A glimpse of futility

The OgaLopke are peerless. Victory may be expected, but it is neither free nor granted

Chapter 1 Gamarrah Prosecution -- Day Eighteen.0

Oluwander stepped to the side and swung. His blade sliced cleanly through the mechano-arachnoid's carapace exposing the pulpy interior with its glossy bulging pumps and stinking, brackish fluids. The thing stuttered, bladed forelimbs freezing and then it slumped to the ground, its stalked eyes still tracking Oluwander's movements.

Oluwander did not stop his stamping forward march. His boots sank into the mud and slurry with every step, but his reinforced musculature and sinew and the growl of armor servos bore him forward. His lungs sucked in the oxygen-poor air through the open grill of his helmet's aggressively snouted face plate. The inbuilt respirator augmentations in his helm enriched the thin air, elevating oxygen content. His armor injected chemicals, stimulating hormonal responses. His muscles quivered, and he raised his shield as he moved, bracing for the next challenger. His fellows to either side did the same and shouted out their battle cry as they did. All together. All in unison as they had been bred and trained.

This operation on battlefield Four-Two-Two was supposed to have occupied them no more than six days. They were the OgaLopke. No campaign, however difficult had ever taken them more than the span of a single day to complete. This was the hardest the Federation of Laa had ever conceived of. And so, six days had been allotted. Six days as measured on Sol.

Yet here they were. An entire fist of OgaLopke. Ten thousand warriors. Deployed onto the Gamarrah colony world of Four-Two-Two eighteen days ago with an expectation of a victory parade twelve days ago. No victory at all. Instead, this grinding never-ending forward and retreat against a foe that seemed to materialize out of nothingness, formed into an unstoppable, roiling horror of chitin and mechanically driven bladed fury. A frigid fury. Never a cry, merely the skittering scramble of too many legs and the keening whistle of powerfully driven edged weapons. And with every encounter, every thrust, every retreat - the loss of dozens of men. Oluwander's helm blinked up a counter in hues of green and yellow. Four thousand remained. The rest were dead or dying. Left where they fell, stood or slumped. Locked in their armor, bleeding out in silence.

Oluwander cast a quick glance overhead, searching for the telltale bloom of a rescue drop ship's engine burn. But nothing. A pipping in his helm and he continued his march, even as a cool voice came over the embedded aural comm bead. "Break engagement, collect at tactical Three-Alpha. Anticipating remote scheduled equipment drop in twenty-one minutes. Mark." The comm bead hissed briefly then went silent.

Oluwander contemplated that this deployment was possibly the denouement and demise of the most vaunted force within the galaxy. The Gamarrah, or the Species as they called themselves had not previously been hostile. They had been encountered on many worlds. And always passive, if ultimately uncommunicative. But then a decade ago that passivity had turned into an almost instant aggression. Overnight, they stirred suddenly from slumber and marched in formations into towns and villages and outposts on every planet they were found. They visited a slaughter on all creatures they encountered. Sentient or not, none were spared. Not even crops were permitted to survive. The Gamarrah burned everything.

And from each world they burned, they sent up a signal. A simple message. It read, in standard Federation glyphs: "Send your best. Send the OgaLopke. The Species waits." The signals were followed by coordinates. The coordinates were for Four-Two-Two.

Oluwander reflected that perhaps the politicians on Sol had not considered that The Species might in fact be a challenge not to be engaged with lightly. But then again - that was the entire reason for the OgaLopke. The impossible challenge.

Oluwander's mind cast itself back to his mission briefing aboard the Bringer class capital ship in orbit. "In these thousand years of our Federation, nothing has ever challenged us and escaped the terminal wrath of our might." The briefing officer in a plain gray uniform with black chevrons on either arm stood before the ranked and utterly still armored giants of the OgaLopke. His dais allowed him to look down slightly at the rows of troops, each man with their helmet turned up slightly, hands fisted, and arms crossed before them.

"This species." The officer spat the word. "The Gamarrah have raised hostile banner, claw and weapon against the Federation. We shall tear down their banner, remove claw and weapon and pacify them. We are that blade, hammer and tongs. We bring order." None of the assembled troops responded to that. Not a movement amongst the serried ranks. That was entirely typical of the OgaLopke. Hyperbolic comment was nothing more than a statement of what they actually did. No response to the obvious was ever needed.

