Blood on the soil. Blood on the ashes. Wind snatched up the last moments of terror, of warning, of victory, of loss; carried them off into the great beyond and sky above. Request for a scentcrafter had been refused before Skthveraachk scout had even left the column, and though he had resented it then, he understood it now. Smell would not bind them here. Smell would not serve nor assist. Their tapped and lain path back to the column was already barely detectable, only preserved by the fluid which had sunk into and hardened the dirt. Sound and sight; rely on the other two of the trifecta which made their music. Ignore the smell of the smoke, of the pus and the spit sealing cracked carapaces. Focus. Focus. A shriek of horrified rage as a soldier was melted alive before ever reaching its targets. Whirring and buzzing as the support bots, Sovereignty and Coalition, clashed above in a spiralling dance of rupturing machinery and raining debris. A second, a third, pull on his rear leg. There. There.

“Repeating last! Repeating last! Skthveraachk scout needed at fallen wyvern!” A menial reared itself, hurling a spear with all the strength its meager core could muster for the slop of the shallow hill ahead. The weapon clattered into the rocky dirt entire lengths from its target, only for ten and ten again flashes of light to respond. Showering the shell of the once more curled drone with melted stone from its dwindling cover. “Skthveraachk soldier silenced! Band is needed! Humanite delivers orders!”

“Where is Skthveraachk scout?” The Banded female scout had been closer when the rescue cluster arrived at the crashed ship. Safer, nearer the rear. Drone turned about, gaster to gaster, without breaking contact. Looking on to a menial hidden behind an outcropping in the field of lancefire, watching it wave and signal a response.

“Skthveraachk scout returning to primary column! Escorting humanite suvivors. Skthveraachk scout only remaining banded. Repeating last! Skthveraachk scout needed at fallen wyvern!”

“Only three banded in four hundred drones. Consider peeling Band from Skthveraachk soldier and attaching to humanite neck. Would be more expedient.”

“Suggestion to force Band on humanite?”

“Disregard. Received. Received!” Twelve lengths of open ground to the next protective cover from the elevated firing positions. The scout decoys had been killed within the first twelve beats of combat, the last to be silenced still laying propped against the stone aside Skthveraachk. He pulled the helmet from his own head, baring unprotected chitin to the gale which made antennae stick back to his skull. “Crossing to marked location. Dispatch menials. Confuse targeting. Begin.” A globule of spitter’s bile sent spatterings of acidic fluid onto his legs as it launched another ball for the humanites, searing at the meat beneath as Skthveraachk charged out into the open. Rushed, just behind the menial who had exited first. Ran, towards the six drones who scurried out from opposing cover. His core’s armor was still an indicator of his importance, but the moment he was exposed, its sheen was lost under the milling bodies of others who scuttled back and forth, turning the gap into a mesh of skittering bodies. Shots cracked out. Heat was felt. He dove and balled up behind the next covering stone, fitting perfectly into a hole of formite forms they had made for his arrival. The distraction dispersed. Two punctured menials lay dying, the cost of his movement paid. Diligently, they kicked and flailed even as their songs faded, ensuring none attempted costly and wasteful rescue.

“Sovereignty humanite agitated. Severe distress. Hasten approach.”

“Received.”

“Requesting information!” Soldier. No, menial-soldier. Hybrid designation. Outlier caste. Skthveraachk suppressed the natural revulsion, and did best to signal his attention as the helmet was clasped back over his head. Antennae poking out either side. “Projectiles, ineffective! Coalition, protected! Must move forward!”

“Refused! Ground is open!” Soldier. True soldier. Six battles survived. Composer did not seem of a mind to make it seven, though, if the situation held true. “Thirty-six soldiers silenced already. Less than a hundred remaining. Priority not Coalition! Priority, recover Sovereignty! Protect Sovereignty! Remain. Continue ranged engagement. Continue spitter throws.”

“Supplemental! Contact and harm not required!” Legs raised, bodies arched, tunnel was made for the scout to wriggle through. Sloughing off muck as he made way to the bright crimson light, the flashing warning of the downed aircraft. Wyvern transport and gunship. Primary role, troop dispersal and recovery. Secondary role, ranged support. Tertiary role, reconnaissance. Current role, a big, sparking boulder behind which humanites could cower. “Attention to Sovereignty. Humanites often prioritize safety of self over harm to enemy. Projectiles need not succeed. Projectiles need only threaten. Most humanites will hide.”

“Illogical! Hostile humanite priority, kill allied humanites! Individual damage, irrelevant!”

