”
“That table,” Kat replies swiftly, pointing to the fallen piece of cheap, folding furniture. “We’d just have to put it on its side. Then if somebody could grab some of those mines, we could rearm them and use them too.”
A few of the others glance between each other, looking somewhat surprised by Kat’s contributions. I hear them confer, though not loud enough to make out any details from my position. Then two of them, Colleen and Valent, break from the circle and pick up the table, hauling it back as fast as they can. Several of the hounds take notice and move to intercept, but a spray of covering fire drives them back. Within a few moments, they’ve got the table propped up on its side, with Sofie and Tai behind it. Grant’s shoulder has been bandaged, but he’s back on his feet, with a Q-tool in his hand, utility blade extended. Not much as far as weapons go, but it’s better than nothing.
Emboldened, Kat continues to give orders, directing the members of the defensive line to reposition themselves. Ibrahim, Sander, Niko, and Mars are now arranged in the four cardinal directions, as they’re the only ones with rifles. Everybody else is spread out between them, evenly spaced so there are no gaps which the scalehounds might slip through. However, when Nikitha makes a break for the nearest of the scattered explosives, they pounce, six at once, only a few going for her, while the rest try to get into the circle to finish off the wounded. Mars starts, as though he’s about to charge in and try to rescue the chemical weapons specialist, but Kat grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back, shouting something I can’t make out over the gunfire. He growls and shakes himself free, but doesn’t rush in, instead firing a precise burst that manages to hit the hound on top of Nikitha, giving her an opportunity to jam her knife into its soft underbelly, and then roll it off of her so she can scramble back to the group. Unfortunately, she’s returning empty-handed, and with a few fresh wounds. Plus, the group is down quite a few bullets, from having to drive back the rest of the attack, which didn’t break the line, but did give a few of the defenders some new cuts and scrapes. In exchange, though, they did take out several of the scalehounds, and no more seem to be coming from within the woods. About a half-dozen are still circling the clearing, with a few that sustained injuries limping away to lick their wounds.
The Gazelles overextended, an error on Kat’s part. She looks stricken with guilt, particularly because Amalia got a nasty bite on the arm in the attack, but the scout is saying something reassuring while Ada smears a sparing amount of healing gel on the wound. There isn’t much of that to go around either, and a significant amount of the supply was spent on saving Sofie, meaning they can’t afford another slip like that. Fortunately for them, the hounds seem to be faltering, with their numbers thinned. I can’t abide that, not quite yet. They have twenty minutes left to go, and I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Turning the dial on my remote up to the second setting, I rest my chin on my palm. This time, there’s a visible effect- the scalehounds become noticeably less agitated. The sound that riled them up in the first place is gone. That doesn’t mean they’re about to leave, though- they’re still hungry, and there’s more blood in the air. Besides, I didn’t turn the speaker off, I just switched to another frequency. It takes a few minutes for that to become obvious, though. Some of the Gazelles start to relax in that time, as the hounds start to circle more slowly, and one even peels away, retreating back into the woods. Their growling and snarling starts to die down, but another sound rises to replace it- the sound of flapping wings.
Overhead, a flock of Balewings is beginning to gather. At first it’s only a few, but as they cry out, more answer the summons, attracted by my beacon, and by the taste of fresh meat below. Though I may seem an easier target, being up high as I am, they’ll most likely ignore me in favor of targeting those who are already injured. It’d probably serve me right if I was to get attacked, but fortunately predatory animals aren’t famous for their sense of justice or morality.
As soon as one of the Gazelles notices the avians gathering, a cry goes up, followed by the roar of gunfire. Moments later, I hear Niko bark out an order- “Stop shooting!” -followed by an identical brainband command, to ensure he’d be heard. There’s a tense moment after the shooting stops, as the trigger-happy belatedly realize they may have just sealed their own fates. Fortunately, when the bullets rain back down, none of them manage to hit any of my Gazelles. Nor, it seems, did they hit any of the Balewings.
“You’re just wasting ammunition,” the Stormwolf says sharply. “They’re too high up for you to hit. And they’re smart enough to know that they can wait until we’re exhausted or run out of bullets before attacking.”