And, further in keeping with OgaLopke tradition, there was little more than that by way of briefing. Certainly, the chemical and hypnagogic download of instruction into his mind, but no more words were said that Oluwander could recall. "None had ever raised a hostile banner with such a cold assurance. That should have been the cautionary message. That any would challenge the Federation was itself the warning was it not?" The thought slipped through Oluwander's mind, uncoiling with an unsettling oil and grease of an unpleasant truth.

As Oluwander completed the internal discourse, his body continued to surge forward. In the periphery of his vision, on the left he saw one of his own barracks mates go down, bisected with a clinical precision right at the waist. The legs stepped forward under the urge of momentum and the upper half toppled backwards displaying a pinkish hued interior, loops of intestine and slops of organs cascading to the ground.

Oluwander paused his movement and momentarily released his hold on his sword, sweeping up his holstered assault pistol to fire a burst of burning plasma into the Gamarrah that had so thoroughly disemboweled his squad mate.

The plasma struck with a vicious hiss, burning a hole right through the churning creature. It spun a turn, vapor spewing out of the plasma hole as its innards cooked. Abruptly and silently, it exploded. The thin atmosphere carrying just a soft crump to Oluwander's aural pickups.

Oluwander holstered the pistol, casting a brief final glance at the dead OgaLopke. "Elemental Oyander, squad eight." Oluwander's left optical overlay briefly flashed the name. Oluwander sucked in a draught of air and readied his shield again, stopping his forward slog as he prepared to disengage.

A man to his right, an identically sized and armored giant slammed his shield down into the ground driving it deep and then hunched down to the lip of the massive chunk of metal. Oluwander followed suit, lowering himself with a brief squeal of servos as he too punched his shield into the mud and muck at his feet. All about him and in an exacting precise line, the others of his assault force did the same. In seconds, a massive metal fence had been erected, its elements overlapping as if it had been manufactured then and there. Moments later a brief pipping in all the comm beads and then a simple command. "Throw."

At that, from somewhere behind Oluwander, a hundred blackened spheres suddenly sailed overhead to impact amongst the surging tide of chitin and metal that crashed and lapped with silent hunger at the shield wall.

"A good toss." Oluwander thought to himself with detachment as he watched the grenades fly and braced for the inevitable cataclysmic fury of their explosion.

With a uniform flash of explosion, the spheres ignited in midair, the explosions compressing the Gamarrah front down into the ground, ripping individuals to pieces and flash melting scores of the creatures.

Oluwander's shield trembled as he hunched down behind it, debris, rock and body parts slammed into it as the extemporaneous artillery strike raged through the advancing tide, stopping them with its heat, pressure and concussive force.

As he listened to the rattle of war's detritus against his shield, Oluwander turned his helm to his left and locked gaze with his comrade there. Another nameless giant to any who did not know what to look for. But to Oluwander, it was Genus Twelve, commander of the Twelfth Swifts. The block of characters stamped to Genus's right shoulder guard were enough to announce him to any and all of the OgaLopke. Oluwander nodded and gestured with his left hand, massive and blocky in its metal-alloy gauntlet. He signaled his greeting, fingers moving through the old sigils. Genus responded too, with a brief flicker of his hand. It was missing two fingers and so the message was slower to send. Choppier. "A gray day this. A day that we shall study should we live."

Genus was always solemn. All things were to be analyzed by his martial mind. That was why he commanded the Twelfth. Famed for their impossibly rapid tactics. But today, that solemnity was tinged with regret. The finger movements told that story.

"We will live. The retreat has been sounded. Another day shall pass." Oluwander's fingers moved again in rapid signage.

Genus merely nodded and braced further as the explosions continued.

Abruptly, the explosions ceased. The pressure on Oluwander's shield eased. The barrage had done its work, and the Gamarrah as often before had themselves retreated. Standing fully to look over his shield, Oluwander was witness to a carpet of melted and destroyed carapaces. Hundreds, perhaps more. The hyperbaric fury of the Federation Mark Eleven grenade was a terrifying force of destruction.

He pulled his shield out of the muck, as did all of his cohort which, needing no further orders, swung about as a group and began a crushing run to the gather point.

