“Do you think?” grumbled the Tyrannosaurus.
“Think about what?” the Triceratops asked, shaking his one-horned head. He had been lost in thought.
“About how we are to be inserted?” replied the Bladejaw.
The Lancer raked his claws along the ground once, his version of a testy shrug. “I am sure Dhimion Cruzah has employed us properly,” he responded.
“As am I, but I was curious what your experience might lead us to believe would be the best approach for assault, as I have never worked with a Lancer before,” admitted the Bladejaw.
“If you had, you would know that we don’t appreciate the smell of blood wafting around us,” replied Brokehorn.
“If I had, I would have the answer to my question in regards to all Lancers being so quick to whine like a hatchling fresh from the egg,” the Bladejaw riposted.
Brokehorn’s eyes went wide, as much at the insult as the amount of wit and rapidity it was delivered with, equal to any Scytheclaw, the Old Blood Velociraptors. As he turned to face the Tyrannosaurus, a light clap caught his attention.
“Brokehorn, Ripper. I was only able to catch your faith in my leadership, which I found heartening. Is everything alright?” the Illurian asked. His body armor was a vibrant green that clashed against pale blue skin.
“Certainly, Dhimion. My... comrade and I were just discussing matters of strategy,” said Ripper, lowering his head to the level of the Illurian. The male was tall for his race, so Ripper did not need to bend as far as usual. Cruzah placed his hand on the Old Blood’s muzzle in a sign of familiarity.
“You know this... Bladejaw?” asked Brokehorn. He was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Indeed I do,” replied Cruzah. “We worked together during the Malbrion Incursion, and I requested him personally. I would have said something sooner, Brokehorn, but he arrived much quicker than I expected. You have my apologies.” The Illurian curved his arm inward, holding it against his middle, and bowed at the waist.
“There is no need for that,” said Brokehorn, knowing the emotion he felt was called embarrassment. It was far too formal, especially with the gesture. Perhaps Cruzah had heard more of the conversation between the two Old Bloods than he was letting on. Illurians were tricky like that.
“These days, it seems like these butcher-and-bolt missions are more common than us striking into Federation territory,” observed Ripper.
The slightest flicker of a frown passed over the Illurian’s face, and then vanished. He tilted his head to the right then left, exposing the neural strands that passed for hair tied in a tight quirt. “The troopers garrisoned here were recalled to the inner worlds. I suspect they were used for a personal conflict, but the djahn insisted that the local militia here were more than adequate for defense against raids,” replied Cruzah, his voice soft.
Ripper’s eyes narrowed into small slits. “There are a million people spread across the land on this colony. There is no way a colony such as this could survive a protracted engagement,” he pointed out.
Cruzah only gave the slightest of nods. “You are right on all counts, except for one. There are likely less than a million now. Let us hope there are some fish left after this hurricane,” he replied. “I’ll see you both planet-side.” The Illurian saluted, making a fist and pounding the thumb side against his chest.
The two Old Bloods watched him go, and it was Brokehorn who broached the silence between them. “You’ve noticed as well?” he said.
“Noticed what?” asked Ripper.
“That the human colonies are the ones who suffer. I can’t remember the Peace Federation daring to approach the core in quite a while,” said Brokehorn.
Ripper was silent, and then nodded his head once. “Go where the janissaries and their Illurian leaders are not, of course. The Naith call the Terrans ‘terns’ after all,” he paused to look at Brokehorn. “It means—”
“‘Killers’. It is not the original word for killers, but it has replaced the old term they used before,” finished Brokehorn, beginning to walk toward their weapons bay.
Ripper followed alongside, mindful of his tail so as not to strike any objects inadvertently. “How does that make you feel? That the human colonies are the ones who are suffering?” he prodded.
Brokehorn didn’t stop, but looked askance at the carnivore. “You are far too large to be of the Inner Truth, yet that’s a question they would ask.”
“And why would they ask that question? Why is that question considered one that someone would have to be careful who they asked it to?” Ripper pressed on.
“Because...” Brokehorn stopped, and turned to face the other Old Blood. “Why are you asking me this? Why do you care?”
“Because you seem to care what happens to the other blood of Kah, to the Terrans who fight and die for a royalty that no longer seems to value their sacrifices. So I ask again, how do you feel?” Ripper asked, his voice soft.
Brokehorn did not hesitate. “I have seen far too many of these worlds where we were too late for anything but to clean up the Naith feasts. The only Illurians were the ones who died with their human troops. The ruling caste does not care what price is paid for their suffering. You ask what I feel, Bladejaw? It is sorrow; sorrow for those who have died and those who have yet to suffer.” Brokehorn stepped closer to Ripper. “And you? What is it you feel?”
“The same, but in addition my sorrow includes seeing the bright lords and ladies of Illuria consume themselves in hedonism when I remember how... noble they were at one time,” admitted Ripper, shaking his head. “And surprise.”
“Surprise?”
“Yes. That your willingness to speak your mind includes your principles, not just in light of your discomfort. It is a rare thing among all of our species,” granted Ripper, and then stalked past the Lancer.
Brokehorn followed now, and the silence between them was more comfortable as they stepped between the pylons that would equip them with the machinery they wore to battle.
“Ripper,” asked the Lancer. “Why did you ask me that question?”
“Which question?” responded Ripper as armor plates were fitted and locked into place on his torso.
“In regards to the humans.”
“Because you noticed their suffering, and so few of our kind do,” said Ripper.
Brokehorn grunted as he took the weight of his armor on his back, but it was more in reflex than any real burden. It sloped down his tail, along his back, and pressed up against his crest. The Lancer quickly exhaled, so no scales would be pinched as the armor swung down and locked underneath him, protecting his belly. He took a breath, then answered. “And you think that our kind should care?”
Ripper slid his arms into the massive mechanical claws that extended his reach and provided an additional melee option. “Too many of the Old Blood delude themselves into thinking their choice not to fight is without consequence. I see it as fortuitous that the Illurians gave us a choice, unlike the humans, and to say nothing of the Bhae Chaw,” he said, holding still as his helmet locked into place. Twin heavy machine guns sat either side of his jaw, while his eyes were covered by an armored screen before it rose back into the top of the helmet.
There was another pause, and Brokehorn found himself mulling that comment quietly as his weaponry was locked into hard points on his armor. Electromagnetic mortars rested over both hips, and combination machine guns and flamethrowers were mounted to the front near each shoulder. A large twin-pronged fork sparked high on his torso, and a metallic sleeve was placed over the stump of his horn. A helmet resembling a domino mask was placed over his face, with the view screens descending and obscuring his eyes.