Chapter 10: Stalker

“You don’t talk much, Ruza,” Fletcher said as they walked through the knee-high undergrowth.

“What would I talk about?” the Borealan grumbled, clearly unamused by his prodding.

“It’s not like there’s anything else to do out here,” Fletcher continued, hopping over an exposed root. “Not unless you like really short games of I-Spy.”

“I am not interested in making small talk,” he added, Xipa watching their exchange from her perch on Gustave’s shoulder.

“I just want to know what makes a Rask go it alone,” Fletcher said, refusing to drop the subject. “I’ve served with Borealans before, and you guys are all about the pack system. You won’t even sneeze without your Alpha’s express permission.”

“How do these packs work?” Xipa asked.

“Each pack is led by an Alpha, who’s the meanest one of the bunch,” Fletcher explained. “Everyone has to do what he says with military precision, or they’re liable to get clawed up. They decide who sits in the big chair through fights where they just beat the shit out of each other until one of them gives in.”

“That sounds barbaric,” Xipa added with a grimace.

“That is because Fletcher did a poor job of explaining it,” Ruza sighed. “Yes, dominance bouts decide who holds the position of Alpha, though those who are abusive or fail in their duties to protect the interests of their charges are quickly ousted.”

“You can’t think very much of packs if you’re not in one,” Fletcher said, Ruza’s round ears twitching with what might be irritation. Despite their reputation for having short tempers, Xipa didn’t get the impression that the Rask was angry. It was something closer to weariness, as though the subject matter made him profoundly tired.

“I left my pack because they made poor decisions on my behalf,” he finally replied. “My Alpha, my crewmaster, and my Matriarch failed in their duties. They made me do things that I knew were wrong, and I obeyed out of loyalty and fear. I suffered the consequences. My kin say that I am disturbed, insane, but I make my own choices now.”

“Insane seems like a stretch,” Bluejay interjected as he walked at the rear of their group. “Are loners so rare on Borealis?”

“You misunderstand,” Ruza continued, the way that he rolled his Rs making it sound like he was growling. “To reject the pack is to reject the hierarchy, to reject all social order. The human equivalent might be one who sequesters himself alone in the wilds – a hermit. There is no place in Borealan society for one such as I.”

“You seem to have exchanged one hierarchy for another if you signed up to be an auxiliary,” Fletcher added. “How is taking orders from a squad commander any different from taking them from an Alpha?”

“I am not an auxiliary,” Ruza replied, gesturing to one of the patches that were sewn onto his leather jacket. There were three characters there, though Xipa couldn’t read Earth’nay script. “I am a private military contractor – I serve neither the Matriarchy nor the Coalition. I decide when and where I work and who I take orders from.”

“So, you’re a merc?” Fletcher asked, appraising the feline with a new appreciation. “That’s one way to get off-planet, I suppose. You must know Vos, right? Don’t see how you’d end up here if you didn’t. I met him through his dealings with my old SWAR team.”

“Indeed,” Ruza replied. “He supported the new Matriarch’s bid to create mercenary companies from what was left of the territory’s forces after the conflict. My application must have caught his eye.”

“I can see that,” Fletcher said with a nod. “A lone Rask trying to register as a mercenary would get anyone’s attention. Especially one with your unique skillset. Rask are usually the ones causing the injuries, not fixing them.”

“After the rebellion was quelled, I took an interest in medicine. We needed more doctors, not more warriors. The Coalition was providing relief and funding training programs for doctors, farmers, and engineers. My instructors recognized my aptitude, and I was trained in human medicine.”

“That doesn’t explain why you ditched the whole concept of packs. Was it just the outcome of the rebellion or something more specific?”

“If it’s not too personal,” Bluejay added, giving Fletcher a pointed look.

“It took us this long to get him talking, he might as well finish the story,” the Earth’nay complained as he threw up his hands.

“I do not like these probing questions,” Ruza muttered, falling silent again. Fletcher scowled at Bluejay as though it was his fault, the insect giving him an apologetic shrug in response. The more time she spent with these creatures, the more Xipa was starting to learn their body language, the individual quirks and expressions of their species. Once, she would have said that no creature could possibly express itself without the aid of feathers to signal their emotional state, but these disadvantaged aliens found other, albeit less direct ways to convey what they were feeling.

