Chapter 15: Reality Check

“So, why do you sound like you have ten different accents?” Fletcher asked, lifting one of his prosthetic legs to step over a protruding root.

“What do you mean?” Xipa sighed, bobbing gently along with Gustave’s gait as she rode on his shoulder.

“Sometimes when you talk, you sound American,” the Earth’nay explained. “Other times, you sound British, sometimes Indian, sometimes Russian. Why is that?”

“I am not aware of your accents,” Xipa explained, a flutter of irritation passing through her headdress. “My people learn languages through mimicry. If a word or phrase is spoken in an accent, then we shall repeat it in the same manner that we heard it.”

“It makes you sound like a parrot,” Fletcher chuckled.

“I don’t know what a parrot is,” she hissed, growing weary of his constant prodding. He seemed to have grown bored since the ambush two days prior, and he now found his amusement in making pointless small talk. “Not all Valbara’nay are obsessed with your kind, you know,” she added.

“That implies there are some who are,” he shot back with a grin that exposed his flat teeth.

“Not a day goes by that I am not exposed to human music or insipid alien media,” she grumbled. “I cannot walk the streets of my city without hearing it bleeding out of the lounges and restaurants.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with human music?” Fletcher asked in mock outrage.

“Imagine listening to a song sung by a creature whose vocal range is one-tenth that of your own,” Xipa continued with a flush of annoyed red. “Every human song sounds like it’s off-key, it’s maddening.”

“But, what about our music? You can’t tell me you hate the sound of an electric guitar.”

“Vulgar, dry,” she grumbled. “Music should flow like a feather dance, and vocals should be a demonstration of the singer’s range and poise. Earth’nay music throbs and screeches. It is rhythmic to the point that it becomes grating, repeating the same bars over and over and over again. Though, it is perhaps foolish to expect more from a species with such a limited capacity for memory.”

“Well, I haven’t heard any Valbaran music,” Fletcher said with a shrug. “I don’t have any basis for comparison. Why don’t you sing me a song?”

“Sing you a song?” Xipa replied, flashing her teeth as a flutter of angry crimson made her suit panels light up. “Singing is the domain of males. Do I look like I belong in a hookah lounge, flashing my feathers for your amusement? I am an Ensi of the Consensus.”

“I asked you to sing, not to striptease,” Fletcher chuckled. “Sounds like these hookah lounges are a riot, though. Maybe I’ll visit one on my way back to UN space.”

“Please don’t,” Xipa muttered.

“What else do Valbarans like about humans?” Fletcher continued, keeping his eyes on the trees ahead as he scanned for threats. Even during a conversation when he was seemingly at ease, he always maintained his vigil, as though he never fully relaxed.

“If it is flattery that you seek, you should know that you’ll get none from me,” Xipa grumbled.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that everyone back home is obsessed with humans. I want to know why.”

“Beyond novelty, and a misplaced sense of gratitude?” she continued. “Oh, how the xenophiles sing your praises. Look at how handsome they are, look at their smooth skin and their short snouts.” Even repeating such things in mockery made her feathers flush pink with embarrassment.

“You think we’re handsome?” Fletcher laughed.

“I certainly don’t,” Xipa replied hurriedly.

“By you, I meant Valbarans in general,” he added with a smirk.

“In my eyes, there is nothing attractive about a featherless, scaleless primate that walks on its ankles,” she muttered. “What mistake of evolution could have created a plantigrade creature? The Krell’nay, on the other hand,” she added as she glanced down at the back of Gustave’s armored head. “Here is a handsome, noble race worthy of praise.”

Gustave rumbled in what might be amusement, the sound resonating up Xipa’s legs like an earthquake.

“You certainly look a lot closer to a Krell than you do a human,” Fletcher admitted.

“I will take that as a compliment,” Xipa replied, turning up her snout. “The Krell’nay embody the feminine virtues depicted in ancient carvings of Valbara’nay war deities. Gustave could have stepped straight off a sculptor’s pedestal.”