Nobody responds, though those who’d been firing look sheepish. Then Valent speaks.
“We must lure them in closer, in order to pick them off. Consolidating the fallen hounds might provide a suitable lure, if we were to suppress the scents of our own wounded.”
“No chance,” Mars replies grimly, eyes never leaving the circling Balewings for a second. “The bodies are too far apart. If enough of us broke off to get all of them, it would leave the main group too exposed.”
“Well, then what do you propose we do?” Valent snaps back. “There must be a dozen of them up there already, and only more on the way.”
By my count, only seven, but I do have a better view from my position, and a bit of exaggeration probably isn’t unwarranted.
“Could we not just wait them out?” Ibrahim asks. He was one of the ones to open fire as soon as the birds were spotted, which makes him rather brave for speaking up so soon.
To my surprise, it’s Kat who responds, and without needing to be prompted by anybody to speak up.
“No. They’re waiting for a full flock to gather, then they’ll attack all at once. You guys wouldn’t be able to shoot all of them, I think. Especially if they claw your eyes out. I read that they like to do that.”
For a moment, I wonder when Kat had cause to read that, then I realize that she probably anxiously read everything there was to read about the hostile wildlife of Akademos before coming here.
“I see,” Ibrahim replies, seemingly slightly perturbed both by that fact and that she knows it off the top of her head. “Well, since we know the commander is behind this, why don’t we find whatever device she’s using to summon these beasts, and disable it?”
Some murmurs of assent travel through the group, and those without the guns begin to glance around the clearing, as if expecting the transmitter to have been hiding in plain sight, rather than carefully secreted away somewhere I doubt they’d ever think to look. Eventually, they seem to realize it won’t be that easy, and Ibrahim has another bright idea.
“Rebane,” he says, turning to Sander. “You follow the commander around everywhere. Did you see where she put the transmitter?”
“Yes,” the gray-skinned behemoth replies bluntly. “I am under orders not to identify its location.”
The group processes that with sounds of vague dissatisfaction, though nobody seems especially surprised. Then, to my own genuine surprise, Ibrahim raises his rifle and points it squarely at Sander’s head.
“Care to reconsider your answer?”
Though he’s got a rifle of his own in his hand, Sander doesn’t react, just stares straight into the eyes of the heir to the Duke of Flowers.
“No.”
They remain silent for several moments, most of the group watching the standoff with bated breath, before Ibrahim exhales and lowers the rifle. Sander doesn’t say a word, just shifts his gun back up towards the sky, waiting for the moment the Balewings will strike. As the drama has been playing out, more of them have gathered, to the point where the original numerical assessment is probably accurate.
When I glance back down from the birds to look at my Gazelles, I see something I can’t say I didn’t see coming- Ibrahim, now pointing his rifle at me. Instead of shouting all the way up at me, he addresses me via the brainband, projecting his words so the whole group can hear. That’s clever- I have to watch my words more in front of them than I would in private.
Commander, this exercise is over. Members of your unit need immediate medical attention. Disable the transmitter or I’ll be forced to shoot you.
Making a play for the moral high ground. I suppose that’s fair game, considering I have the physical high ground, and I am the one who set two different sets of bloodthirsty wild animals on my friends and allies.
The exercise isn’t over until I say it’s over. And if you shoot me, I’ll switch the transmitter to the highest setting, and then destroy the remote, so the only way to disable it is manually.
To emphasize my point, I take the remote out of my pocket and waggle it. Ibrahim doesn’t budge.
You’re bluffing.
Maybe. Are you willing to take that risk? Besides, you only have to hold out fifteen minutes longer, and it would take twice that time for a medevac to arrive if you shot me. Your best option is still to play along.
Silence. A few other members of the unit let their emotions, not even verbalized, leak out through the brainband. Annoyance, frustration, doubt that I’m bluffing, and even a hint of respect, though it’s hard to tell who it’s directed at.
Fine, Ibrahim replies, lowering the rifle. But don’t think any of us are going to forget this.