As they pressed on, the forest began to darken, Xipa glancing up through the canopy to see a black crescent creeping across the gas giant’s glowing face. Night was coming, or at least, the closest thing to night on Kerguela. There would still be enough light to see by from the ceaseless auroras.

After a couple more hours, it got to the point that Fletcher put on his helmet, tapping at the touch panel by his temple as he walked along.

“It’s getting pretty dark,” he grumbled. “Full-moon dark, but dark enough to twist an ankle. Gonna switch on my night vision.”

“I often forget that humans see so poorly in the dark,” Ruza said, his own eyes glinting in the glow of the auroras like a pair of golden coins. His previously thin pupils had dilated wide to let in as much light as possible.

“We make up for it by being technological geniuses,” Fletcher replied, turning to glance up at the Rask. “The cameras on this puppy make everything as bright as day. You look just as radiant in neon green.”

Ruza rolled his eyes, continuing on through the trees. Xipa reached for her own helmet, slotting her feather sheaths into it as she slid it over her head. She suspected that her vision was better than the Earth’nay’s, but it was getting harder to see, especially in the shadow of the trees. Bluejay and Gustave seemed indifferent to the changing light conditions.

“Yeah, that shepherd definitely isn’t tailing us,” the insect announced. “It’s been a good couple of hours, and the wind has changed direction. I’d have smelled her by now.”

“Her?” Xipa asked skeptically.

“She was female,” he replied, as though it should have been obvious. “Pretty much all Bugs are.”

“But you are male?”

“Last time I checked,” he chuckled. “Winged males would usually make up the Queen’s entourage in the hive. They guard her, reproduce with her. Now, we’re just like anybody else. Except for the wings, that is. That’s why we make such good scouts.”

“Hey, guys?” Fletcher suddenly called out. “What the fuck is that?”

Bluejay hurried over to where he was standing, pointing up into one of the trees. As Gustave made his way over to join them, Xipa caught sight of it too, some kind of fine mesh that was draped over the high branches near the canopy. It looked like fine, white strands, blowing gently in the wind.

The insect popped open his wing covers, rising up into the air, one of the branches creaking under his weight as he landed on it deftly. He reached out to touch the substance, which clung to his hand as he pulled away, sticking to him stubbornly.

“It’s sticky,” he called down to them. “Some kind of ... organic fiber, I think. I’m not picking up any pheromones.”

“Please don’t tell me there are giant spiders out here,” Fletcher sighed, directing his inquiry at Xipa.

“I don’t know what a spider is, but I know of no animal that produces such fibers,” she replied. “That said, we had not come close to mapping the moon and cataloging all of its native species. I suppose it could be the product of some unknown creature, but assuming that the insects are responsible is a safer bet.”

“Bluejay, stay on the ground for the time being,” Fletcher ordered as he fiddled with the scope on his rifle. “You’re our canary.”

“Like in a mineshaft?” he asked skeptically, hopping down from the branch. He tried to wipe the sticky substance off his hand on the trunk of the tree, but that only resulted in moss and debris sticking to it. “Aren’t those sacrificial?”

“Just keep watch for pheromones,” Fletcher replied, giving Bluejay a pat on the back that the insect didn’t seem to appreciate.

They carried on, the eclipse making the forest darker with each hour that passed. The glow of the auroras above painted the landscape in wavering greens and purples, making everything look like a painting in motion. It was oddly peaceful. In the absence of any sign of the creature that might have left the sticky strands, they decided to stop and make camp to eat. The team rested in the roots of one of the larger trees, Gustave lying down on his belly as he tended to do, Xipa locking her legs as she searched for a protein bar in her pack. Bluejay remained alert, standing guard like a sentry, his feathery antennae waving in the breeze as he kept watch.

Once again, the scent of roasting meat set her mouth watering, Xipa sparing a jealous glance at Ruza as he cooked over his portable stove. The bright flame from the gel illuminated the surrounding area, not quite as strong as a campfire, but casting the faces of her companions in flickering orange all the same.

“What have you got this time, Doc?” Fletcher asked as he tore open another MRE packet. “Smells good.”

“Beef,” he replied, extending an unexpectedly long tongue to wet his lips. It looked prehensile, covered in tiny, sharp barbs. “I did not think that I would enjoy alien dishes, but the Earth meats they feed us in these MREs always lighten my mood.”

