SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

FALLEN LION Jack Hanson

The Lancer snorted and ran his claws along the composite decking under his feet, his annoyance getting a hold on him for a second. The smell of coppery blood was bothering him, made worse by the humidity in the air that was conditioned to Old Blood and Illurian preferences. Yet to the Triceratops known as Brokehorn, it only made the smell more cloying and aggravating.

If the dhimion leading the briefing had not been someone Brokehorn respected, he might have said something to the Bladejaw standing next to him in regard to the Tyrannosaurus’ hygiene. It would, however, be poor precedent for the human janissaries standing in front of them at parade rest, sweat running down the backs of their necks into their gray battle armor. Brokehorn held his tongue.

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.

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.

“I once read the work of a human philosopher who posited that all humanity is born bad. He described the natural state of man as ‘nasty, brutish and short.’ So something or someone uplifted them, and gave them a reason to do all the good deeds that I mentioned before. Perhaps that same force has worked its will on us,” he said shifting within his heavy armor, settling it ready for combat. “Others call it ‘Separated’, meaning we are separate from other Old Bloods in that we feel more compassion for other races.”

Green lights began to flash in sequence, alerting any personnel to stand back as the blast doors to the transport craft began to open. The two Old Bloods would ride down to the surface separately, even though they were being deposited in the same area of operations. If one of the craft went down – a rare event, but not entirely unheard of – it wouldn’t throw the plan of attack into complete disarray.

“I hope we will be able to talk more about this after the battle, assuming we survive,” shouted Ripper over the sounds of the doors opening.

Grudgingly, Brokehorn voiced his agreement. “Likewise, in spite of you smelling like whatever it was you last ate, I find the strength of the discussion overwhelms even your scent, though it is a close thing.”

“It is good to know that if all of our other weaponry fails, you can still likely whine the enemy to death,” said Ripper, surprising Brokehorn again and entering his transport ship, the doors shutting behind him. “‘I’ll see you on the ground’, as the janissaries say,” Ripper shouted behind him.

“Indeed you will,” Brokehorn murmured as he shambled into his own dark craft. The doors hummed behind him and he stood in the dimly-lit space for a moment before the pilot spoke over the airwaves.

“Sir, it’ll be about a minute to planet-side, and we drop in three minutes,” said the human, instantly recognizable by his use of an honorific to address an Old Blood. It wasn’t that the Illurians were rude, but they saw themselves in a much different light.

“I saw in my briefing that there was no anti-aircraft weaponry on the ground, but there’s a risk of interception?” asked Brokehorn. Secretly, being shot out of the sky and falling the rest of the way was one of his fears. He had heard it referred to by some of the human pilots as ‘controlled flight into terrain’ with a typical sense of black humor he appreciated more every day.

“You’d be correct, sir, it being a full Federation raid. We’ve got a good wing of Errant fighters supporting us, though, so we’ll get you to the ground in one piece,” the human assured him. Brokehorn heard the locks disengaging, as the transport craft unlatched from the larger troop carrier.

The inside walls of the compartment shifted inward, limiting how much the Old Blood could be thrown around in case evasive maneuvers were necessary. Deep insertion via lander was never the preferred solution for getting Old Bloods to the battlefield. Drop pods were faster and safer in most cases, but mainly only used if the Dominion would be occupying the planet. When a beachhead was necessary, the tactical advantage was more apparent when an Old Blood was supported by janissaries arriving at the same time.

The Lancer’s claws scraped at the steel grating below him as the craft sharply descended, rumbling as it made entry into the planet’s atmosphere. He had begun counting down from the time of descent, and as he reached twenty felt a sudden blow rock the left side of the shuttle.

Before he could respond, the pilot had already begun talking. “Sir, we picked up a bogey on the way down. He fired some sort of energy weapon at us and disabled everything on my left wing. I can make it back to the Sea Spray, but I need to put you down a few kilometers away from your original drop zone. I don’t think this hulk is going to make it all the way there carrying your tonnage,” he explained quickly, pausing in the middle to shout something to his copilot.

