Chapter 7: Into the Storm

“The raiding party never reported back in,” Crewmaster Lortz said, his hands clasped neatly behind his back as Korbaz marched into the conning tower. The other personnel averted their eyes, staring at the carpet with their heads bowed, anticipating some form of retribution.

“What happened?” she demanded, leaning on the table as she examined the holographic display.

“The fleet diverted from the Araxie territory as ordered,” he replied, gesturing to the map. “They made their way to the Black Pass, where they reported their plan to engage one of the alien convoys in a dry riverbed. A short while later, we received a report that the party had been routed and that the survivors were withdrawing as per your wishes. We lost contact with them not long after. It seems likely that they were intercepted in the desert, perhaps by Coalition vehicles roving ahead of the main formation.”

“Is it possible that the sandstorm is interfering with their communications?” Korbaz suggested.

“Unlikely, Admiral. As far as we can determine, they didn’t make it very far beyond the pass. Barring some kind of freak accident, destruction is their most likely fate.”

“How many did we lose?” she asked.

“That particular raiding party was crewed by two hundred and thirty sailors,” he replied, “but they are acceptable losses.”

Korbaz looked up to glare at him, baring her sharp teeth.

“An entire fleet was wiped out to a pack, and you consider those losses acceptable?” she snarled.

“M-my apologies, Admiral,” he stammered as his ears began to flatten against his straw-colored hair. “We anticipated significant losses from the outset, and the fleet still accomplished their goal of slowing the enemy advance. They served their Matriarch well.”

“In what way is losing more than two hundred of our warriors a favorable outcome?” she hissed as she stalked around the side of the table. A nearby attendant scurried out of her path, the Crewmaster tensing as she neared him. “Would you have our Matriarch rule over a burial pit? What use does our territory have for the dead?”

She struck as fast as lightning, the Crewmaster flinching as her claws raked his cheek. Her hooked talons left a trio of furrows in their wake, which soon began to well with dark blood, spots of crimson dripping to the purple sash that he wore across his chest. The room went as silent as the grave, the tension in the air palpable.

The Crewmaster slowly bowed his head, backing away from her, making himself as inoffensive as possible.

“You have failed to carry out my orders to my satisfaction,” she snapped. “Perhaps a fresh scar will remind you to take your duties more seriously in the future.”

“Forgive me my transgression, Admiral,” he muttered as blood dripped from his cheek. Only when she had turned away did he raise a hand to stem the bleeding, returning to his place at the table.

“We will be within range of the enemy by this time tomorrow,” she continued, examining the holographic representation of the desert. “Contact the carriers and have them prepare their vehicles for combat. One more thing,” she added, pausing on her way to the exit. “The Matriarch made a special request before we parted ways. Instruct the Alphas of the assault force to attempt the capture of a human. They are to be taken unharmed, if possible. We are to return them to the territory as a trophy of our impending victory over the interlopers.”

“As you wish, Admiral.”

Korbaz made her way to the galley, her stomach growling as she stalked the halls of the crawler. The crew who got in her path seemed to sense her malice, giving her a wide berth.

Had she been right to strike the Crewmaster as she had? It was the Rask way, but something about it made her feel ... bad, and she couldn’t quite put her claw on what. The disaster at the Black Pass hadn’t been his fault, after all, but it had been his responsibility. More than that, he had made light of the catastrophic loss of life. Had that always been the position of the Matriarchy’s hierarchy, that those of lower rank were to be expended like ammunition as the situation required? A good Alpha cared for their pack, provided for them, protected them. While such sacrifices were sometimes necessary for the greater good of the territory, this one had not been.

She marched into the prefab structure that housed the galley, where the crew’s meals were prepared and served. It was furnished much like the rest of the crawler, all purple carpets and drapes, wooden chairs lining a large dining table that ran the length of the room. It was piled high with platters of dripping, oily meat, steam rising from the fresh-cooked cuts. There were crystal decanters that glittered in the light of the lamps in the ceiling above, filled to the brim with sweet spirits, clattering slightly as the vibration of the great vehicle’s tracks made the floor vibrate. She could see gourds, bottles of sauces and oils, everything that a Rask feast would require.