“Skthveraachk soldier contains new humanite knowledge? Skthveraachk soldier has spoken with humanites? Skthveraachk soldier wishes to wear Band instead of Skthveraachk scout?” He tried to make it sound accusing, to strike with a certainty like Ghescktyeelh-Colony had upon finding Vhersckaahlhn encroaching on their hunting reserves. It warbled out of him with just as much wilting fear, the spats and bursts of dirt as lances superheated the rock and missed bolts caused miniature explosions popping all around him. Still, there came acceptance in the cacophony of the battle clarion.

“Menial-soldiers advance to last sheltered line. Spitters advance to four lengths behind menial-soldiers. Increase frequency of attacks. Fifteen soldiers, each side; attempt encirclement!” Not his role. Not his responsibility. Skthveraachk withdrew, pressed forward on all six for the new sounds. The chittering of confused soldiers and drones as they crawled atop the lopsided wyvern, hacking and stabbing the plating of its hull. Trying to pry back the hard shell, not to consume tender innards, but to free them as one would the gestating infants of deceased queen. Shouting, wet and meaty, a lurid music which was born in the gut and vomited forth from between exposed bones from the two humanites still present, still crouched with legs at angles that made his own limbs ache just looking. Being used to it did not mean finding pleasure in it. Band perked. Band sung. Skthveraachk rushed forward.

Outlines suggested females. Subtle profile differences. Usually irrelevant, but noted; two of the thinkers were building a hypothesis that temperaments were different between the sexes. Triumvirate’s Blessing, females were the more rational of the two. And could wait just a few breaths more, while he sung ahead to the largest menial working upon the craft.

“Skthveraachk scout.”

“Skthveraachk tender.”

“I am Banded. What is your tasking?”

“Eighteen humanites trapped inside. Four alive. Two alive but damaged. Rest…dead.” The music had begun to compose in the direction of ‘silenced’, but consensus had yet to be reached if the aliens were songless or not. Dead. Gone. “Tasked with recovery.”

“Progress?”

“Slow. Only five soldiers present. Rest, menials. Wyvern skin too tough to pierce effectively. We begin on second layer.”

“Received.” Two lightning cracks struck the ground aside the cluster nearest the wyvern. Both humanites lowered themselves, tried to hunch further into protection. The laborers cut without pause. Skthveraachk requested two more menials be brought up to act as shields for the dominant race’s members. The two he now came to a halt before, the break in their exchange a rest he was quick to exploit with his own voice. “Sovereignty Humanites, may your … nose-holes, dip into orange.” Confusion sounded around him, requests for repetition, but the scout ignored it. The humanites didn’t understand their people anyways, so no time to waste on a proper greeting. “I am Skthveraachk scout. I am Banded. What is your command?”

One of the females wore the blues of those shells tasked with the air, the sky, and the space above.

The other wore the black and red of those shells who took to the ground, who fought with lance and light. It oriented the vacancy of its full helmet to him, only its lacking pair of eyes visible. And it struck a hand to its head. A movement of respect and recognition, as much as any opening verse. Hastily he tried to get on four legs and bow, but two more shots from the hill behind made him act against the instinct.

“Fifteen bars.” He relayed the answer from the twenty and more who stabbed wildly at the husk of the crumpled wyvern, using blunted scythes to saw back plate after plate, only to be met with more beneath. “Many hostile humanites on the hill. All soldiers required to discourage their advance. Menials lack scythes to damage hull.” Some had broken their spurs and claws. From the protective menial-warriors, spears and crude hunks of metal scrap were passed upward, used by bleeding gaspers and twisted limbs as they dug and tore.

The blue remained on knees, lowered, the lights hovering over its arm flashing and winding into orientations which doubtless spelled what the alien was already barking.

“Hostile attacks are weakened! We must attack! We must attack!” The song, frantic and defiant, was bursting from menial-soldiers all across the area. The true soldiers which had tried encirclement had fallen back, shot down as they attempted to crest the hill. The nearest, a malnourished and poorly formed female, rubbed her legs repeatedly on Skthveraachk’s abdomen. “We will protect humanites! We will kill humanites!”

“Peel! Frenzied songless! You remain! You distract! Soldiers will kill, you will die for soldiers!” Anger born of disharmony. The rejection of the new, the embracing of the surety of the old. Skthveraachk tried to relegate both to the baseline, the beat, while his own voice led the composition.

“We are ordered to leave?”>

Conflict. More confusion. Disagreeing thinkers. Disagreeing Queens? He cursed the aliens and their incongruity to the vetex caves. This was not his role.