“As long as you don’t put me into a crater you can drop me on the other side of the world for all I care,” said Brokehorn, controlling his breathing and flexing his claws. In response, the front ramp cracked, and he saw the sky flashing by, filled with stars. Fast, he thought, and wondered what kind of effort the crew was giving to keep them aloft.

The ramp began to yawn open, and Brokehorn saw they were descending into a besieged cityscape. The transport seemed to be aiming for an open green space. Brokehorn heard an explosion, and saw the shield flare up momentarily as they landed. The interior walls expanded, and Brokehorn bounded out. “I’m clear!” he shouted.

“Good luck!” the pilot added as his wedge-shaped transport streaked skyward without thirty tons of Old Blood weighing it down. Brokehorn didn’t watch, instead turning his attention to the squad of Naith in the middle of the street a few hundred meters away, firing at the ship.

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.

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.

More corpses were scattered, smoldering from the energy discharge. Brokehorn realized an entire company of Defenders were dead around him. His chain lightning-fork had hopped from foe to foe to the last soldier, and the results were visible before him. It was a stroke of luck he wasn’t going to question.

He turned back to the humans to find Anna driving the truck into the street. He trotted up to them, the ground rumbling only slightly under his steps as he approached. He was eye-level with the driver’s open-topped compartment, and Anna looked past him to the alien wreckage he left behind before gazing at his weaponry. “That one thing did... that?” she asked.

“It did, but it won’t be able to do so for a while,” Brokehorn admitted. Part of what had piqued his curiosity was that the energy drain on the weapon was much higher than normal. His eyes commanded his HUD to bring up the route the task force was taking – they still had a rough trip ahead of them.

“Listen to me,” the Triceratops told her, raising the screens on his helmet so she could look at his eyes. Humans always liked seeing your eyes, he had realized early on in his career. “If I engage something you need to keep heading west,” he explained. “Eventually you should meet up with friendly lines.”

“And what of you?” Anna asked the Lancer.

“What about me?” he replied.

“Will you be all right?”

Brokehorn snorted. “I will live or die. Nothing less, nothing more.”

The human woman looked at him, and then shook her head. “You are very brave beneath the fatalism,” she told him as she put the vehicle into gear.

Brokehorn didn’t respond, but the comment made him wonder what she meant by ‘brave’. He had explained to Ripper his reasons for fighting, but he had never considered what he did to be of that refined act the humans called courageous. They walked along until the vehicle shifted gear, and Brokehorn began to trot.

It was good that he had built his speed up because the Butcher tank turned smoothly as it came into the center of the road and fired its missiles. Brokehorn was able to leap forward and put his body between the weapons and the vehicle behind him.

His anti-missile systems engaged, defeating the Leitani armaments’ countermeasures. Intense, narrowly-directed lasers danced off his armor and fried the warheads, causing them to explode in mid-flight. That didn’t end his problems though, as two armored figures dismounted from the hull of the hovering, wedge-shaped tank.

“Get down a side street!” Brokehorn roared at Anna, returning fire with his machine guns then firing his hip mortars. Smoke rounds burst in the street in front of him as he took his own advice just in time. Powerful energy beams from the Khajali rai’liths blasted craters in the ground where he had just stood, debris raining everywhere.

Turning in the tight corridor, Brokehorn calmed his breathing and waited until he heard the sound of claws scraping the asphalt in the smoke-filled street in front of him. Then he filled it with fire from his flamethrowers, spewing flaming fuel. Shields were no use against the stuff, as it moved too slow to activate them. One warrior flung its arm about wildly, trying to dislodge the adhesive stuff from his arm. The other bellowed as it sunk to its knees – it had caught both streams full-on and was now a humanoid-shaped flaming totem.

Quickly, the Lancer moved to engage the partially aflame Khajali, machine guns firing at close range. The alien’s shield sprung up in response, but couldn’t stop the Old Blood bearing down on him, his rai’lith only notching Brokehorn’s intact horn before being ripped from the alien’s grasp. Brokehorn activated his flamethrowers again, and turned as the Khajali fell to the ground, the corpse hidden behind the thick flames.