Chapter 2 Gamarrah Prosecution -- Day Eighteen.1

Oluwander's steady lope ate up the distance covering the twelve miles in a mere hour. He jogged at pace with his fellows, adopting the arrowhead formation so characteristic of the OgaLopke. Though punishing if not impossible for a normal trooper, the OgaLopke were routinely capable of machine-like exertions. His armor growled occasionally as he navigated small dips and uneven ground. A glowing yellow arrow center of his helmed vision guided him unerringly to tactical Three-Alpha. Genus, at the head of the formation was first to arrive on station, cresting a hill and signaling a clean arrival, no hostiles. He used his left hand, the fingers intact, the simple battle signage brief, rapid and clear.

Oluwander hardly slowed and jogged past Genus who, along with a few score of the armored warriors had adopted an overwatch posture. Down on one knee, with their pistols unholstered, scanning the horizon and rear approaches. Oluwander slowed as he descended the slope, observing the massive cylinders that littered the gather point. Most stuck out of the ground like giant darts, their cases petalled open to reveal bundles of supplies wrapped in heavy ballistic shielding. A few had landed at the wrong angle and were smashed open; their contents scattered about them.

Oluwander approached one cylinder, a number stenciled to its side. Three. It contained munitions and power bands. He quickly started pulling out the packets, passing them backwards to others of his cohort waiting in patient lines, each handing the packet to the man behind stopping only when they were tapped on the shoulder. "Replenished." The words wafted softly through the depression from behind him even as Oluwander gripped the last of the packets. He looked towards another of the cylinders, the stenciling clear, another three. He too would replenish there. As he paced to the cylinder, he saw just behind it a monumental, towering obsidian block. Its surface decorated with the Federation bird. Sigil of war. At first, he had taken it to be a part of the terrain. It was not.

"An Opka!" Oluwander's pulse quickened.

Circling, Oluwander ran his gloved hand over the rocky exterior of the block. Even through his armor, the thing gave off immense heat. It had come down controlled, unlike the other dropped canisters. This one had fired retros all the way down, the heat still evident on its surface. As he touched it, Oluwander heard a distinct cracking sound and he instinctively dropped to one knee.

All around him, others of the cohort were dropping to a knee, helm bowed. The cracking continued, then a creaking groan and the entire block hinged open revealing a colossal construct of metal and heavy ablative armor. It stood a precise eight meters and was as wide as four of the OgaLopke arrayed shoulder to shoulder.

With a hiss of hydraulic power, it stepped clear of its drop cocoon and then stopped, cycling massive fingers through some kind of combat readiness routines. The enormous cannon it carried to the left of an inhumanly squat head swiveled about and then fixed forward. To its rear the thing carried an almost ludicrously oversized rifle.

It ignored the men surrounding it and then suddenly boomed out a call. A war horn that was declaration complete of what it was.

This was a terminator unit. An Opka. Something that was dispatched expressly to utterly reduce some enemy. Not to bring it to heel, not to defeat it, not to fight it even. No, just to annihilate its target.

Fewer than thirty of the things had ever been deployed. And here on Four-Two-Two, it was about to demonstrate its world destroying power.

It did not even acknowledge any of the men, and having cycled through its readiness protocol it began a stamping movement in the direction from which Oluwander had just retreated. Its tread shook the ground for minutes as it strode away. It passed out of sight and Oluwander stood, a motion copied by all his brethren and he set about collecting more of the supplies. The action was interrupted by Genus who stepped before him, slamming his helm into his and engaging in private conversation conducted through the metal of their armor.

"They sent an Opka, Olu." Genus's voice through the armor was scratched and bleached of emotion. "That can only mean that this world is to end." His damaged hand reached out and gripped Oluwander by the shoulder. Even through the armor, Oluwander could feel the pressure of the grip. Damaged or not, Genus was a formidable example of the OgaLopke.

Genus continued. "It will annihilate everything Olu. Everything. I have seen those things and nothing escapes." The grip tightened somehow and Oluwander's armor chirped a pressure alarm into his helm.

In response, Oluwander seized the butt of his holstered pistol and then with a steady tone. "I am aware. But before it opened, I found its beacon and triggered it." Oluwander's reverent gliding of hand over that obsidian surface had not merely been in appreciation.

"The assault pinnaces are entering atmosphere even now. Look, do you see?" Oluwander looked up as he spoke, then pointed at a sudden streak and bloom of light. There were multiple of them. Quickly, even as they both were looking up, the streaks of light resolved into enormous balloon shaped craft, with stubby wings and outstretched landing claws. As they swept in, a dozen of them; their front embarkation ramps yawned open revealing cavernous interiors.

