SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

The parrot-like bill of the Triceratops was surprisingly strong, needing to be in order to rend the tough plants that made up the typical meal of the herbivore. Brokehorn clamped it around the Khajali’s waist, holding his foe in place.

The glowing in the Old Blood’s eye as the rai’lith charged only spurred Brokehorn to action, and the Triceratops reached the Khajali’s arm with his claw before he gave a savage jerk of his head. The arm ripped free easily, and the warrior roared in pain as Brokehorn repeated the process on the other side, again flinging the useless limb into a pile of rubble. The Khajali’s last act was to gnaw ineffectually at Brokehorn’s nasal horn.

The Lancer’s balance was off, so he shook himself and the wreckage of his lightning fork fell to the ground with a clang. “Are you… are you all right?” shouted one of the humans from the truck. Brokehorn looked over, and saw the faces were pale and wide-eyed, gawking between the Triceratops and the dismembered body of the Khajali knight.

“I’ll be fine,” said Brokehorn with a low grunt, smelling the hot copper scent of his blood mingling with the odor from the musky Khajalian blood. He could not see the wounds, but knew that he was bleeding quite badly from the smell alone.

“Forward! Forward,” he demanded of Anna, ignoring the pain that radiated all over. He had made it this far with them, and right now he didn’t care if he died — his only concern was that the Khajali were denied and the humans made it to safety.

“You’re bleeding!” she shouted over to him as she punched the truck into a higher gear.

Brokehorn stumbled but managed to keep his feet. “I’ve had worse,” he lied, forcing air into his lungs but failing to catch his breath. There was a ringing in his ears, and for a moment he thought the screams were a hallucination. Brokehorn turned his head and spied one of the Khajal on top of the truck, rai’lith charging for a calamitous burst into the passenger compartment of the vehicle. Another Khajali appeared in a shower of sparks, its mirror cloak no longer.

With a roar, Brokehorn swung his head against the truck. It rolled, throwing the Khajali off balance and the shot went wide, opening a charred hole in the road several meters deep. The Khajali atop the truck had leapt clear as the vehicle rolled on its side, and shouted something at Brokehorn in its own language.

It was far too close to the humans to risk the flamethrowers, and the machine guns wouldn’t puncture the thrombium or get through the shields in time. Brokehorn ignited his booster rockets, and swore he saw the Khajali’s eyes widen in shock as the Triceratops’ massive bulk went from stationary to hurtling.

They collided, and the enemy warrior ended up under the Lancer. A deep, twisting pain skewered through Brokehorn’s belly. The Khajali’s blade. It was no matter. Brokehorn pulled himself back as quick as he could, leaving the Khajali smeared with the Lancer’s blood. Both of the alien’s arms were pinned, and it snapped at Brokehorn with its jaws. Small pricks peppered Brokehorn as the Khajal attempted to bring his rai’lith to bear. Brokehorn drove his massive claws into the unarmored space in what little neck the Khajali had. There was a sudden, shocked croak. The alien went still beneath him, his neck so many ribbons of meat.

The world throbbed in the Lancer’s vision; he was dying. The sound of footsteps. The second Khajali. He couldn’t make out the alien’s language, but the tone was not the taunting he expected. It was that of one professional saluting the dedication of another; the Khajali seemed almost sorrowful as it placed the blade of its rai’lith between Brokehorn’s eyes and began charging the cannon.

Brokehorn fired first. The attachment over the stump of his horn came to life in a scintillating beam of white light, melting the flesh of the Khajali and leaving only singed and slightly warped thrombium among a pile of ashes as the self-contained energy weapon fired.

“One last… act of defiance,” murmured Brokehorn, laying his head down and wondering why he felt so cold. There were many hands on him now, telling him not to die, but he didn’t wish to hear that.

He swore that he could feel grass on his cheek, and the scent of blood that annoyed him so was replaced by that of freshly cut hay. He didn’t have the strength to ask the humans if they knew which star was Sol System, so he could die gazing at blessed Kah.

Screams startled him, and he opened one eye to see another duo of Khajali walking towards them, claws pointing at the humans. Brokehorn attempted to stand, but it only precipitated his fall into darkness. The smell of grass became overpowering, and there was gold at the edge of his vision. The last thing he heard before he died was a monstrous roar, and the thought that accompanied it: that sounds like a Bladejaw…

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