There was no time to watch his handiwork as his shield sprang up. The butcher tank had silently approached him in the melee, and it had been joined by another. At close range, the purple light pulsed underneath the black vehicle, the anti-gravity technology a trademark of the Leitani species. An opaque dome rose from the wedge-shaped base, where twin cannons rode either side of it, with a large anti-aircraft gun riding on the dorsal mount. The guns spun up again, and Brokehorn’s shield’s dropped. Pain lanced into him as shrapnel penetrated the exposed thick scales that protected his sides.

The second tank popped up above its comrade, its missile’s aiming downwards toward him. The Lancer realized he had only one option, counter intuitive as it may have seemed. He charged forward and slid his horn underneath the floating tank in front of him and heaved upwards. The tank’s pilot did not respond fast enough to the sudden strike and was hurled into the air. With a crunch of metal on metal the two tanks collided just as the second butcher fired its missiles.

They had not traveled far enough to arm their fuses, but instead functioned as metal spears. The range was close enough that the two powerful shields interfered with each other, and the missile wasn’t turned. Instead there was a high-pitched whine as the anti-gravity engines failed on the first butcher. This was followed by a low drone as the second tank couldn’t keep them both in the air, and they crashed into the ground.

Brokehorn had the good sense to retreat from the impact zone of the twin tanks in the few seconds of chaos. He had made just enough distance to save his life as the impact activated the fuse on one of the missiles. It exploded in a blossom of green fire. This combustion set off a chain reaction in short order – all the ordnance on the twin tanks exploded. Chunks of metal were hurled down the street, and Brokehorn sought refuge in another side street. All the same, one jagged piece of wreckage lodged itself into his side and he caught himself before he screamed in shock as much as pain. Another piece crashed into his armored side, and he dropped to his knees, trying to catch his breath as he shook his head.

“That last one would have killed me,” he murmured. The thought of his own mortality worried him for a moment, and then he turned it aside. He had a greater responsibility than his own life to worry about, especially after his bold words to Ripper in the Sea Spray.

As if on cue, Ripper’s voice came to life on his radio. “Brokehorn, what is going on over there? We just saw a massive explosion near your last reported position. Are you all right?” asked Ripper, unable to keep the concern out of his tone.

Brokehorn tried to catch his breath, winced, and then spoke in clipped bursts. “Two butcher tanks. Company of Naith Defenders. Three Khajali. All dead. Humans safe,” he said, backing out of the side street. He motioned with his head for the humans to follow in their truck. “This way,” he told them, loping down the road and ignoring the stabbing pain in his side. He did not see the wide-eyed looks the human wore as they passed the charred Khajalian corpses or the flaming wreckage of the butcher tanks.

“You’re injured,” said Ripper.

“I’ll live,” Brokehorn said, mentally chiding himself. Maybe he did whine as much as Ripper claimed.

“There are no assurances on that, but I won’t let it happen because I wasn’t there,” Ripper retorted. “Dhimion, I’m going to assist the Lancer with his escort mission. He’s wounded and needs aid.”

There was a pause before Cruzah responded. “I heard your conversation. You have my full permission, Bladejaw. There’s chatter on the enemy frequencies though. Some of the Khajal are speaking of a beast, a living tank of rage and metal that cannot be stopped, guarding a cargo of prey it took from them...” said the Dhimion, trailing off.

Brokehorn knew his last Khajali kills had been as much luck as his own skill. He knew he had likely been fighting lower-caste Khajal, not the elder soldiers of that frightful race. If he was being marked as a trophy that would change in short order.

“Dhimion, I’m attaching a Xeno Medical Squad to accompany me,” said Ripper, his voice a low rumble interspersed with snorts – the Bladejaw was running now.

Cruzah did not comment on the breach of protocol, only telling Ripper, “Make sure you keep them close by. For all we know the Khajal might think you’re the beast,” said Cruzah.

“Acknowledged,” growled Ripper. There was none of his easy wit from earlier. “Lancer, I’m a few clicks from your position. Stay tight and rampart yourself.”

“Madness. They know I’m here. They’ll come to claim the thrombium off their dead no matter what. I’ll meet you,” he managed to get out before he felt a sudden weight on his back and a piercing agony to the left of his spine. He squealed in pain and surprise. His body knew what had happened before understanding hit home, and it responded as if a utahraptor had done the deed instead of the Khajali knight that had mounted him.