Genus raised his hand and then, turning up his external address let loose a shout. "Rally!" and then he pointed at the descending ships. The message was clear and even as the pinnaces touched down, their clawed feet slicing into the terrain, the first of the armored OgaLopke were already jogging up the ramps.

Within the span of minutes, no more than five, every single remaining OgaLopke, all four thousand had embarked, and the ships were already launching back to orbit.

The pinnace boosted through the atmosphere at a brutal rate, increasing g-forces with a mechanical determination. It transitioned to the bleak featureless black of space in less than a minute. Oluwander, standing in a simple launch cradle, felt the incredible downward pressure, bowing even his bio enhanced physique. His helm slaved to the ship's external observation cameras and spy feeds spotted a sudden mushroom cloud perhaps a handful of miles from their liftoff point. He shuddered involuntarily, despite his training and breeding. He knew with certainty, that the Opka had engaged and without a doubt the Gamarrah were being annihilated. Around him in identical cradles, others of the OgaLopke were watching the same feed. Several chirped a brief code of fierce satisfaction over their public address. Vengeance for their incredible loss. Low rasping murmurs throughout the vaulted, curved hold echoed briefly before discipline reasserted itself and the cohort returned to its usual stoic stillness.

Oluwander kept watching the helm feed, curiosity having broken through conditioning. And so, he saw a shape transiting the atmosphere and coming straight at the pinnace. The pinnace's computers saw the same thing and began a violent maneuver. The ship rolled and the thrusters increased their output compressing Oluwander in his armor. All about him, others of the cohort were equally compressed. Only a few voiced protest. One, his armor damaged in the offensive planet-side collapsed in his cradle, artificial muscles no longer sufficient to keep him upright. One moment, the man's helmet was level with the top of his cradle, the next he had disappeared and a jet of blood from the compromised armor erupted as it collapsed and crunched into the wearer.

Despite watching the brutal demise of one of his brethren, Oluwander's attention never left the feed. He observed the fast-moving shape resolve into a thin cylinder, a cone of flaring particles behind it. It collided with the still maneuvering pinnace and sheared the fat transport in two. The two halves slowly spun apart, the rear half still under impetus from its violently firing thrusters pitched up and accelerated into space, corkscrewing as it went. The front, dipped, slowed and then under the inexorable influence of gravity began to drop back to the Gamarrah surface. It too, spun slowly then faster, then slower again as it began to heat up as it underwent reentry.

Inside, Oluwander also was tumbled about like a ragdoll. His cradle held him still, but it creaked ominously as it began to tear from its moorings on the deck.

"A direct hit from a trans atmospheric." Oluwander's mind was moving at an icily clinical pace, the armor supplementing his thoughts with a yellow-on-red diagnostics of his systems superimposed on that of the transport which was disintegrating around him. "Full system failure. I must eject. The Gamarrah possess trans atmospheric interceptors?"

Even as he completed the mental questioning, Oluwander could see flames rushing up from the catastrophic hole where the rear of the pinnace had been. The flames were consuming everything. OgaLopke in their launch cradles were turned to melted wreckage in moments. A few, like Oluwander were conscious enough to attempt manual ejection.

Oluwander's fingers finally found the ejection studs and gripped them. Both fists to ensure positive command. "Fire now, damn you." Oluwander felt an utterly unfamiliar emotion. Dread. Fear. "Fire!" Oluwander's mind took a moment to reflect on the irony of that thought. "Fire indeed. And if I eject, will I survive the drop?"

And with that, explosive bolts below the cradle engaged and the cradle sank through the pinnace floor and was ejected into the violent wind of reentry.

Chapter 3 Gamarrah Prosecution -- Day Eighteen.2

Oluwander, still in his cradle was now thrown about in the turbulent air. An altimeter reading began to blink in his helmet. "Lords above, I shall endure this." He released his death grip on the ejection studs and the cradle fell apart around him, the upper half gripping his armor hooks on his back. As the altimeter wound down, his helmet displayed a scrolling message. "Ground insertion chute deploying. Twelve seconds."