That’s when it becomes clear to me, he’s not just trying to end the exercise early. He’s making a play for power, and for the loyalty of the unit. Maybe he’s pissed I passed him up for Combat Officer, or maybe he would have done this no matter what I did. Either way, he’s going to have to be dealt with, and soon.
The best way to do that, of course, is to give the others something to blame him for.
Of course. I’m not the forgetful type either. Which is why I’m afraid I have to punish this little attempted mutiny. How does turning the transmitter up another notch sound?
Another, more distinct wave of anger, but this time I can tell quite well where it’s coming from. Half the unit is staring daggers at Ibrahim, including everybody who’s injured. Me escalating things is no surprise to them, it’s to be expected. But without him, things wouldn’t have escalated quite so quickly. Ibrahim spits something under his breath, low enough I can’t quite make it out, and starts swiveling around with his gun, making a show of being on the lookout for the next threat. He seems to recognize I’ve defanged his little insurrection, at least for the time being.
As I slide the dial up to the next level, I muse for a moment about the potential consequences of this little test of mine. When my copyclan proposed the idea, I was skeptical initially. It seemed like a good way to burn all of my goodwill with them, which was already in short supply after yesterday’s engineered fiasco. But injury and death are temporary things, and I’m willing to bet that any loss of goodwill from this will be outweighed by the victories we’ll win thanks to the skills they’re learning at this very moment. This is the first time they’re working collectively as a unit, and it wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t created a legitimate challenge for them to face.
That’s not to mention the fact that it’s valuable for them to learn that it’s both possible to challenge my authority, and generally not a good idea.
“Fuck it,” Niko spits. “We’re going with the lure plan. You three, get moving!”
The Combat Officer’s tone brooks no dissent, which is precisely what I was hoping for. Not that I’d intended for them to use the dead scalehounds in such a manner, but more generally. My intention in concocting this scenario was to put my Gazelles into a situation where they’d be forced to take decisive, risky action, because sitting around and waiting for the most opportune possible moment would spell doom. Hopefully they’ll be clever enough to put that together for themselves- or at least my chosen officers will.
Spurred on by Niko’s command, Amalia, Grant, and Bret break from the circle and make for the dead scalehound nearest to them. There’s a tense moment, while we all wait to see if the Balewings are going to swoop down and attack. Fortunately, the predatory avians seem content to continue circling, for now. Grant and Amalia are both lightly injured, and while the Balewings tend to prioritized wounded targets, they’re also intelligent enough to know when someone’s healthy enough to fight them off.
Much of the tension remains even when it becomes clear the Balewings aren’t going to attack, though, thanks to the looming threat of whatever the third setting on the transponder will summon. There’s a benefit to it too, in that no more birds should be forthcoming, without the signal to draw them in from afar. A sizeable host has gathered, but if Valent’s plan works, they should be able to deal with most of them in a single strike.
Midway through hoisting up a dead scalehound, I see Grant pause, then turn to look over his shoulder at the rest of the group, wincing slightly as he puts stress on his injury. I’d guess he’s receiving a brainband communication, because there’s little else that could have drawn his attention. He nods his head slightly, likely accompanying a response that’s not audible to me, and then keeps moving, hauling the canine’s corpse over to where Bret and Amalia have piled three others. I don’t know why they’re communicating in a way I can’t hear- it’s not as if I’m going to tell the Balewings what their plans are. But then again, there’s no reason to be annoyed that my subordinates are practicing good infosec. Or maybe the person who was contacting Grant was simply too weak to speak- which would probably mean Sofie, whose condition doesn’t seem to be improving much.
Rather than head for the next scalehound, Grant starts scanning the area, surveying the grassy clearing for something that I can’t identify. Then he spots whatever he’s looking for, and hurries over to retrieve it, followed by several others. It takes a moment for me to connect the dots- he’s retrieving the explosives that the members of the Black Team were practicing disarming before the initial attack. Part of Kat’s previous plan that had gone awry, but now that they aren’t under immediate threat, they can afford to grab a few mines, inert though they may be. It only takes a single active one to detonate the others, if they’re clustered together in close proximity- and that does seem to be the plan, as Grant takes all the ones he’s collected and drops them into the pile, along with the last corpse collected by Amalia, while Bret heads back to the safety of the circle early.