“What do Rask usually eat?” Bluejay asked. “I imagine you’re a little more expensive to feed than we are.”

“Meat, fish, and gourds make up the bulk of our diet,” Ruza replied as he reached into the packet with a fork to stir its contents. “Some grains, also. Little grows in the Rask territory, and our lake leaves much to be desired. Some regions are famous for their livestock, however. I ate well when I served the Matriarchy, but not all Rask could say the same under her rule. The banquet table was laden with meat soaked in dripping oils, salted fish appropriated from trade caravans, and the finest Raises the Hair from Elysia’s wineries.”

“Doesn’t sound all that bad,” Fletcher added, blowing on a steaming spoonful of food.

“For the Matriarch’s chosen warriors, no,” he replied. “But the common pack could scarcely sate their hunger. She drained the palace’s vaults to buy elaborate weapons rather than using the wealth to import more food.”

“Are your people faring any better after the rebellion?” Bluejay added, turning to glance at Ruza. “You said that the Coalition was providing aid?”

“Yes, much,” he replied as he lifted his meal from the stove. He fished inside it, spearing a chunk of meat the size of Xipa’s fist on his fork, chewing on it contentedly. “The newly-appointed Matriarch, Korbaz, cares more for the prosperity of her people. Some whisper that she is merely a puppet of the UNN, installed only to keep the Rask people under their boot, but I do not share these doubts. She has cut many deals with the Coalition, and their technology has allowed farms to flourish where no crops could grow before. I saw many of your kind last I was there,” he added, gesturing to Xipa with his fork. “They were overseeing farming operations and setting up machines that could draw moisture from the air.”

“That sounds like irrigation technology for desert environments,” she mused, taking a dispassionate bite of her protein bar.

Ruza suddenly stopped chewing abruptly, turning his eyes to the forest beyond. One of his round, furry ears swiveled, twitching as he listened intently.

“I thought I heard-”

Something bounced off the side of Fletcher’s helmet with enough force to give him whiplash, ringing it like a bell, the Marine letting out a yell of surprise as he reached up to grab his head.

“What the fuck was that!?”

“Something’s firing on us!” Bluejay shouted, darting for cover.

Before Xipa could even reach for her gun, an explosion rang out, knocking her off her feet. She was vaguely aware of the sensation of shrapnel hitting the layer of armor beneath her suit, her ears ringing as she fell snout-first into the dead leaves. As she rolled over, scrambling to her feet, she saw that Gustave had been hit. Smoke was rising from a burn mark on his poncho, the armored panels on his sleeve charred. He seemed none the worse for wear, loosing an intimidating rumble as he rose from his prone position.

“Take cover!” Fletcher ordered, leaning out from behind the nearest tree. Ruza reached down to grab Xipa, hoisting her light frame beneath his arm as he rushed to get out of the line of fire. There was another explosion nearby, narrowly missing them as it took out a chunk of the tree trunk ahead of them. They weren’t grenades – maybe some kind of explosive round?

A moment later, she felt the ground beneath her feet, Ruza depositing her on the forest floor before shouldering his immense rifle.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded in that gruff voice, Xipa putting on her helmet with shaking hands.

“N-no, I don’t think so.” She pulled her XMR from her back, disengaging the safety. Memories of the battle at the spaceport flashed in her mind with alarming clarity, so raw that she could almost smell the burning flesh, but she willed herself to keep her cool. In her fantasies, she had imagined herself leading an army to retake Kerguela, but the reality of being under fire again made her legs turn to jelly. “What is firing on us?”

“Can’t see shit!” Fletcher grumbled over the radio. “Night vision, thermals – I got nothing. Bluejay! You got anything on smell-o-vision?”

“I don’t sense anything!” he replied, Xipa spotting his IFF tag hovering over his head maybe twenty meters away. He was taking refuge behind a tree, bracing his weapon against the rough bark as he peeked out. His helmet was off, his long antennae waving.

Gustave was standing out in the open, raising his heavy chaingun, the triple railgun barrels starting to spool up with a mechanical whine. He planted his feet in the shrubs, protecting himself with the heavy plates of ceramic armor on his left arm, his hood pulled over his snout. Another explosion echoed through the forest, this one impacting his shield. It sent out a puff of smoke and a burst of shrapnel that shredded the nearby plants, Gustave weathering the blow, turning the spinning barrel of his cannon towards the source of the shot.