Brokehorn rolled, his bulk coming off the ground for a second to body slam the offending alien into the road. The Khajal attempted to throw himself clear, but there was nowhere to go. Trapped between the building and the Triceratops, the only thing that saved the Khajal was that the structure wasn’t able to take thirty tons of dinosaur smashing into it. The entire edifice crumbled on top of the Khajal, stone and mortar bouncing off Brokehorn.

Fueled by pain and adrenaline, Brokehorn staggered to his feet, the wild swinging of the Khajali’s rai’lith scoring him across his flank. As the alien pushed itself free of the rubble, the Lancer was there. Brokehorn didn’t have room for a charge or to use his bulk, but the weapon he chose was just as effective.

The parrot-like bill of the Triceratops was surprisingly strong, needing to be in order to rend the tough plants that made up the typical meal of the herbivore. Brokehorn clamped it around the Khajali’s waist, holding his foe in place.

The glowing in the Old Blood’s eye as the rai’lith charged only spurred Brokehorn to action, and the Triceratops reached the Khajali’s arm with his claw before he gave a savage jerk of his head. The arm ripped free easily, and the warrior roared in pain as Brokehorn repeated the process on the other side, again flinging the useless limb into a pile of rubble. The Khajali’s last act was to gnaw ineffectually at Brokehorn’s nasal horn.

The Lancer’s balance was off, so he shook himself and the wreckage of his lightning fork fell to the ground with a clang. “Are you… are you all right?” shouted one of the humans from the truck. Brokehorn looked over, and saw the faces were pale and wide-eyed, gawking between the Triceratops and the dismembered body of the Khajali knight.

“I’ll be fine,” said Brokehorn with a low grunt, smelling the hot copper scent of his blood mingling with the odor from the musky Khajalian blood. He could not see the wounds, but knew that he was bleeding quite badly from the smell alone.

“Forward! Forward,” he demanded of Anna, ignoring the pain that radiated all over. He had made it this far with them, and right now he didn’t care if he died – his only concern was that the Khajali were denied and the humans made it to safety.

“You’re bleeding!” she shouted over to him as she punched the truck into a higher gear.

Brokehorn stumbled but managed to keep his feet. “I’ve had worse,” he lied, forcing air into his lungs but failing to catch his breath. There was a ringing in his ears, and for a moment he thought the screams were a hallucination. Brokehorn turned his head and spied one of the Khajal on top of the truck, rai’lith charging for a calamitous burst into the passenger compartment of the vehicle. Another Khajali appeared in a shower of sparks, its mirror cloak no longer.

With a roar, Brokehorn swung his head against the truck. It rolled, throwing the Khajali off balance and the shot went wide, opening a charred hole in the road several meters deep. The Khajali atop the truck had leapt clear as the vehicle rolled on its side, and shouted something at Brokehorn in its own language.

It was far too close to the humans to risk the flamethrowers, and the machine guns wouldn’t puncture the thrombium or get through the shields in time. Brokehorn ignited his booster rockets, and swore he saw the Khajali’s eyes widen in shock as the Triceratops’ massive bulk went from stationary to hurtling.

They collided, and the enemy warrior ended up under the Lancer. A deep, twisting pain skewered through Brokehorn’s belly. The Khajali’s blade. It was no matter. Brokehorn pulled himself back as quick as he could, leaving the Khajali smeared with the Lancer’s blood. Both of the alien’s arms were pinned, and it snapped at Brokehorn with its jaws. Small pricks peppered Brokehorn as the Khajal attempted to bring his rai’lith to bear. Brokehorn drove his massive claws into the unarmored space in what little neck the Khajali had. There was a sudden, shocked croak. The alien went still beneath him, his neck so many ribbons of meat.

The world throbbed in the Lancer’s vision; he was dying. The sound of footsteps. The second Khajali. He couldn’t make out the alien’s language, but the tone was not the taunting he expected. It was that of one professional saluting the dedication of another; the Khajali seemed almost sorrowful as it placed the blade of its rai’lith between Brokehorn’s eyes and began charging the cannon.

Brokehorn fired first. The attachment over the stump of his horn came to life in a scintillating beam of white light, melting the flesh of the Khajali and leaving only singed and slightly warped thrombium among a pile of ashes as the self-contained energy weapon fired.