“What occurs in two bars?”

“I do not presume to question the fallibility of humanite devices.” Peel his loose mind, too. “What does losing these things mean-?”

Unsustainable. He knew what the response would be long before he finished the description of events, sent them across the clamor of battle, and heard back from the most veteran of soldiers.

“Then we must be gone in under two bars. We begin withdrawal.”

Band off. Ignore the pointing claw and waving leg, arm, appendage. Think, like a thinker. Soldiers, menials and spitters. The Queen had sent him here to advise, because he knew humanites. What good was knowing them, when there was nothing he could do about it? Priority, save Sovereignty lives. Secondary, all else. He was a scout. Objective, in sight. Identify obstacle.

“Can we destroy the wyvern in two bars?”

“Yes. Seventy-two soldiers remain. If all were recalled.”

“Destroying wyvern would kill humanites inside.”

“Can we demolish the wyvern in two bars?”

“No. Speed only possible if there is no precision. Cannot destroy wyvern without destroying humanites.”

“We cannot destroy the wyvern. We cannot open the wyvern. We must move the wyvern.”

“Possible?”

“HUMANITE IN DANGER!” The gangly female was on him before Skthveraachk even fully registered the alarm signal, its blunted claw shoved painfully into the gap of his second leg. The warning bringing the other menial-soldiers tight, the soldiers to alert. He was not sure how the menial could have seen; even as the scout’s head turned, his advanced eyes barely made out silhouette of the aiming hostile on the hill. The angle, pitch, for the red and black of the alien’s husk. Sling was dropped. Shield of carapace and metal was raised. The two flashes of white struck the armoring dead center, one after the other, and burned straight through. Foreleg was flung back, the blood inside boiling, the meat expanding, and the limb exploding as the female toppled from him. Menials seized and dragged the frozen humanite down next to its fellow, leaving the drone where it had fallen. “HUMANITE IN DANGER! HUMANITE IN DANGER!”

“Humanite safe! Role succeeded! Humanite safe!” It was what you sung. It was what you cheered. Soldier, pupa, malformed and unnatural hybrid-designation; role was role. Success was all there was. The menial continued to spasm, but ceased to spurt the danger signals. Exhaling bliss amidst the agony. Skthveraachk felt the blood on his crest, and trembled as a lonely stalk. “Possibility uncertain. Must attempt regardless. Recall all soldiers.”

“Front will be exposed!”

“Reassign all menials and drones to the front.”

“Hybrids cannot succeed where soldiers fail!”

“Hybrids will defend until humanites are secure! All else, irrelevant!”

“We are soldiers!” It was not the fallen drone who sung now. But cries, which went up from those as they tightened legs around pointed stalks of kak and tightened circular shields to their bodies, were unflinching. “We are spitters! Queen commands! We will kill!”

“Will have opportunity. If nothing else.” Band was reactivated, and the babble of the sky-sent overtook him. Realizing that the alien was still held, so delicately it infringed on the claim of terror, by a pair of smallest menials. The waves of his antennae were frantic as he bid them away. “Humanite injured? Humanite damaged?”

“Humanite! Are you injured?!” The terrain was alive now. Soldiers, depleted spitters, flowed downhill and towards the crash under the scattered but still present bursts of heated lances. Menials, drones, hybrids, leaping from their covers and the hull of the craft, grabbing whatever scrap or salvage could be pried off the wyvern or the dead or the dying. Each warrior caste thrusting their mandibles into the bottom of the aircraft, pushing, testing, gripping in preparation. “We leave! Humanite must depart!”

The blue needed no more encouragement. Perhaps glancing if only briefly for the rocking, groaning hull of the vessel, but nothing else. The red could not remove its gaze from the fallen hybrid. Remnants of its front two legs twitching in the air, stunned, conscious enough only to begin thrashing if another drew too near.

“We will rescue them! Priority, preserve humanite life! Will be forced to carry you if you refuse. Do not refuse. Please.” Not quite begging, he yet implored with every ounce of his voice’s passion. The memories vividly displaying the damage caused to the struggle, screaming Sovereignty male who had been dragged from the minor nest outside Guir. The harm needed to save life. “We go. Together.”

