SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

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.