“One last... act of defiance,” murmured Brokehorn, laying his head down and wondering why he felt so cold. There were many hands on him now, telling him not to die, but he didn’t wish to hear that.

He swore that he could feel grass on his cheek, and the scent of blood that annoyed him so was replaced by that of freshly cut hay. He didn’t have the strength to ask the humans if they knew which star was Sol System, so he could die gazing at blessed Kah.

Screams startled him, and he opened one eye to see another duo of Khajali walking towards them, claws pointing at the humans. Brokehorn attempted to stand, but it only precipitated his fall into darkness. The smell of grass became overpowering, and there was gold at the edge of his vision. The last thing he heard before he died was a monstrous roar, and the thought that accompanied it: that sounds like a Bladejaw...

White was the first color that greeted the Lancer, and even then it was fuzzy. He opened his jaws once, twice, trying to dislodge his tongue from the bottom of his mouth.

“He’s awake!” exclaimed a familiar voice, and Brokehorn felt more than saw the shifting of great mass.

“I can see that,” said a female voice, somewhat annoyed. “He’s going to want water, and you standing up like that will likely get someone trampled and give me more work.”

Brokehorn thought water was a fine idea, and thought to say as much. All that came out was a tired wheeze, his throat far too tight to make noise and activate his vox harness.

A warm hand touched his face, and he could see better now. A dark claw with a figure in white in front of him. As he focused, he saw it was a human woman who attended him. An older woman; her hair was flecked with silver, and she had many lines around her eyes. She found a smile for him though, and placed a hose into his mouth. “Swallow as much as you can, and if some of it runs out, well it’s no problem. Cleaning up is part of the job, and we certainly don’t mind doing it for heroes,” she told him.

He didn’t register what she said, as the feeling of cool water gushing down his dry throat was a wonder that captivated him. He drank eagerly, only stopping when pain deep in his gut forced him to. Brokehorn saw the nurse’s eyes squint and she nodded. “Pain?”

“Yes,” he managed, his voice still rusty. “In my stomach.”

The nurse nodded again. “That’s to be expected. I imagine the flesh there is still healing, even though they took the stitches out a week ago,” she explained.

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“Nearly three weeks now. We... we didn’t think you were going to make it when they brought you here,” she admitted. “But here you are, and that’s what matters.”

“How bad was it?”

She shook her head. “I’ll let the doctor talk about that. I don’t want to get into specifics,” she told him. Brokehorn had a feeling that was her final word on that subject. “I’m sure your friend will want to talk to you about it though, so you can ask him. I’m Nurse Sera, and please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

“Is there food? Can I eat?” he asked her, trying to rise but pain forced him back.

There was a guffaw from above, and Sera looked up for a moment, scowling, before turning back to the Lancer. “I’ll see what I can get for you, but it’s likely going to be nutrient fluid for a bit until your gut heals up a bit more,” she told him, and then turned to the other being present in the room. “You have ten minutes with him, but he needs his strength. Don’t make me come in here and have you forced out again,” she told the Tyrannosaurus.

“I don’t think I have ten minutes of conversation in me,” responded Ripper.

The nurse shook her head and left, leaving Ripper and Brokehorn alone.

Brokehorn was able to take stock of his surroundings now. The two were in a cavernous, white room with one wall dedicated to a haptic chart of his vitals, which showed his improving medical history over different timelines. Above him hung a large piece of cloth; he couldn’t make out what it was, but didn’t care. Instead, he turned to Ripper.

“You just happened to be here?” Brokehorn asked.

“I did, but...”

“You were here every day?”

The Bladejaw nodded, opening his mouth several times before finding words. “It was bad. I arrived just as the other Khajal arrived and well, I finished off the two of the three survivors.”

Brokehorn tilted his head at this. “I killed six. I was nearly dead when those three arrived.”

“So you were. But the humans convinced themselves you killed seven, so that’s what they told Dhimion Cruzah,” explained Ripper. “They survived, though some were injured when you rammed the truck. They were very effusive in their praise of your valor.”

There was another pause. “How bad was it?” Brokehorn inquired softly. This realization of his own mortality was a new thing to him.