“Lift! All! Lift! Together!” The injured soldiers still able to function had clawed their way atop the wreckage, and with thundering legs, began to beat on the hull. To chant. To set the pace, and to ride the tempo. “Lift! All! Lift! Together!” It was not the corpse of a chaerilite, not the remains of a hunted lucanite; they could not tear it to pieces, transport it bit by bit. Was it even made, designed, birthed to be moved like this? Not his role. Not his concern. It rocked, it lifted, and when gap was formed, bodies thrust themselves beneath. Braced against the rocks, pushing up with their cores. Those at the edges faltered for a breath, and two beneath the furthest end were crushed flat. The rest compensated. “Lift! All! Lift! Together!” If any hesitated, their sibling would die. If any shirked their share of the load, the wreckage would fall. They were not humanites. They did not stray. They did not question. Twenty bodies. Forty. Sixty. Four died raising it, more would die setting it down. But it moved.

Claws pounded to the beat of the heart, the breath of the core. Soldiers atop directed; soldiers below steered. They sung of the Founders, of the immovable Ch’e, of the damming of the Kheehrspass and the ten thousand drowned. Each step shook the ground, each strike of a lance’s beam on the hull sending spurts of fear, but they marched as one and with one. Hesitation. Even now? Dancing goldboughs, what hope had the colony if the scout was one the Queen considered knowledgeable. Blue fled back, surrounded, secured. Red stepped. Hesitated. Looked to the fallen female hybrid. And took hold of it.

“Skthveraachk menial-warrior! Do not move! Humanite! Humanite!” Abject terror of the sky’s shadow filled him, a brief waking dream drawing to him the potential image of the wounded drone’s flailing cutting the humanite’s head clean off. Merciful was the Composer’s plan for the hybrid’s song. It felt the touch. Registered it as alien. And froze instantly. “Humanite, please, it is not necessary-“

A hand? There would be hands somewhere on the battlefield. No, illogical. Idiom. Words that meant more than they meant. Help. Why? Irrelevant. Priority was reallocated, the discarded drone marked as the scout approached and thrust his abdomen against it. Smearing it with signals for the menders, then lifting with jaw and claw. Frantic nerves, uncertain desire overruled by irrational impulse. No measures to question, no reason to ponder.

“Skthveraachk menial-warrior. Female. Hybrid caste. Birthed by-“

Fear dripped from the female drone freely, pattering the ground as it emulated a stone, not risking even a feeling of its hair for risk of damaging the alien. Bots above them continued to clash, soldiers ahead lurching step after step to carry the weight of the titanic metal construct, and those left behind had resumed their bombardment of stone and spear and spit upon the attackers. Irregular, unguided, trying to emulate the plans and memories of soldiers far their betters.

“It is a menial. Its role is your safety.” His was to lead. To guide. To chart the path, across alien skies and alien worlds and alien tongues and alien minds. He was a scout. And he could not comprehend what he was seeing. “Why do you slow your retreat for it? It has served its role.”

“It is elevating wound. If we reach menders, it can be healed. If it survives, it will be faulty.” It was a menial-warrior. Something new. Something wrong. A test, Skthveraachk Queen had sung to the colony; an experiment. A passing fancy, doomed to failure, the colony heard and accepted. Even now, those behind struggled to form lines, to organize. Young. Isolated. He reached forward through the link. “Skthveraachk soldier. Return five soldiers to assist hybrids.”

“Refused. All are needed to guard and carry.”

“Menial-warriors inexperienced. One battle survived at most. Will fall quickly.”

“Acceptable. Need only short delay.”

Queen of all humanites, Queen of all formites, the Vocalist Which Led Billions, as some of the thinkers had begun to whisper of him.

“Repeating previous. Skthveraachk soldier, return five soldiers.” They existed to die. To fight. It was right they would die. It would be better if they could live longer. Kill…some. Possibility? Unknown. The humanite was looking down at the wounded menial, carrying it, touching it as humanites did not touch formites. It was new. It was wrong. Hybrids were new. Hybrids were wrong. Perhaps wrongness could understand wrongness. “Assist menial-warriors.”

“Refused. All are needed.”

“All are needed?”

“Confirm repeat of last.”

“Priority?”

“Preserve humanite life.”

“Communication no longer required. Humanites are being extracted. I am no longer needed.”

“Agreed.”

“Reassign warrior to assist red shell humanite in hauling wounded menial.” He released his grip. A soldier instantly replaced him. Stupid. Frenzied. Safety was back to the column. Scouts did not travel back until their role was completed. Danger remained forward. Something new awaited him forward. This was his role. “Humanite-Sergeant. Skthveraachk soldier will assist. Mender will take this drone upon arrival at the column. I go.”