Korbaz doubted very much whether the crew of the other crawlers would be eating as heartily, but as the Admiral’s flagship, the Matriarch had spared no expense.

She took a seat at the head of the table, shifting her weight in the padded, silk cushion as she examined the dishes on offer. The other occupants averted their eyes, not wanting to provoke her, what had been boisterous conversations turning to hushed whispers. It was a show of respect, of deference. This was what her high status mandated, so why did it make her feel so ... excluded?

Maybe they needed a pep talk.

“Tomorrow, we do battle,” she announced. Her voice carried through the room, all ears swiveling in her direction. “For too long, we have allowed the humans to trample on our sovereignty, to mock our way of life. They have denied us our birthright, and we mean to take it back. We will restore our territory to its rightful place as the sole master of the dune seas, and we will avenge the brave warriors who spent their lives today so that we might improve our chances tomorrow.”

She grabbed a nearby decanter, upending the pink liquid into her cup, brandishing it as she rose to her feet.

“The humans have a curious custom, they call it ‘a toast’,” she said with a sneer. “They raise their glasses in salute to a person or an idea. It is said to bring them good fortune. It is only fitting that we should turn this tradition against them, as we have done their vaunted technology. I propose a toast to our victory over the aliens, that we might crush their forces on the field tomorrow, and send them scurrying back to the safety of their ships. To victory!”

She downed her glass in one gulp, her fellow crewmen mimicking the gesture.

“To victory!” they repeated, a little less enthusiastically than she had envisioned.

“You there,” she continued, gesturing to a nearby crew member with her empty glass. He was stout, with broad shoulders and a sun-kissed complexion, the badges on his jacket denoting his reasonably advanced rank in the hierarchy. “What dishes do you recommend?”

“Dishes, my Admiral?” he asked. He seemed confused and frightened by being singled out, as innocent as her intent was. Her question seemed to have shut down his brain.

“Yes, which meat is the most tender tonight? I have been off-planet for longer than I would like, and I am eager to reacquaint myself with the flavors of the homeworld.”

“P-perhaps this one would be to your liking, Admiral,” he suggested as he reached for one of the platters. It was the leg of a large herbivore that was native to the Araxie territory, its name escaping her. It must have been brought back by a raiding party shortly before the crawlers had set out. The Araxie jungle was far more lush than that of the Rask territory, the game larger and more succulent. Its flesh had been carved into strips, exposing the pale bone beneath, her mouth watering as she breathed in the scent of the roasted meat. He passed it to her, and she reached out with her black claws, hooking one of the strips. The skin was crisped just the way she liked it, slathered in a generous coating of what smelled like fish oil. She took a large, wet bite, rolling the tender meat across her barbed tongue.

“A fine selection,” she said, taking another bite as the crewman seemed to sag with relief.

“Where do you hail from, boy?” she asked.

“Todizka village, honored Admiral,” he replied.

“Todizka,” she muttered, chewing as she considered. “That’s on the Western shore, if I’m not mistaken, not too far from the West Gate.”

“You would be correct, Admiral.”

“Is there much plunder to be had West of the territory? Are your people eating their fill?”

“Not ... as of late, my Admiral,” he replied hesitantly.

“Well? Speak up,” she continued, hooking another slice of meat and dropping it heavily to her plate. “What problems do they face there?”

“To complain would be to question the Matriarch’s wisdom,” he said, stopping just short of wringing his furry hands. “As well as the competence of the ministers who she has appointed to manage the territory.”

“Come now, you can express your concerns in my company. It has been many years since I toured the territory, my business has confined me to the capital, or sent me off-world. I would like to know how things have progressed in my absence.”

He hesitated, but it was clear to her that he wanted very badly to speak. She gave him a moment, seasoning her meat with a few drops of oil as she waited for him to muster the courage.