"We are tested. But as my own trainer taught us. We shall prevail." Oluwander's mind scrabbled back a moment to his earliest training even in his creche. "The Federation has provided you with all that you need in order to win. Only one expectation should you have." Trainer Garvel was looking down at him with a frown. "You will do the Federation's will. Always." The last was said with finality and the enormous imposing man in gray and white turned away, fading suddenly as if made of mist.

An alarm blared in Oluwander's ears and his frame shook. "Oxygen starvation!" Oluwander roused himself sharply from his anoxic state and again focused on the altimeter which now indicated he was no more than a few hundred feet above surface. He looked up and saw the silvery slice of parachute. "Chute deployed." He stared closer. "Compromised!" There was a tear in the chute. Small, but growing.

He blinked the altimeter reading into a corner of his vision and used a combination of blinks and finger presses into his palm to bring up a full system diagnostic and computer interrogation interface.

"Survival probability, ground impact from current altitude." He blink-finger-pressed out the question. His armor computer was rapid in its response. "Survival nil at this altitude. Probability at fifty percent from height of eighty feet." The computer paused and terrain images began to rush past his vision. "Combat effective drop height is twenty-five feet."

Oluwander looked up again. The tear was now massive and he was beginning to spin in the wind, the chute losing integrity. The altimeter read ninety feet. If it tore fully and he began to spin further, he would not survive the tearing gyroscopic effects as he impacted the ground.

"Disengage chute."

The connecting cords, woven metal disconnected from his armor hooks in back and shoulders. Oluwander tucked into a ball as he fell. Amored arms wrapped about his legs, pulled up to his chest as much as the hard amor planes permitted. He plummeted. A strange, blackened streak of a ball shape, flung down by some uncaring child god.

He impacted the ground, feet and then back, rolling once. The shock left a small crater in the dirt and Oluwander stood slowly, surveying his surroundings. Familiar. Gamarrah had dragged him back. The Species had not concluded their dispute with both him and the Federation. "The interceptor must have been launched from a point close to here." Oluwander, examined his readouts again. "The probabilities favored me this day. No breaches." As the readout blinked its green status, his hands gripped the butt of his pistol secured still in the holster at his hip, the pommel of his short blade still fixed in its scabbard on the other hip. Oluwander's combat self-review was rapid, precise and concluded in moments. He began to scan the sky.

"Survivors?" Oluwander pressure questioned his computer. His fingers on palm touched out the question with a short set of taps and the computer responded instantly. "Thirty."

"Where?" Oluwander's right eye lens display became an expanding sphere showing glowing dots. Several were yellow, one red and the others green. They were collected generally to the east of his position. The display showed less than a mile. "A quick march." Oluwander began to sprint.

The sprint was different than the last run only a cycle or so ago. Then, it had been a swift run to a prearranged rendezvous. Assurance of replenishment of supplies at least. The cohort had been with him. Now, he was alone running to a remnant, a fragment of the former host. His helm display wobbled momentarily as he ran; the icons fizzed and then resolved again. There were fewer now, only twenty. All were yellow. As he watched one turned red and winked out.

Oluwander increased his speed, legs pumping as he tore over the rocky ground. "Lords above, let me arrive and at least see a death with my brothers at my side!" His armored feet slammed into the ground as his crushing sprint brought him closer to whatever last stand his brethren were engaged in. Just another mile, down a scree of rock and then a flat sprint across a plain of black volcanic sands. Oluwander never hesitated. His heart pumped and he allowed the armor to inject him with a complete dose of combat drugs. The bitter taste that accompanied the infusion flooded his mouth and his jaw clamped tight.

Unbidden, a snarl. A roar that seemed to build from some genetic root in his distant creation. Oluwander let loose the yell as he suddenly came upon the scene of battle. A hundred or more Gamrrah circled a small and dwindling group of giant, armored warriors. Federation blades against Gamarrah sickle formed limbs. The outcome was not in doubt. The Gamarrah surged in and one slapped two of its bladed limbs across the front of a familiar armor, the block of glyphs on one torn arm instantly recognizable. "Genus!" Oluwander's external address speakers blasted out the name from his helmet, urgent, primal, willing the Gamarrah to turn aside and face him. But the combatants did not stop their frenzied struggles. One of the Gamarrah, silent as ever, slipped in from behind Genus and thrust a bladed forelimb entirely through the embattled veteran. And then lifted the struggling body clear off the ground. It hesitated a moment as if examining its sacrifice. Then hurled Genus to the ground and stabbed down with all of its claws. A dozen other Gamarrah joined in that frenzy. A miniscule slaughter amongst a smaller universe of slaughters.

