SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

An Illurian voice entered the net. “Brokehorn? Are you all right? The shuttle pilot said there was some trouble on the way down,” said Dhimion Cruzah.

“I’m fine, Dhimion,” Brokehorn answered. “I seem to have interrupted a discussion between the Peacers in regards to the disposition of captives.”

The Lancer moved toward the humans under the pain web. “I need to remove this device, but it will hurt,” he told them. With surprising accuracy, the Triceratops used his parrot-like beak to grab the thick wire and haul it off the trapped humans. There was another series of short screams as it was whipped off them and hurled against a wall.

Brokehorn turned back toward the humans before him. What he saw surprised him. It was a group of young adolescents and children with a single adult female. All were staring at him in amazement.

Our every breath is a marvel to them, Ripper had said, and Brokehorn wondered if this was the first time these humans had ever seen an Old Blood in the flesh, to say nothing of one in full war chassis.

They continued to stare, and Brokehorn felt a sensation he was unfamiliar with.

What could they be looking at?

He pushed it aside and contacted Cruzan. “Dhimion, I have a number of young humans at my position. Is there any way you can send a squad of janissaries here?”

A pause, then Cruzan responded. “I wish I could. There’s a Naith slaughter ship being filled with prisoners, and we’re fighting towards that before they get off the ground or the Naith convince the Khajal to let them kill everyone on board. The best I can think of is you meeting up with us en route,” said the Illurian.

It wasn’t ideal, but Brokehorn knew the Illurian meant it when he said he couldn’t spare any janissaries. “Send me the route you’re taking and I’ll do what I can with the humans,” said the Old Blood, turning his attention to them. “Who is in charge?” he demanded.

“I am,” said the sole adult, short brown hair slicked to her head. She was older by decades than the rest of her charges. “Who are you?”

The Lancer could see that while she was shaken by the turn of events, she was holding herself together, and he approved.

“Brokehorn, attached to an Illurian Retribution Fleet. Who are you? Do you have a vehicle available? Or, will you have to run on foot?”

“I’m Anna, and yes, there’s a utility vehicle in the garage behind us we used…” she paused, and then continued in a lower voice. “I tried to explain to them that we hadn’t even begun Reservist training yet, that they were no threat. These are just students…”

“As well reason with a hungry Bladejaw. If you’re not a threat, you’re prey,” Brokehorn said, his nostrils flaring. “To one side,” he commanded, and the adolescents parted for him. Younger than I thought, he noted.

One of them spoke up. “Mistress Anna, we can’t move the rubble,” said a boy before turning to Brokehorn. “We were trying before when they saw us,” he explained, waving toward the Naith corpses in the street.

“I am not you,” said Brokehorn, and one claw reached out, sweeping chunks of rebar and ferrocrete to one side. He made short work of the wreckage, using his good horn to rend the metal sheeting of the garage door and expose the vehicle.

Just as he was about to order them to mount up, he heard an odd, dual-pitched baying. The Lancer whipped his head around, nearly smashing a horn into one of the humans who had gotten too close, and saw the sloping, armored forms of Naith Defenders and their hounds. The creatures making the noise were low to the ground and looked nothing more than muscular torsos with ruinous jaws full of teeth. The heavily-furred Kraka hounds would provide a screen for the Defenders and cover the distance between them and the enemy in short order.

Reflexively, Brokehorn moved forward, protecting the humans with his bulk. “Into the garage!” he demanded, activating icons on his visual display. Segments along his dorsal ridge began to glow, and the fork on his back began to spark. One of the students lost her nerve and attempted to bolt from the garage, but Anna grabbed her and pulled her back.

It was well that she did, as the fork suddenly launched a bolt of electricity, frying the first hound then jumping to the second and third and finally danced among Naith themselves, filling the air with a charred smell not unlike burnt sugar.

The Lancer shook his head to clear his nostrils, but it was a futile gesture. He stepped back from the opening and looked down the street where blackened and smoking corpses littered the ground. “Get them loaded up. We’ve got clicks to make across this warzone,” ordered the Triceratops, and he found himself again curious about how many he had killed. Brokehorn recognized the idea as a human one, but engaged it all the same. As he peered around the corner he could hear Anna loading the others into the open-sided, rugged-looking craft from inside the hangar.