SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Ripper followed alongside, mindful of his tail so as not to strike any objects inadvertently. “How does that make you feel? That the human colonies are the ones who are suffering?” he prodded.

Brokehorn didn’t stop, but looked askance at the carnivore. “You are far too large to be of the Inner Truth, yet that’s a question they would ask.”

“And why would they ask that question? Why is that question considered one that someone would have to be careful who they asked it to?” Ripper pressed on.

“Because…” Brokehorn stopped, and turned to face the other Old Blood. “Why are you asking me this? Why do you care?”

“Because you seem to care what happens to the other blood of Kah, to the Terrans who fight and die for a royalty that no longer seems to value their sacrifices. So I ask again, how do you feel?” Ripper asked, his voice soft.

Brokehorn did not hesitate. “I have seen far too many of these worlds where we were too late for anything but to clean up the Naith feasts. The only Illurians were the ones who died with their human troops. The ruling caste does not care what price is paid for their suffering. You ask what I feel, Bladejaw? It is sorrow; sorrow for those who have died and those who have yet to suffer.” Brokehorn stepped closer to Ripper. “And you? What is it you feel?”

“The same, but in addition my sorrow includes seeing the bright lords and ladies of Illuria consume themselves in hedonism when I remember how… noble they were at one time,” admitted Ripper, shaking his head. “And surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“Yes. That your willingness to speak your mind includes your principles, not just in light of your discomfort. It is a rare thing among all of our species,” granted Ripper, and then stalked past the Lancer.

Brokehorn followed now, and the silence between them was more comfortable as they stepped between the pylons that would equip them with the machinery they wore to battle.

“Ripper,” asked the Lancer. “Why did you ask me that question?”

“Which question?” responded Ripper as armor plates were fitted and locked into place on his torso.

“In regards to the humans.”

“Because you noticed their suffering, and so few of our kind do,” said Ripper.

Brokehorn grunted as he took the weight of his armor on his back, but it was more in reflex than any real burden. It sloped down his tail, along his back, and pressed up against his crest. The Lancer quickly exhaled, so no scales would be pinched as the armor swung down and locked underneath him, protecting his belly. He took a breath, then answered. “And you think that our kind should care?”

Ripper slid his arms into the massive mechanical claws that extended his reach and provided an additional melee option. “Too many of the Old Blood delude themselves into thinking their choice not to fight is without consequence. I see it as fortuitous that the Illurians gave us a choice, unlike the humans, and to say nothing of the Bhae Chaw,” he said, holding still as his helmet locked into place. Twin heavy machine guns sat either side of his jaw, while his eyes were covered by an armored screen before it rose back into the top of the helmet.

There was another pause, and Brokehorn found himself mulling that comment quietly as his weaponry was locked into hard points on his armor. Electromagnetic mortars rested over both hips, and combination machine guns and flamethrowers were mounted to the front near each shoulder. A large twin-pronged fork sparked high on his torso, and a metallic sleeve was placed over the stump of his horn. A helmet resembling a domino mask was placed over his face, with the view screens descending and obscuring his eyes.

Brokehorn’s visual display lit up with glyphs and iconography, much easier for the Old Bloods to comprehend, showing functionality of the weapon systems on the Old Blood’s war harness. The entire rig was powered by the heat generated from the dinosaur added to thorium micro-reactors located on the Lancer’s spine.

“And so what do you think our people should do?” asked Brokehorn.

Ripper stood without answering as his dorsal railgun was loaded into place. “Stand here, next to us, and fight for the humans who tend our wounds when we fall, terraform planets for us to live on, and find our every breath a marvel,” he finally replied. The Tyrannosaurus waited for Brokehorn to finish his pre-battle checks, and then the two walked together toward the transport craft that would take them from the Sea Spray to planet-side.

“A lovely thought, perhaps,” admitted Brokehorn. “But it will be the two of us saving what humans we can from the ruins of their colony.” The Lancer stopped, and looked at Ripper. “Of course I have to wonder, why do we seem more prone to acting more… human to begin with? Do we empathize with them so strongly because we think and feel like them now?” Brokehorn continued walking again, and the question hung in the air for a moment before Ripper responded.