As the trio are returning to the fold, the Balewings show signs of taking the bait. The scalehounds were placed far enough away from where the Gazelles are clustered that they should be a distinct scent, hopefully overpowering that of the group’s wounded. Moreover, Ada has been doing her best to help mask the scent of the injured, mainly by tightening their bandages and applying more of the regenerative gel, precious though it may be. Precisely how they intend to detonate the explosives within the pile is unclear to me, though, as none of them exactly came with a detonator.
That answer comes quickly, as Niko passes Amalia his rifle, and asks her something I can’t quite make out, though it’s probably along the lines of ‘Are you sure you can make this shot?’, to which she simply gives a grim nod, shifting the weapon’s weight so it doesn’t press down on the spot where she was bitten on the arm. Those among the group who aren’t holding weapons of their own seem to be torn between watching her as she stares down the scope, and watching the bait pile with bated breath. Finally, a bold Balewing swoops down towards it, and digs its talons into the exposed flesh of the hound’s underbelly, which was turned upwards to make for an even more tantalizing treat. Amalia’s trigger finger doesn’t even twitch- not yet. She waits patiently, as the Balewing lets out an earsplitting cry to signal its airborne brethren.
Soon, more descend, enough that they begin pecking at each other to make space around the pile, before tearing into the dead hounds with their beaks, sharp enough to rend flesh from a human’s bones just as easily. The flock above the Gazelles begins to dwindle, until it’s just a small handful of stubborn birds unwilling to abandon their first choice even for a more easily acquired meal.
Amalia takes a deep breath, the amber ram’s horns curling ‘round her ears glowing in the afternoon sunlight. Then she pulls the trigger, and the pile explodes in a massive shower of gore, with shrapnel from the explosives and fragments from the hounds’ scales flying in every direction, though not with enough force to do more than scratch a few of the Gazelles. Amalia herself received one such scratch, judging by the thin red line across her cheek, but she doesn’t scream, just exhales calmly and wipes the blood off with the back of her hand, before passing the rifle back to Niko and picking up her improvised spear again.
While my ears are still ringing from the sound, I glance up to see the remaining Balewings flying away, spooked by both the explosion and the fact that most of their flock was just blown to bits. A cheer goes up from the Gazelles, at precisely the wrong moment- because the beast summoned by the transponder’s third setting chooses that moment to make its entrance.
On four thick limbs, each as wide as a tree trunk, it lumbers into the clearing, jaw stretched wide in a furious roar. Jagged spines protrude from its back, emerging from between green snakeskin that glistens in the sunlight. Unlike the scalehounds and Balewings, this creature isn’t analogous to anything someone from old Earth might recognize, except perhaps a dinosaur... minus the feathers, of course. This is a Crushjaw, and rather than scare it off, the explosion and all of our prior antics have only served to enrage it. That jaw will snap shut like a steel trap around someone’s skull, and remove it from their shoulders in a single instant.
Fortunately for the Gazelles, it’s rather slow, giving them some time to decide on a course of action. Unfortunately, it’s also going to be exceptionally difficult to kill, and I have no intention of ending this exercise until they’ve done so, thirty minute timer or no.
“Shit,” Niko hisses, before shouting “Mars! Get Sofie out of here!”
The warrior hesitates, but only for a moment, before casting his rifle aside and picking up the wounded Intelligence Officer, hurrying to remove her from the battlefield. Without missing a beat, Amalia grabs the rifle and flips it around to face front, joining Sander, Niko, and Ibrahim in opening up on the Crushjaw. Valent is doing so as well, though his sidearm may as well not be there for all the damage it’s doing to the beast’s tough hide. Meanwhile, most of the others are scattering, though only some seem to have any intention of contributing to the battle itself. Tai and Grant I can forgive, as they aren’t combat specialists and have injuries of their own. Bret as well, though seeing the speed at which he flees doesn’t make me gain any respect for him. Ada stumbles, dropping her tube of gel, stopping to pick it up before she runs off after Mars and Sofie, presumably intending to make sure she doesn’t accidentally reopen her wound and bleed out in the middle of the forest.
