SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

“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.