“You died,” said Ripper. “I remember the lead medic telling me that as they began working on you.”

“If I died, why would they try to bring me back in the middle of an active battlefield? Especially when surrounded by Federation troops.” Triage procedures of the Dominion military prohibited resuscitation.

“Maybe they decided an effort was better than answering to an enraged Bladejaw.” Ripper responded.

The two Old Bloods locked gazes for a moment, and it was Brokehorn who spoke into the silence. “But why all that for a dinosaur you just met?”

“Because I think...” Ripper paused again, as though searching for the words. “We understand each other. Not just being Separated, but we understand the reasons we fight. Call me selfish but I was not ready to lose that, not after finding it so soon. I would not have the promise of a friendship taken away from me.” There was none of the light acerbic wit in Ripper’s words, and Brokehorn found himself touched.

“Besides,” said Ripper quickly, nodding toward the banner above them. “This is the kind of thing you don’t usually see at all.”

Brokehorn followed Ripper’s gaze. It was a banner – gold on black. There was a lion in profile, scaling what looked like a pile of dead hyenas. Red slashes were stitched all over the lion, who seemed to be roaring, likely for the final time.

“They give that to those who died in battle,” said Brokehorn, remembering what Ripper had said but speaking the words all the same.

“So you did. Your actions were heroic, believe it or not. The Order of the Fallen Lion, and you the only living member,” said Ripper. “I am impressed, not just for the deeds you accomplished.”

“What else would impress you?”

“That you did believe in the ideals we expressed before that battle to spend your life in pursuit of them,” said Ripper.

“That was the mission,” began Brokehorn.

“No, the mission was incidental. You died as true as you lived. So few beings ever do,” said Ripper.

A small door opened, and Nurse Sera stood there, her hands on her hips, glaring at the Tyrannosaurus.

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Ripper grumbled, turning away from her and heading toward the large doors on the other side of the room.

“You’ll...” Brokehorn began, and then forced himself to ask. “You’ll be here tomorrow?”

“I will,” promised Ripper. “Sleep well, friend.”

Brokehorn watched him go, and he was left alone with Nurse Sera as she went about her tasks. He was tired, but he had slept for weeks and had questions. “Nurse,” he said, and she turned toward him.

“Lancer, what can I do for you?” she asked him.

“The humans I saved, do you know where they are now?” he asked her.

She frowned, and gave a small shake of her head. “Hopefully they found their parents and are trying to recover, physically and mentally, but I truthfully don’t know. Children are tough though – they bounce back faster than you think.”

“That’s good then,” Brokehorn said, thinking of how the young humans had looked at him while he ripped apart the Khajalian. How many nightmares would that bring on?

Sera paused, visibly thinking, and then moved closer to Brokehorn. “May I ask a question?” The Lancer nodded for her to go on. “Why did you do that?”

“Because he was trying to kill me,” said Brokehorn, and then realized that he had been thinking of the Khajali that he had slaughtered.

“I know that,” began Sera, misunderstanding, “but you killed yourself saving human children. Why though? It’s obvious the Illurians don’t care – the ones who aren’t fighting, that is. So why do you? You could have left them to their fate and no one would have thought less of you,” she said. Her voice was soft, and she had moved closer to him, resting a hand on his crest and looking him in the eye.

There was only one answer he could give her that would be true, and to voice it would be to accept his status as Separated and no longer simply Old Blood. “Because it was the right thing to do,” he said, meeting her gaze evenly. As he said it, he realized there would be no mate from the garden worlds for him. He would never be part of a herd of Lancers, and would remain forever ignorant of that which bonded his own kind.

For a second it was frightening, and then he saw Sera push tears away from her eyes, and smile down at him. “You are all so wonderful. Thank you,” she whispered at him, turning away. He felt the fear vanish at her sincere expression of gratitude, and instead it was replaced by a cocktail of emotions he had no name for. The dinosaur turned his head with some pain, to look at the banner that hung above him. He had traded away easy pleasures for the hard road, but so be it. It would not be a lonely road, at least, and some would live that otherwise would not.

His last thought before he settled back down to sleep was a human one. He had no regrets.