SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

The commander of the strike force told the troops about the planetary insertion to stop the Peace Federation raiders and rescue what civilians they could on the human colony of Libra III. The high-arching ceiling of the bay allowed a battalion-sized element to stand easily in formation, along with the addition of the two Old Bloods attached to their unit. The light in the cavernous chamber barely reach beyond the area around the haptic projection screen.

Brokehorn was somewhat troubled by the increasing frequency of these missions in the last two years. At one point, it had seemed to the veteran Lancer that this war was in its last stages, but perhaps the Naith-led coalition had pulled the other hand out from behind its back and really begun to fight. The addition of the Leitani and the Khajal, two very dangerous alien races, had certainly put iron into the spine of the Naith, and attacks on the Dominion’s borders had redoubled.

“Do you think?” grumbled the Tyrannosaurus.

“Think about what?” the Triceratops asked, shaking his one-horned head. He had been lost in thought.

“About how we are to be inserted?” replied the Bladejaw.

The Lancer raked his claws along the ground once, his version of a testy shrug. “I am sure Dhimion Cruzah has employed us properly,” he responded.

“As am I, but I was curious what your experience might lead us to believe would be the best approach for assault, as I have never worked with a Lancer before,” admitted the Bladejaw.

“If you had, you would know that we don’t appreciate the smell of blood wafting around us,” replied Brokehorn.

“If I had, I would have the answer to my question in regards to all Lancers being so quick to whine like a hatchling fresh from the egg,” the Bladejaw riposted.

Brokehorn’s eyes went wide, as much at the insult as the amount of wit and rapidity it was delivered with, equal to any Scytheclaw, the Old Blood Velociraptors. As he turned to face the Tyrannosaurus, a light clap caught his attention.

“Brokehorn, Ripper. I was only able to catch your faith in my leadership, which I found heartening. Is everything alright?” the Illurian asked. His body armor was a vibrant green that clashed against pale blue skin.

“Certainly, Dhimion. My… comrade and I were just discussing matters of strategy,” said Ripper, lowering his head to the level of the Illurian. The male was tall for his race, so Ripper did not need to bend as far as usual. Cruzah placed his hand on the Old Blood’s muzzle in a sign of familiarity.

“You know this… Bladejaw?” asked Brokehorn. He was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Indeed I do,” replied Cruzah. “We worked together during the Malbrion Incursion, and I requested him personally. I would have said something sooner, Brokehorn, but he arrived much quicker than I expected. You have my apologies.” The Illurian curved his arm inward, holding it against his middle, and bowed at the waist.

“There is no need for that,” said Brokehorn, knowing the emotion he felt was called embarrassment. It was far too formal, especially with the gesture. Perhaps Cruzah had heard more of the conversation between the two Old Bloods than he was letting on. Illurians were tricky like that.

“These days, it seems like these butcher-and-bolt missions are more common than us striking into Federation territory,” observed Ripper.

The slightest flicker of a frown passed over the Illurian’s face, and then vanished. He tilted his head to the right then left, exposing the neural strands that passed for hair tied in a tight quirt. “The troopers garrisoned here were recalled to the inner worlds. I suspect they were used for a personal conflict, but the djahn insisted that the local militia here were more than adequate for defense against raids,” replied Cruzah, his voice soft.

Ripper’s eyes narrowed into small slits. “There are a million people spread across the land on this colony. There is no way a colony such as this could survive a protracted engagement,” he pointed out.

Cruzah only gave the slightest of nods. “You are right on all counts, except for one. There are likely less than a million now. Let us hope there are some fish left after this hurricane,” he replied. “I’ll see you both planet-side.” The Illurian saluted, making a fist and pounding the thumb side against his chest.

The two Old Bloods watched him go, and it was Brokehorn who broached the silence between them. “You’ve noticed as well?” he said.

“Noticed what?” asked Ripper.

“That the human colonies are the ones who suffer. I can’t remember the Peace Federation daring to approach the core in quite a while,” said Brokehorn.

Ripper was silent, and then nodded his head once. “Go where the janissaries and their Illurian leaders are not, of course. The Naith call the Terrans ‘terns’ after all,” he paused to look at Brokehorn. “It means—”

“‘Killers’. It is not the original word for killers, but it has replaced the old term they used before,” finished Brokehorn, beginning to walk toward their weapons bay.