“This great endeavor will restore our territory to its former glory,” he began, “to the days when our people were masters of sail and sand. We will be able to take whatever we need, and we will prosper once again. I understand this logic, the Matriarch’s wisdom is undeniable. And yet ... building this fleet, arming our soldiers ... it was such a great expense. The Matriarch has her reasons, and it is not my place to question her strategy, but I have heard rumors that the treasury is nigh empty.” He stared at his plate, piled high with food. “I would rather eat rations than dine on exotic meats if it meant that my pack and my littermates could go to bed with full bellies.”

Korbaz glanced at the fineries that surrounded them, at the elaborate dishes spread out across the table, at the flowing drapes that cascaded from the ceiling like silken waterfalls. Her people had struggled since contact with the humans had changed the power dynamic on Borealis, this was true. Elysia’s influence had been spreading, making the trade routes far more secure. The concessions that the Matriarchy had made in order to gain access to the same technology that was quickly making Elysia Borealis’ sole superpower had further impacted the Rask economy. What piracy and raiding still went on was in violation of the Coalition charter, and had to be done in secret.

This war was to be their breakout, the Matriarch had been building her forces for so long, biding her time until the perfect moment to strike. Weapons, crawlers, missiles. These things were all necessary elements of their strategy, but what of silken drapes? What of succulent meats imported from Araxie? These vehicles were a show of force and status as much as they were military weapons, but if the outlying villages were suffering, should those resources not be diverted to help the needy?

“Trust in the Matriarch,” Korbaz replied, concealing her own doubts so reflexively that she even surprised herself. “Once we snatch victory from the hands of our enemies, wealth will flow into our territory once again.”

“Of course,” he replied, bowing his head. “I have ... complete faith.”

Korbaz resumed her meal, leaving the crewman a little less reassured than she had intended. There was nothing to be done about it right now, better to just take her mind off it.

“More meat,” she declared, waving to one of the attendants. Another hunk of steaming flesh was placed before her, dripping with juices that pooled on the plate beneath it. She hesitated for a moment, then dug in, pausing to lick the flavored oils from her furry fingers as she feasted. There was little conversation to be had at the table, the respect of her underlings manifested as silence. Memories of the recreation center on the Pinwheel flashed before her mind’s eye, the sounds of merriment, music, and laughter.

She would be going to bed alone again tonight. Sure, she could have her pick of the crew, not one of them would dare refuse her. Her bed could be overflowing with young, beautiful warriors if that was what she wished. Somehow, that idea merely bored her. She hadn’t the stomach to be fawned over by servile, cowering bedmates right now.

The attendant refilled her cup, Korbaz swirling the pink liquid around in her glass, peering into it as though it might contain the answers that she sought.

The storm hammered the hull with airborne particles, the noise audible even through the layers of armor. It sounded like a hailstorm from hell beating down on a tin roof.

“I gotta crank up the headlights,” Mizi muttered, squinting at her displays. “I can hardly see where I’m going, the dust so so thick...”

The beams of light barely served to cut through the sepia haze, limiting their visibility to maybe fifty or sixty meters. The wind blew sand from the dunes, creating streams in the air.

“We should stop here,” Ben suggested. “It’s gonna be night soon, and visibility will get even worse. We can’t scout if we can’t see. Mizi, find us some nice tall dunes to hide behind.”

They pulled between two towering mounds of sand that offered them some measure of protection from the storm, Ben instructing Mizi to remain inside while he and Lozka went out to secure the camouflaged netting. He collected a few items before he opened the bay door, including an armful of what looked like stakes with electronic components on one end.

“What are those for?” Lozka asked, securing her goggles as the door began to lower.

“They’re proximity sensors,” he replied. “We’re not going to be able to see shit in this, so it’s kind of pointless to have anyone on watch, and we can’t get a drone up. These will alert us if anyone gets inside the perimeter.”

“A wise decision,” she replied, stepping out into the storm with her mesh cloak wrapped tightly around her. Now that darkness was falling, it was almost like being in the midst of a blizzard, a whiteout in shades of orange.

“Lozka, do me a favor and go fetch me one of the reinforced cables we use for towing,” he said, his voice crackling as it came through his helmet’s external speakers. “I want to tie it to my belt before I go out there to plant the sensors. I’m worried about getting turned around, I won’t even be able to see the Timberwolf after maybe fifty meters.”