“So, they’re like Greek statues to you?” Fletcher mused. “Makes sense. I don’t know about feminine, though,” he added as he appraised the hulking reptile. “When I think feminine, I don’t usually imagine a muscle-bound monster with shoulders wider than I am tall.”

“Earth’nay ideas of masculine and feminine are inverted,” Xipa said. “Males should be submissive, they should have delicate features, and they should concern themselves with pursuits appropriate to their station. Your males are larger and more aggressive than your females.”

“Yeah, maybe a few hundred years ago that might have been the case,” Fletcher replied. “Spend enough time in a SWAR team, and you’ll meet women who make even Borealans look measured and gentle.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ruza interjected, the feline loping along to their rear.

“I don’t mean anything by it,” Fletcher said as he turned to face him, walking backwards through the undergrowth. “It’s just that Borealan girls have a reputation for being ... y’know ... fucking crazy. I assumed you’d be in agreement, since you seem to have made every effort to get as far away from other Borealans as possible.”

“The pack life is not all bad,” Ruza grumbled. “There are elements of it that I miss, even if I have come to the conclusion that it no longer suits me. The admiration of a subordinate, their desire to please. The care and affection of a trusted Alpha, the relief of giving yourself to another wholly and without reservation. Even if I now know that trust to be a mirage, it does nothing to quiet my yearning.”

“Okay, sounds like Ruza needs a date,” Fletcher said as he turned back around. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you set up with a nice human girl when we get back to the fleet, someone who knows her way around a laser pointer or something.”

“Your kind are too fragile for my needs,” he growled, Fletcher shooting Xipa a raised eyebrow.

“I knew a chick back in my old team who would take that as a challenge. Maybe I’ll give you her number, as long as you don’t mind the feeling of cold metal.”

There was a rustle in the canopy above as Bluejay dropped down through the branches, his gossamer wings kicking up a cloud of fallen leaves as he brought himself to a stop just above the ground. He landed on the forest floor, the buzzing ceasing, moving to intercept Fletcher.

“Hold on,” he warned, raising a three-fingered hand. “I’m picking up activity ahead.”

“What are you waiting for, permission?” Fletcher asked sarcastically. “What did you find?”

“There’s a group of Drones directly in our path,” he explained, gesturing into the trees. “They’re twelve strong, two teams of six, it looks like. The only reason they haven’t detected us yet is because they’re upwind of us.”

“What are they doing?” Fletcher asked, frowning. “Drones don’t usually travel above ground, not unless they’re guarding something or attacking someone.”

“I haven’t sniffed out any Bug holes in the area,” Bluejay replied.

“Do me a favor and never use that combination of words again, ever,” Fletcher grumbled. “If they’re not guarding a Bug hole, maybe they’re out here looking for us? Do you think that sniper might have sent some kind of signal to the others? We know they’ve been using radio to communicate.”

“It’s possible,” Bluejay replied with a nod. “Still, they’re not moving in any kind of search pattern, and they’re heading away from us.”

“Away from us, or in the same direction?” Xipa added.

“I suppose they could be moving in the same direction, yeah,” Bluejay replied as he glanced up at her. “You’re thinking they might be investigating the same signal that we are?”

“If we detected the beacon, then it’s possible that they did too,” she said. “That could imply that it was activated recently, rather than being set to run continuously,” she added with a flutter of excited yellow.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Ensi,” Fletcher added. “It could just as easily be a random patrol. Any way around them?” he continued, addressing Bluejay again.

“The moment we get upwind of them, they’re going to come for us,” Bluejay warned. “Unless they veer off on a different heading, which isn’t looking likely, our only option is to go through them. I suggest a preemptive attack – it’s the safest option. We take them by surprise before they have a chance to react.”

“I really wanted to avoid engaging the roaches again,” Fletcher sighed, scratching his head with a polymer finger. “We’re not here to fight, and every shot fired is another dice roll.”

“If we double back and take a circuitous route in an attempt to avoid them, it could add days to our mission,” Ruza said as he walked up beside Fletcher. “I vote we go through them. The longer we spend here, the higher the chance we will encounter a larger force that we cannot best.”