Oluwander's sprinting body cannoned into the fray, knocking aside the Gamarrah that were still stabbing down into Genus. Oluwander's sword was in one hand, almost unbidden and his pistol in the other. Each moved as if independently animated. The sword sliced across, splitting two Gamarrah into pieces. The pistol hissed out a blast of plasma that caught one of the Gamarrah in the thorax. It fell, but as it fell, it exploded, pieces of hard carapace smashing into its brethren killing a further two and knocking more to the ground. Oluwander spun as he fought, the sword rose again, descending it cut another Gamarrah, disarming it - literally - then it slipped across in an arc, cutting. Always cutting. He fought now as if he was nothing but weapon and animus. The Gamarrah sought to capture him on their metal-organic blades. But none could. Oluwander was always where the Gamarrah's weapons were not. His feet moved as if they were executing a prearranged battle dance. His footing was assured. His posture, pistol movement and blade work was moving to the sublime. He struck all, slaughtered all.

Roaring, he pulled about -- nothing. The Gamarrah had melted away. Genus lay dismembered, disarticulated on the ground. Only two others besides Oluwander still stood. And one of those gripped his belly in a manner that Oluwander knew well. Disembowled. The armored giant would likely not survive. The red that sheeted down the front of the man's armor declared that end. But yet he stood. Then slowly as if in theatrical display he sank to his knees. Held himself there for seconds then collapsed forward. A dust cloud erupted briefly. And beneath him, a pool of blood spread to join with the rivers and rivulets from the other fallen bodies.

Oluwander turned to the remaining giant. The man signed his salute. "Argyle Two." His signing was brief, efficient and tinged with something - resignation perhaps. "We die here this day. I thank you for your witness to us. We gave as we were given." He signed again. Quickly again but now without emotion.

"Oluwander." From his external speakers, and without real thought, Oluwander spoke his name. He could not sign. Both hands held the tools of his trade. He spoke instead. "I am Oluwander of the fourth and it is my honor to witness and be witnessed." He strode towards the other OgaLopke as he spoke, holstering his weapons.

Argyle Two simply nodded, then bent briefly to retrieve a blade that he had dropped. He examined its bent and truncated parts. A Gamarrah had chopped it in two. Argyle Two dropped the useless blade then stepping over corpses and found an undamaged sword. He spun it briefly, exhibiting that utterly casual balletic grace that all OgaLopke possessed. Argyle Two looked at Oluwander. "Your pistol still has charge?" It was not a question truly, the OgaLopke had seen the weapon in use and had probably unconsciously tallied the shots and subtracted from known magazine count.

"I have a pack remaining." Oluwander holstered his weapons and set about collecting the pieces of bodies together to what end he did not know. "To give them a burial?" The thought came to him. "No to give them a pyre." His hand dropped to a grenade in the webbing at his waist.

Argyle Two stopped his searching, having found a pistol and several charges. He began dragging fallen OgaLopke to the pile that Oluwander had created. He knew what Oluwander thought. "Yes, we shall at least honor them and send signal to whatever looks upon this world." He dropped a short fused thermal charge into the pile. The ravenous flames from the thermal device consumed the piled bodies slowly at first, then accelerated and in moments all that remained was a mound of ashes. No wind blew. but the ash mound trembled slightly as Oluwander stepped back from it offering a brief fist clenched to chest salute to the fallen.

Argyle Two offered his own acknowledgements, kneeling and then scooping a small handful of the grayish black ash and then placing it carefully in one of the pockets of his combat gear. Finishing that task, he stood and signed to Oluwander. "Let us find our own deaths."

Oluwander nodded, then signed back. "They shall know us." Oluwander pointed to a ridge only a mile or two away, his helmetic optics magnifying it so that he could see the swarm of arachnoid movement on it. "There is where we find them."

Argyle Two followed Oluwander's helmeted gaze and pointed arm. "Yes." Another terse signage. And then he began to jog towards the ridge. Oluwander recognized the movements. A combat insertion run. Slow at first, but it would build momentum and at the end a collision with the enemy that would disorient them, lay them to ground and advantage the assaulter.