His loud bellow was audible even over the sound of his weapon as he began to fire, Xipa watching the belt of tungsten slugs start to feed from the barrel on his back, her helmet muffling the series of deafening cracks. The fire rate wasn’t as high as she had imagined, but it still dwarfed any railgun that she had seen. The steady crack-crack-crack of its projectiles shattering the sound barrier was like a hundred hammers hitting anvils in quick succession. Trails of partially-melted metal painted red-hot streaks as they lanced out into the darkness, the glow of the magnetic coils joining them. He swung the weapon around in a wide arc, creating a cone of destruction ahead of him, the forest erupting into chaos.

The hypervelocity slugs tore through the trees like they were made of paper, digging craters in their trunks, sending vicious sprays of splinters tearing into the surrounding foliage like shrapnel. Some of the smaller trees were felled, sent crashing to the ground, the sound of cracking wood rising over the cacophony of gunfire. Branches fell from the canopy, dry leaves catching fire, the weapon cutting through the forest like a saw.

He finally let up, probably to save his barrels from melting, bellowing another challenge that Xipa could feel resonate in her hollow bones. She had never seen anything like it – the beast was like an ancient Valbara’nay war deity given form.

“Guess that’s why they call them walking pillboxes,” Fletcher muttered. He swung out from behind the tree, his rifle shouldered, scanning the ruined forest ahead of them. “Still nothing. You reckon you got them, Gus?”

Before the Krell’nay could reply, another projectile impacted his right shoulder, this one punching through the tough material of his poncho. He loosed a bellow of pain, taking a faltering step backwards, his long tail sweeping through the fallen leaves. This one didn’t explode, but it seemed to have done some damage, the lumbering reptile starting to fire again as he moved to the cover of a nearby tree. Yet another shot hit his armored sleeve, this one creating a shower of bright sparks rather than exploding, a loud whizzing sound filling the air as it was deflected.

“Armor piercing!” Gustave warned, his reverberating tones translated into stilted speech.

“Fuck!” Fletcher growled, putting his back to his tree. “Stay in cover until we can figure out where these fuckers are firing from!”

“No pheromones, no body heat, suppressed weapons,” Bluejay muttered. “What are we dealing with here?”

“Gustave!” Ruza called out, his voice almost as loud as the reptile’s. “Are you injured?”

“The insect stings but does not kill,” he replied, Xipa watching as blood dripped down the front of his poncho. To her surprise, it was cobalt blue in color.

“They’re not firing plasma,” Fletcher added. “We need to get a bead on these bastards before they flank us.”

“They cannot be too far away,” Ruza added. “Their line of sight would be obstructed by the trees.”

“How many do you reckon?” Fletcher replied. “Two or three – a sniper and a spotter, maybe? A squad of Drones would have been all over us by now.”

Another projectile hit the tree that Ruza and Xipa were hiding behind, carving out a crater on the far side, the surrounding shrubs rustling as they were hit by the shower of splinters. Xipa felt the feline’s heavy hand on her shoulder, so large that his hooked claws almost reached her waist. He put himself in front of her, shielding her with his massive frame.

“Hang on, hang on,” Fletcher warned as he poked his rifle out of cover. He must be using the sights to search for the shooter’s position without exposing himself. Clever. “Picking up a faint heat signature. It’s maybe two hundred meters away, up in the branches.”

Ruza took a moment to secure his own helmet, tapping at its controls with the fleshy pad on the end of his finger. He peeked out, peering into the gloom ahead.

“I see it too.”

“Fuck! It moved out of view. Must be behind something solid. We need to rush this fucker before he changes position again!”

“Do you think there are more?” Ruza asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Fletcher replied. “We need to move on him, or he’s gonna flank us. Gustave, get over to Xipa and keep her safe. I want you laying down covering fire to keep him pinned while we move. Ruza, Bluejay, we’re gonna cover Gustave while he repositions, then we’re going to rush the shooter.”

“What about me?” Xipa protested. “I can help!”

“Negative, you’re our VIP. The only order Vos gave me was to keep you alive.”