“This isn’t a democracy. Vos put me in command,” Fletcher chided. “I agree with you, in any case. Bluejay, use those creepy feelers of yours to let us know when we’re close. Gustave, make sure the Ensi is safe.”

Gustave rumbled affirmatively, nodding his massive head.

“What makes you think I cannot hold my own in a fight?” Xipa snapped, giving him a ripple of indignant crimson.

“If it was up to me, I’d be hauling you around in a pet carrier,” Fletcher replied without missing a beat. “You’re our VIP. If you get hurt, the mission is over. Stay with Gustave.”

Once again, Xipa suppressed her desire to challenge his authority. With the revelation that the beacon might have been activated recently, finding survivors hiding out in the ruins seemed more likely than ever. All she had to do was tolerate a few more days in the company of these aliens.

“Alright, dial down your voltage,” Fletcher advised as he fiddled with his XMR. “We’ll go subsonic. It’ll still be loud, but the sound shouldn’t carry as far. Gustave, I guess just ... don’t shoot unless you really need to. Pretty sure they can hear that thing from fucking space.”

“Can you fire from the air?” Ruza asked, glancing down at Bluejay.

“Maybe one shot before the recoil makes it unmanageable,” he replied. “What I can do is fly to a better vantage point and attack from a concealed position.”

“You do that,” Fletcher said. “Get up high, attack from the trees. Me and Ruza will come up behind them. You think they’ll stop to make camp soon? Is that something Bugs do?”

“Ferals? No,” Bluejay scoffed. “Those things can march for days without resting. We’ll need to pick up the pace if we want to catch up with them.”

“Let’s do it,” Fletcher said, waving them on as he jogged into the trees.

“Got eyes on them,” Bluejay said, Xipa seeing his IFF tag in the treetops ahead. Gustave was waiting out of view of the Bugs about eighty meters behind them, keeping her safe, but she could follow the fight on her helmet’s HUD. There was even a picture-in-picture view mode that would let her see a real-time feed from the helmet cams of her squadmates. She switched to Bluejay’s feed, seeing him peering through the branches.

“Two groups of six, moving through a patch of those tall mushroom things,” he said, training his rifle on them. The Drones were marching along in loose columns, weaving between the trunks of the towering fungi. The overlapping plates of their carapaces were colored in camouflage that matched their surroundings, all shades of red and brown, covered in tiny spikes that looked like thorns. Several of their number were wearing organic backpacks, long antennae jutting from them, bobbing in the air as they walked. Most wore helmets with half a dozen eyes that pointed in all directions, their mandibles like the serrated jaws of a beast. Others had large, compound visors, segmented cables trailing from where their mouths should have been. They looked like they were wearing rebreathers, maybe something to help them resist chemical warfare. They were armed with weapons that Xipa couldn’t identify, grotesque amalgams of flesh and metal.

“We’re coming up on them now,” Fletcher replied. He glanced down at his boots as he moved through the dense carpet of shrubs and bushes, careful to avoid making any sounds that might alert their quarry. Ruza was moving beside him, a few paces to his right, the giant feline somehow even quieter than the Marine on his fleshy paw pads.

It was exhilarating, the rising tension warming Xipa’s blood. She might be thousands of generations removed from her pack-hunting ancestors, but those instincts still lingered deep in the recesses of her genes.

“Let me know when you’re in position,” Bluejay whispered, his reticle hovering over the head of one of his targets. His stability was impressive – there wasn’t so much as a tremor in his hands.

“Fire on my mark,” Fletcher said, his visor highlighting the enemy with red tags. The team were all networked, sharing battlefield information automatically, everything from their onboard computers to their rifles linked wirelessly. He came to a stop, leaning out from behind a tree, sighting one of the Drones.

“Ready,” Ruza growled.

“Three, two, one...”

Fletcher opened up, dumping a trio of slugs into his target’s back. The Drone went down hard, dead before it had hit the ground. The report of his weapon was still loud, but it was a far cry from the deafening crack of an XMR running at full power. There was no sonic boom, only the electrical discharge from the firing mechanism.