When they realize they aren’t doing much good, the members of the gun gang stop firing and split off, most likely at Niko’s silent direction, judging by the way they pair off and circle around the beast. Kat is nowhere to be found, but I see Nikitha poke her head out from behind some cover, and then dash over to where Niko is stationing himself, reaching into her belt to retrieve something from a pouch. He regards it cautiously, then gives her a nod.
A moment later, everybody else still in the clearing pulls up their shirt to cover their face, instructed to do so by a silent command, and Nikitha tosses what I now see is a grenade at the Crushjaw. It bounces against the creature’s side, with not even enough force to draw its attention, and then purple smoke starts to pour out of it. The creature sniffs the air experimentally, then shakes its head back and forth disagreeably, doing its best to get away from the grenade. However, gas tends to travel faster than a six-hundred-pound reptile, meaning it doesn’t get out of the way in time for the gas to envelop its body fully.
An open clearing isn’t the ideal location for a gas attack, and so the purple smoke dissipates rather quickly. When it’s gone, however, the Crushjaw is thrashing around in pain, its senses assaulted by the attack. If that purple smoke was meant to be lethal, it’s failed, but the beast is at least incapacitated for the time being. Rather than shoot at it uselessly, which would probably only hasten its recovery, the gun gang keeps their rifles trained on the Crushjaw, while Colleen unsheathes her blade and moves in. This is the first time I’ll have seen the infamous Mantis in action, at least when it comes to wielding her signature weapon. I have to admit, I’m fairly excited.
The swordswoman slides underneath the beast, slashing the blade out behind her as she moves. It bites into the back of the Crushjaw’s front legs, and as she gets out from underneath it, its knees buckle. Injuriated, it thrashes around violently, but without the use of those legs, it can’t exactly move. Short of deliberately sticking their heads in its maw, the Gazelles have little to fear from it now. All that remains is to finish it off.
Niko draws breath, as though he’s about to say something, but pauses as Nikitha raises her fist in the universal gesture for ‘hold back.’ Ducking out from behind cover, she unclips another grenade from her belt and approaches the Crushjaw, apprehensive but undeterred by its crippled fury. Its mouth is still open, essentially locked into that position until it can snap shut around something. The price of being able to bite down with enough force to rend steel. Drawing in breath, the chemical weapons specialist winds up and hurls the explosive right into the creature’s mouth, then turns and sprints for cover again.
Stomping its back legs furiously, the Crushjaw tries not to swallow, but it’s too late. The grenade detonates, and a plume of sickly green smoke pours from its mouth. Then it begins to seep out from elsewhere on the creature’s body, places I’m completely certain there aren’t any orifices. It takes a moment for me to realize what’s going on- this gas is eating through the creature from the inside out. Aerosolized acid. The Gazelles keep a safe distance, waiting until the Crushjaw stops thrashing about, and until the smoke has completely dissipated. By that time, the creature is little more than a pile of semisolid flesh and bone, slowly sinking into the soil below.
As the unit waits, the members that fled, including Sofie and Mars, slowly return. I make a mental note of their names, not to punish them, but simply to remember. That’s something they’ll need to work on, if they’re going to contribute to the unit. And if they can’t contribute, they don’t have a place here. I’m playing to win, and I don’t have any time for charity cases if they can’t pull their own weight.
Once the rest of the Gazelles have gathered up again, I finally descend from my perch, disabling the transmitter entirely. A few people greet me with openly hostile stares, but most seem too exhausted by the whole ordeal to even be particularly upset. For the sake of appearances, I try not to grin at them, no matter how satisfied with this exercise I am.
“Very well done, all of you. I’ve already summoned an emergency transport to extract our injured members. Those of you who aren’t hurt, help me clean up this mess, and then we can get out of here.”