“Fighting is still required. Your escape must be covered. Menials require assistance. Will attempt to locate you for further explanations and humanity lessons in insanity if I survive.” He turned. He dropped back to all six. He ran. Into the lasers and heat, across the open space marked with the hundred and hundred clawmarks engraved onto the dust of the planet from the carried wyvern’s trail. Forward was his destination. Back were the shouts, the Band giving final clicks as it stretched and reached for the possible-female creature’s cries.

The rigid clapping of his antennae was the response to the nonsense. Only formites had fear of the sky. These aliens owned it. But if they had so much love for it, then perhaps it was only right they were sent straight back to its inky abyss where they had come from. Where they belonged. A strike of a lance’s light at his right claws. Skthveraachk tucked, rolled, skidded through the dirt until his helm crunched on the wall of a ridge, and once more, the voices and song of his kind enveloped him.

“I am Skthveraachk scout! Queen tasks me with assistance! We must fight the humanites!”

“Skthveraachk scout! Skthveraachk menial-soldier. I have survived one battle. I lead.”

“I have survived fourteen battles. I lead.”

“You lead.”

“Census of this cluster?” They huddled around him. Reaching, touching with slightly misshapen legs not fully developed in pupae and graspers filled with weapons rather than with extended scythes. Bots still overhead. Wyverns above that? Unseeable.

“One hundred forty-eight menial-soldiers. Forty-four spitters.” He waited a breath. Nothing further. Well, he had helped kill monsters with fewer. “Unknown number of designation hostile humanites.”

“Sixteen, no more.” The aliens never tried to hide their numbers in combat. The arrangement on the hill was clear, the semi-circle a standard engagement for them. Meant to provide fire and cover to one another, to create an area of death at range. “Preparations for attack?”

“Hold and delay. Spitters have capacity. Menials do not. Ammunition, infinite.” There was a humming in the air, the sound of air as it rushed through the slats of slings spun to sides. Stones of all shapes pulled off the ground and hurled recklessly from behind rock and shield. Conflict had lasted near eighteen beats. Fatigue was present. Even the most adolescent yet could push through it.

“No. Negative. Humanites hold ranged advantage. Have seen many conflicts. Universal humanite victory until melee is entered. Prepare all for charge.”

“Received. Scatter pattern?” The drone was drawing from the memories, from previous menial engagements. Spread the drones wide, shots were certain to kill in only one or two impacts, but it would waste the enemy’s precious time. But these humanites grew more clever. These humanites faced inferior formites. Even if they scattered and reached them, too many would be dead. Valuable spitters, likely the first to be targeted. They needed the memories. But they needed humanite memories instead.

“Single column. Fifty wide. Four deep.”

“Madness! Frenzy! Too stretched, too thin! If single break, enemy is behind!”

“Humanites do not fight as formite. They will not charge. We will not break.” The oldest memories. The first memories. The first conflict with the aliens, that was where they would find their harmony. These new hybrids were to fight the humanite? Then they would fight as the humanite. A spitter reared, prepared to hurl, and was caught by a bolt. Even as it fell, the body knew now to angle back and away from nearby drones as acid spewed out of the holes. “Interlock on approach. Do not cease ranged attack. All must throw. Mark scent of aggression.”

“Received. You lead.”

“I sing displeasure of the truth as much as you.”

“Received?”

“Ignore.” His claws felt empty. It was a strange sensation. All around him, they held tools, constructs, weapons. Skthveraachk’s scythes were never the largest, never the sharpest, but they had bit true into the foes and biomass of his colony. Colonies. They were the proudest of those here now. And somehow, watching as they puked stones to slings and gnawed the tips of their kak spears into deadlier points, the scout felt they would be insufficient. Cheers, exalts, voices unifying in a newfound certainty rose around him as the scout dug claws into the nearest corpse, seeking to pry off the section of chitin across the gaster. Something to assist him in living breaths longer. “Cluster readied?”

“Confirmed!”

“Do menial-warriors yet have music of their own during battle? Notes to chant?”

“No.” So strange. To belong to caste that yet belonged nowhere. To be a part of the whole the whole did not yet comprehend. A male’s baritone timbre rose from the rocks to Skthveraachk’s left.

“We are soldiers! We are spitters! All will fight! None will stop!”

“Yes! Yes!” They echoed. They repeated. Battle scents were thrown up, snatched away by the wind, yet lingering on his tongue and in his lungs. New. Wrong. The future. Yes. This is where he belonged. He felt the Queen within him, knew her to be beyond him, yet it was her memories Skthveraachk brought roaring to the forefront.