Ruza and Bluejay followed up with several shots, sending two more of the Bugs crashing to the forest floor. By the time they started reacting to the attack, three more had fallen, half of their number wiped out by automatic fire. One tried to take cover behind one of the fleshy trunks of the fungi, but the slugs tore straight through its spongy tissue, knocking the unfortunate Drone off its feet.

The enemy was disciplined, and they didn’t know fear, quickly organizing a counter-attack. They dumped rapid-fire plasma bolts into the forest, forcing Fletcher and Ruza into cover, retreating towards the safety of the nearby trees. Bluejay brought down another one with a precise shot to its chest, but they turned their weapons on him, his wings buzzing as he shot up out of the path of the burning energy bolts. Fires began to spread, everything that the Bug projectiles touched igniting under the intense heat.

“Keep the pressure on them!” Fletcher shouted, leaning against a tree trunk as he reloaded his rifle. “Don’t let them maneuver around us!”

Ruza loosed several semi-auto shots, the slugs biting into the trees, sending slivers of shattered wood flying through the air. The Bugs had split into two groups and were moving in different directions now, trying to flank, the software losing track of them as the team’s sightlines were broken.

“They need our help,” Xipa hissed, giving Gustave a tap on the back of his scaly head.

“Orders are to protect little one,” he rumbled in reply.

“There won’t be anyone left to give you orders if they’re all dead!”

One of the masked Bugs appeared on Ruza’s feed, raising a tube-like weapon in his direction. It was almost as long as the insect was tall, a series of thick cables that looked like veins running along its length, terminating in a nozzle made of blackened chitin. It was maybe thirty meters away now, moving around to the right of him. As the feline swung his rifle towards it, the Bug fired. Instead of a bolt of plasma, the alien device released a stream of fluid, spewing out far enough that Ruza had to throw himself backwards to avoid it. It splattered on the leaves of the shrubs below, coating a couple of the chimney-like mushrooms in gelatinous slime. It suddenly erupted into emerald-green flame, the fire dancing along the stream. There was an explosion as it ignited, scorching everything that the slime had touched, the Bug waving the still-burning torrent around to spread the flames in a wide cone.

“Oh fuck, they have a flamethrower!” Fletcher exclaimed.

“I’ve lost visual,” Bluejay warned, soaring over the treetops as he scanned the ground below. “Those fires are fucking with my thermal imaging!”

“They are doing it on purpose,” Ruza growled, picking himself up off the ground. “The air is choked with their smoke.”

A second flamethrower ignited to their left, spreading the blaze, creating an obscuring smokescreen from the burning plant matter. Xipa could see Fletcher cycling through his view modes, cursing in frustration. The thermal cameras could peel away smoke like it wasn’t even there, but the heat of the rising flames blew out the sensor, creating blobs of white that obscured his vision.

“They’re trying to get close,” Fletcher warned. “Fuckers want to dogpile us.”

“Let them try,” Ruza growled, the bayonet on the end of his rifle glinting in the flames. He was holding it more like a spear now, ready to stab whatever came too close.

A barrage of plasma bolts came flying through the smoke, leaving swirling holes in their wake as their passage disturbed the air around them. Ruza was forced from the safety of his tree as its trunk was set ablaze, its heat singing his furry tail. It was followed up by another stream of burning fluid, flushing him out of hiding and into the open. The heat was so intense that Xipa could feel it through her suit, even so far away from the action.

The Bugs were pushing hard, two of the Drones coming racing through the smoke towards him. Snarling like a feral beast, the Borealan met their charge, leveling his bayonet. He caught the first of them in the midriff, lifting the insect into the air with such force that its carapace cracked around his blade like glass. He swung the flailing Drone into its companion, sending them both crashing to the ground, but they sprang back to their feet in moments. What would have been a mortal wound for most creatures was barely a concern for the injured Drone, its jaw-like mandibles flexing as it brandished a long, saber-like blade. It held a pistol in one of its other hands, rising it towards Ruza’s face, but the Borealan was already swinging the butt of his rifle like a club.

The stock hit the Drone’s helmet with enough force to cave it inward, sending pieces of its broken mandibles sailing through the air, its swept-back horn snapping clean off. When it didn’t go down, Ruza lifted his powerful leg, kicking it in the chest with all of his strength. It was sent crashing into a tree trunk behind it, toppling to the forest floor.