She did as he asked, and he clipped it to his belt with a carabiner, beginning his march out into the desert as she held onto the other end. He had to lean into the wind to save from being knocked off balance, the sand hammering at his visor as he trudged along. It seemed enough to blind a person, he’d have to remember to remind everyone to wear their protective gear before any EVAs. The loose sand was difficult to walk in, again reminding him of snow as he sank up to his ankles, leaning over to stab the sensors into the ground at intervals. The devices linked together through an ad-hoc network, using their sensors to detect anything moving nearby, above or below ground. They were originally intended to detect Bugs that were tunneling beneath the surface. They’d certainly be buried come morning, but the Timberwolf was stocked with a lot of them, enough that losing a couple of dozen wasn’t a big deal. After creating a hundred-meter perimeter as best he could manage, he made his way back along the line, squinting through the haze. The vague shadow of the Timberwolf finally took form, Lozka reeling him in like a fisherman as she came back into view.

“Alright,” he panted, “let’s get the Wolf battened down. With any luck, we won’t have to dig ourselves out of a sand drift tomorrow.”

When they returned to the safety of the troop bay, Mizi was waiting for them with her legs locked, a collection of MRE packets laid out on the mattresses before her. She was manipulating them with both her hands and the feather sheaths on her forearms, the odd appendages reaching out to grip the plastic sleeves like tentacles, giving her short arms more reach. She slotted one of them into a flameless ration heater, passing it to her three-fingered hands before shaking it to get the chemical reaction going. She was wrapped up in one of the sleeping bags again. With the sandstorm blocking the sunlight, the temperature had dropped even quicker than they were used to.

“Time to eat,” she announced, greeting them with a flash of pink. “I took the liberty of preparing our meal. Hot food went down so well last time, and ... well, Val’ba’ra’nay flocks usually eat together. It makes me feel more at ease.”

“You figured out how to use the ration heaters?” Ben asked, attempting to shake some of the sand out of the creases in his pressure suit.

“Sure, I watched you cook last time.”

“My people are also social eaters,” Lozka replied, shrugging off her camouflaged cloak. It had done a decent job of shielding her from the worst of the storm, but damp fur and sand didn’t go well together, and some of it was sticking to her coat. It seemed to irritate her, the alien growling as she tried to brush it off. “It would be nice to share a meal,” she added, planting herself on the mattress beside her Valbaran counterpart. They were so comically mismatched, the Araxie was near twice the Valbaran’s height.

Mizi beamed as she handed her a steaming packet of food, Lozka lifting it to her nose, filling her lungs with its scent. She fished inside and speared a cube of nondescript meat on her claw, bringing it to her mouth. The little alien passed another cardboard sleeve to Ben as he sat across from them, crossing his legs. It was beef ravioli, not bad.

“As I was telling Lozka,” he began, picking up a plastic fork as he started to dig in. “We can’t see anything in the storm, and I’ve set up a perimeter using the motion sensors, so we’ll get an alert if anyone comes within a hundred meters of us. There’s no need for anyone to be on watch, so we can all get six or seven hours of sleep tonight. Eat up, then get some rest, these opportunities are usually few and far between in a warzone.”

Mizi had been heating up some water as well, carefully pouring the boiling liquid into a pair of cups. One was more cranberry juice, while the other was hot cocoa, Ben reaching out to take the latter from one of her flexible tendrils.

“I miss eating with my flock like this,” she said, wriggling deeper into her sleeping back as she blew on her hot juice. “There was a round dining table in the living area of our house back in Pilbara, my home city, and all six of us would crowd around it whenever we ate. It would be strewn with all kinds of dishes. Bowls full of vegetables and fish raised in the hydroponic farms, grains, flame-roasted meats if it was the right season. We’d pass the food and seasonings around without needing to be asked. We all knew what the others liked, you see, what their favorites were. A flock is like a family, but closer, more intimate. We know each other as well as we know ourselves.”