"The Species called for the galaxies best. Today we shall carve our sigils into their very flesh." Oluwander supplemented his thoughts with a rapid signage using the fingers of his left hand as he drew abreast with Argyle Two.

Argyle Two did not reply but continued the charge. Both hands were now upon his weapons, and the ridge was less than a mile distant. The surface of it moved, undulated as the Gamarrah that were gathering there made it seem as living skin.

Both OgaLopke picked up speed, their stride both lengthened and quickened. They ate the distance up and in moments were within natural unaided eyesight of their foe. And that foe had seen them. It was now gathered together in utter stillness. Ranked and arrayed a hundred deep, and dozens wide, Oluwander judged. But unmoving and with those killing forelimbs all held in the air as if weapons at port arms.

Even as the two closed to attack distance, that force of Gamarrah remained almost inert. Oluwander began to hesitate to wonder. "What is this behavior?" He did not voice his question. He tightened his grip on his weapons instead. He leapt up into the air and to the side, Argle Two executing a similar movement. Both slammed into the ground, space about each of them opening almost like a shallow stream under the impact of a pebble.

The Gamarrah flowed away from the cannon ball impacts to the ground, their blade limbs still held up, but no aggression. No cutting movement. None of the skittering scrabbling movement to tactical advantage.

Oluwander fired his pistol and the round hit, plasma burning through and its victim detonating with catastrophic effect to its neighbors surrounding it. Four of the Gamarrah fell. But the others still did not rouse to the fight. Argyle Two for his part was prosecuting his own attack sequence. A flawless series of sword strikes. None of them connected. The Gamarrah simply flowed back and away.

Oluwander stopped. He stopped in mid strike and dropped both arms, weapons now low to the ground.

"What is this? What IS this?" Oluwander shouted the thought into his own head and then out loud "Do you not wish to fight? Are you defeated?"

The Gamarrah did not respond. But they did cease all movement. They stilled to statues.

And in that moment, Oluwander understood. He signed to his brother Argyle Two. "We are defeated here. This fight is complete. There was a test here and it is done." He holstered his weapons and looked at Argyle Two. The tilt of his helmet conveying his emotion.

At that the Gamarrah shuffled their feet. A unified, percussive movement and then from the rear ranks a metal groaning and an enormous carcass was passed forward overhead by a thousand insectoid limbs.

It was unmistakable. The squat head alone identified it. The cannon had been ripped off its mount, and the armor was reduced to flapping tears of thick metal and ballistic material. It was truncated. Legless. It was the Opka.

It too had failed. Utterly.

The Gamarrah had won. Definitively and completely. The Federation's best annihilated.

Both Oluwander and Argyle Two dropped to one knee, witnessing that pinnacle of Federation war making brought so brutally low. Yet still they acknowledge its station above their own. They dipped their helmets in salute.

"Rise now warriors of the Federation."

Both Oluwander and Argyle Two looked up in shock and complete disbelief. The Gamarrah had spoken?

"You are not defeated here today. You are tested for a battle that is to come. You have performed well, and we recommend you now to your next training."

As Oluwander looked at the Gamarrah host, it misted, faded and then disappeared entirely. The metal carcass of the Opka floated impossibly in midair as if it were still borne on the limbs of the now vanished insectoids.

He looked to Argyle Two, and both, as if a synchronized pair unlocked their helmets and twisted them off their heads.

Oluwander's sight instantly went black and then a pin prick of light accompanied by familiar voices and faces swimming murkily towards him.

One, a leathery gray and brown, came closest. It smiled revealing teeth, a startling white and an unnatural evenness. The gray was hair, Oluwander realized. A beard.

"Good, you are conscious again. You scored well. A ninety score, Oluwander. You are one of only three who scored so well." The voice was a basso rumble and Oluwander was reminded of someone. "Past eighty on the Futile training course is generally impossible." The voice held a smile in its timbre.

"But are you not dead?" Oluwander's lips formed the words. Resisted them, then under pressure of his mind, spoke them.

"Simulation. Only simulation." The voice returned, and as the entire room lit up, Oluwander could see he was lying in a coffin, a sarcophagus of sorts. All manner of cables and tubing ran out of the interior to connect with plugging somewhere hidden from his sight.

He sat up. And in doing so saw the owner of the voice more clearly. A tattoo on the shoulder. Genus!


The End - of this part of the story

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