Before Ruza could react, the second Drone stepped in from his right, driving a chitin blade into his thigh. It slipped beneath the ceramic plate, biting into flesh and muscle, the Borealan throwing his head back as he bellowed in pain. With a savage backhand, he knocked his assailant off its feet, sending it rolling away across the ground. He reached down to grip the resin haft of the weapon, the blade embedded so deep that its pointed tip was protruding from the other side. He pulled it out, the knife wet with his blood, a stain of crimson spreading down his leg.

Fletcher was moving to assist, but his progress was stopped by a wall of flame, one of the pyromaniac insects cutting him off with a stream of burning goo. The second group had reached him, two of the Drones leaping over a fallen log to his left with their handguns leveled. Their magnetic rails crackled with dancing electricity, popping off more bolts, one of them catching the Marine in his chest piece. His armor absorbed the energy, spreading it across his torso, dissipating it enough that it didn’t melt through. Still, the kinetic force of the blow knocked him off-balance, making him stumble back.

Only now did Gustave start to move, Xipa gripping his armored collar as she hung on, clutching her XMR in her other hand.

Ruza tossed the bloodied Bug sword aside, turning to aim his rifle at his opponent, but the thing had already pointed its sidearm at his visor. Something came crashing through the trees, raining broken branches and fallen leaves in its wake, slamming into the Bug with enough force to knock it onto its back. It was Bluejay, his shimmering wings extended as he stood atop the downed Drone, pressing the barrel of his rifle against the thing’s head. He fired, its skull exploding like a ripe fruit, splattering the nearby leaves with yellow-green fluid.

Fletcher had regained his footing and was facing off against the two Drones. They had drawn their blades, too close now for him to get a shot off before they closed the distance between them. He let his XMR hang from its sling, then raised his right hand, extending the hidden blade from his wrist.

One of the Bugs was already rushing towards him, swinging its sword in a wide arc. Fletcher did the same, throwing all of his augmented strength into the blow, the razor edge of his weapon whistling through the air. It cleaved through the chitin, severing the alien blade in two, continuing on to embed itself deep in the Drone’s shoulder. It cut through shell and flesh with ease, leaving a deep gash that bled mucous-colored ichor, but the Bug didn’t falter. It lifted the handgun that it was still holding, pressing it against the segmented armor that protected Fletcher’s belly.

He gripped its hand in his own, metal straining against muscle as he dragged it away, a bolt of green plasma shooting out to turn a nearby shrub to ash. Fletcher squeezed, his electric servos whining as the Drone’s hand was slowly crushed, the carapace that covered its fingers cracking. The plasma weapon fired again, then petered out, its frame bent and warped.

Rather than try to pull his blade free the way it had gone in, Fletcher retracted it back into its housing with mechanical speed, like it was spring-loaded. He brought his fist to the Bug’s helmet, the creature fighting against him with its remaining arms, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist him. The concealed blade shot out like a bullet, impaling the Drone through the head, its struggle ceasing. Before he could toss the limp body to the forest floor, its partner made its move, indifferent to its fallen comrade’s plight.

Bolts of plasma sizzled as they struck the impaled Bug in the back, burning shallow holes in its shell, Fletcher using it as a shield as he weathered the gunfire. He drew his sidearm from its holster on his hip, aiming it around the body, firing blind. It was a monster of a handgun, its barrel packed with dense coils. Xipa suspected that it would probably break an unaugmented person’s wrist.

The Bug had to dive out of the way as the slugs zipped past it, the loud cracks echoing through the forest. It was enough to give Fletcher time to throw the smoking body aside, taking more careful aim with his sidearm, Xipa watching as he filled his target with holes.

Gustave skidded to a stop beside Ruza, dragging him away from the flames, even the furious Borealan unable to resist his strength. Bluejay covered them, walking backwards, keeping his rifle trained on the trees ahead. Xipa was still standing atop the Krell’nay’s shoulder, surveying the scene from her high perch.