Xipa’s suit panels flashed red with a blend of indignation and frustration. She wanted to argue, but now wasn’t the time, and she had told the admiral that she would do as Fletcher asked.

“Ready?” Fletcher yelled, Gustave uttering a low rumble in response. “Open fire!”

Xipa had to fight the urge to cover her ears reflexively, her helmet dampening the noise as Ruza leaned out of cover to fire his rifle. It was two meters long, the barrel lined with dense magnetic coils, the recoil rocking it back into his shoulder as he fired it in semi-auto. How powerful was that rifle if even someone as large as him could barely keep it under control?

Bluejay and Fletcher did the same, their slugs cutting through the trees, spraying the forest at random to force their assailant into cover. Gustave began to lumber towards her position, keeping his massive head low for all the good it would do him, able to move surprisingly quickly for one so heavy. He skidded to a stop beside her in the leaves, raising his shield arm, his bulk coming between her and the sniper.

“As soon as Gustave opens up, we move!” Fletcher ordered. Xipa remembered the chaos of the battle at the spaceport, how confused everyone had been. How could Fletcher remain so focused? Was his heart made of steel, just like his limbs?

The Krell snapped his jaws in what might be anticipation, then leaned out from behind the tree to expose the left side of his body. Immediately, another armor-piercing round slammed into his shield, bright sparks spraying as it was deflected with a sound like a steel drum being struck with a hammer. The barrels of his unwieldy cannon began to spin up, another stream of gunfire spewing out into the forest, eviscerating tree trunks and shrubs alike.

“Go!” Fletcher shouted over the radio, Xipa peeking past Gustave to watch the Earth’nay rush out of cover. Ruza followed, the giant feline crossing the distance quickly on his long legs, his claws digging into the ground for purchase in the low gravity. Bluejay joined them, the three men keeping their heads down, only inches away from the molten projectiles that zipped past above them.

Gustave let up as they neared their destination, the three of them slowing to a jog, readying their weapons as they advanced. They swept the barrels back and forth, searching the darkness for any sign of their quarry, Bluejay’s antennae waving frantically. Xipa used the zoom function on her visor to get a closer look, scanning the different spectrums.

From the branches of one of the trees, its trunk pocked with charred craters, something slid into view. It was directly above them, nigh impossible for them to see.

“Above you!” she shouted, but too late.

A long, organic barrel caught the light as it pointed down at them, the sharp bayonet mounted above it glinting. The flesh-like resin was colored in autumn hues, and it seemed to be wrapped in a layer of the sticky webbing that they had encountered earlier. Dead leaves and foliage clung to it, camouflaging it against the canopy, the weapon only distinguishable from a branch by its measured and deliberate motion.

It fired, emitting no sound that Xipa could hear, a projectile lancing down towards Ruza. Like a timed explosive, it erupted only a foot away from the Rask’s head, Ruza’s yellow eyes widening as he swung his rifle up towards the shooter. Rather than shrapnel or plasma, a net made from the same sticky, shimmering filaments extended. Momentum carried it forward, draping it over Ruza’s frame, causing his return fire to stray wide. As he fought to get free of it, it only clung to him more tightly, the tough threads tangling around his limbs.

Bluejay loosed a burst of gunfire into the trees, but the creature was already moving. Whatever it was, it was fast – Xipa catching only a blur of motion as it leapt from branch to branch. Bluejay tried to follow it, sweeping his XMR through the canopy, but quickly lost sight of it.

“Where the fuck is it?” Fletcher demanded, a flashlight beam projecting from an attachment beneath his barrel. He scanned the leaves, moving from tree to tree, but couldn’t find anything.

“Get this thing off me!” Ruza snarled, trying to tear apart the web. It was too strong, resisting even his attempts. His rifle was pressed tightly against his chest, his arms trapped such that he couldn’t aim it.

“Don’t touch it!” Bluejay warned as Fletcher moved to assist. “It’ll stick to you, too!”

There was another rustle from the branches above, Bluejay and Fletcher moving closer together, standing back to back as they aimed their weapons towards the canopy.

“We have to help them!” Xipa hissed. Gustave hesitated, sharing her sentiment, but unwilling to leave Xipa’s side. Instead, he aimed his cannon, firing another long burst into the trees. It forced the thing to move, Xipa catching a heat signature on her visor.