SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

They were too far for his lighting fork, but perfect for the mortars he carried. Controlling the weapons with his eyes and the fine movements of his face, he sent several rounds towards the green-skinned aliens. One had just reloaded some sort of rocket tube, and Brokehorn saw him raise it just as his mortar rounds blossomed fire into the center of group.

“Lancer, are you alive?” A familiar voice in his ear grabbed his attention.

“Bladejaw, you sound almost concerned,” said Brokehorn, turning himself toward where the main force was landing and deploying his signals suite. He’d uplinked with the ships above, and had a map of the area along with a real-time display of troops identified as foes.

“Only because I don’t wish to be responsible for all this fighting alone,” Ripper said.

Brokehorn began to trot, his senses on full alert for any ambushes. Even if he was of the Separated, even though he had cutting-edge technology aiding him, he was still a dinosaur at heart, and one who had to worry about monstrous carnivores in the distant past. He’d be a fool to ignore his instincts, listening and smelling for any of the telltale signs of an ambush.

Instead of the subtle signs of a waiting attack, he heard screams to his left, and the high whine of a flechette cannon. Down the wide street, green flames began to creep up a high building, casting a rounded shadow that looked to be one of the Naith personnel carriers. It was away from his destination but the screams were what drew him. He heard another series of screams, and swung himself around wide to get a better view instead of rushing directly to the scene.

It seemed ridiculous such a massive being could be stealthy, but the enemy Peace Federation soldiers had other tasks at hand. Beside the armored vehicle, a Naith was standing beside a Khajali, and the Lancer assumed they were discussing the disposition of the humans they had bound under a pain web. Nearby, a squad of Naith stood idle. Every now and then one of the humans would shift too much beneath the wire lattice and the device would activate, sending wracking pain through the entire group.

The humans had been put to one side. The Khajali’s back was to Brokehorn and seemed to be arguing with the smaller Naith. Brokehorn assumed the Naith was female, and Brokehorn imagined she was frustrated by having to argue with a male of any species. The Khajali male was three meters tall, covered in scales that could turn a bullet and thrombium armor tougher again. He bore claws and teeth that would rend even the toughest flesh. The female would listen.

Their argument was Brokehorn’s opportunity though, and he took it. As he came around the corner he used the jets positioned along the back of his armor, firing them off in sequence. His speed rose over a hundred kilometers per hour in short order and he covered the distance between himself and the enemy before they had a chance to do much beyond notice the sudden attack.

A force field shot from Brokehorn’s armor and slammed into the Naith vehicle, launching it toward the two enemy aliens. The different responses of the two races showed the gulf in their mastery of war. While the Naith were standing in the middle of the road firing ineffectually toward Brokehorn, the Khajal had attempted to clear the tumbling troop transport by leaping to the side. He’d even brought his spear-cannon around, a Khajali ritual weapon known as a rai’lith.

If the vehicle had spun, so that it was parallel with the road, it might have missed the Khajalian. Instead it stayed sideways, and clipped him in midair. The carrier smashed into the rest of the squad and then rolled. Mangled bodies flew into the air — those that weren’t hooked on pieces of jagged metal — leaving blue smears and limbs tossed about casually on the street. Brokehorn didn’t congratulate himself, but instead rushed forward.

As he had suspected, the Khajali was only wounded by having a tank tossed on him. He saw the alien holding the flesh of one leg together as it rose, its half-cloak torn and rent. It turned as Brokehorn charged, and raised its rai’lith in one last act of defiance.

The Lancer’s nose spike turned the blade, and his one good horn smashed the Khajali into the side of a building. Still, the enemy warrior attempted to rise, not quite dead even though an arm hung limply at its side. Brokehorn reared up and smashed the Khajali under his bulk, both front feet slamming onto the alien. The thrombium armor was scratched, but not deformed. The body inside ended up a leaking bag of purple blood and crushed flesh.

Brokehorn looked down at the Khajali, and tried to think about how many of them he’d killed now. Thirty-one? They never died easily, or first for that matter.

“Bladejaw?” the Lancer broadcast to the other Old Blood. “I just killed a Khajali. Watch yourself.”

“Watch myself? I’m surrounded by janissaries and Illurians. You’re the one behind enemy lines trying to make a name for himself,” Ripper said.