“Begin the song! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

The line was thin. It was hilarious in its uselessness. A single soldier could have charged them, struck the first of the squat menials, and pushed its entire length through their mass with only minor injuries. Shields of the front, side by side, angled upwards and forwards. Shields behind, held high and to the front, covering the eyes and heads of those before them. Sight was not required; they were guided by the music of those who could see behind them. They did not trip as they ran on four legs. They did not hesitate or stumble. Ineffectually, the hundred in ranks behind launched rock after rock, spit after spit, spear after spear, every shot missing or impacting the dirt of the ridge. But as they charged, barely a humanite rose through the onslaught to try and eliminate their attackers. A spot of light here, a crack of lightning there. Any helm, any head seen to raise was met by a dozen improvised projectiles, the scout himself even groping as they ascended the slope to pick and throw stones in his bare graspers. Menial fell dead. Others filled the gap without hesitation. Metallic orb was flung from above, and a fireball consumed seven on the left flank. The rest hissed as the flames singed them, and continued. It was a weak line. It was a mockery of a column. And when it reached the flatness of the hilltop, it was met with a line of the humanite’s own, one which had fallen back and formed into an arrangement of no more than twelve. No more than fifteen lengths away.

“Kill! Kill! For Skthveraachk-Colony! For Imperial Sovereignty!” They aimed for the center. It was expected. Skthveraachk raised the scraps of carapace, lowered his head, and he ran with all he had. Fourteen lengths when the first crack sounded. Voices fell silent all around him. Nine dead in a breath. Eight lengths when the second came. Another eleven never to sing again. Five lengths when mismatched explosions resonated, but it was no longer unified. No longer as one. Drones were birthed to die for the colony. Humanites were birthed to live for themselves. Through the crack in the wall of barriers, metal and organic, he watched as half the humanites turned, ran, and chose life. The rest shouted, and stood, and shot. Defiant. And they died defiant.

“Assist! Humanite pinned!”

“Attack! Attack!”

“Armor weakest beneath legs and joints!”

Chaos. Frantic movements. He had guided them to the battle, but the menials had no practice with the undertaking of it. They threw themselves atop the aliens. Stabbed, beat, clubbed at anything unmarked and unidentified to the colony. A metal tip flashed in the light of the discolored sun, and Skthveraachk barely managed to reach his forelegs ahead and grasp the weapon before he registered the silvery head of a sharpened blade affixed to the end of a lance. A lance which pushed him back, dug his spurs into the rock, as the humanite on opposing end stared at him with wild, unfeeling, incalculable orbs of brown and blue. Clear fluid streaming from its orifices. Bones bare and visible, wet and red interior gaping, and a screaming which sung of madness and meaninglessness flecking sealant and juice into the scout’s eyes. Daggered tip of the lance dug nearer Skthveraachk’s armored underside, only his own trembling arms keeping it from bringing his final note. The humanite was screaming. Skthveraachk was screaming. A menial-warrior shoved a spear of kakstrip into that opened hole, the tip emerging out the other end, as a spitter sliced with both scythes to remove the aggressor’s limbs.

“Killed! Silenced! I have silenced one!”

“Kill! Kill!” Skthveraachk toppled forwards, the floppy ends of the creature’s graspers still wrapped around the lance. A spear. It was spear enough. He pulled and shook the squishy masses from the weapon, angling the point forward, and charged once again. The pandemonium was to their favor, that much was clear, those that were fleeing only firing sparing shots backward. To discourage being followed? Attempt to fulfill role even as they abandoned it? Some humanites would rather be killed than fail. Some would rather die than be killed. Some would rather kill than lose the body of one who had been killed. If there was sense to it, Skthveraachk could not yet find the rhythm which would allow such. “Beware! Beware! Humanites may explode when silenced! Do not cluster! Do not group!” Some obeyed. Others could not hear, lost in their focus. Cheers from the front. Dying pains from the rear. A call for aid to the risefade? He signalled for two nearby spitters, and kept on four legs so preserve the lance-spear in his grip. Vaulting a cluster of boulders, and landing opposite them only to find another barrel of another heat-spitting lance aimed for his skull. Aimed by the sole present humanite, backed against the rise of stone.

“Kill! Kill? Attack?”

“Refused. Wait for additional support.”

“Scout is present. Two spitters. Acceptable!”

“Refused! Humanite can kill two, three, and then the one engaged.” Three menial-warriors chattered and snapped their mandibles forward, keeping four lengths of distance, though trying to ease nearer. Spitters were nearly drained, enough for one or two more expectorates each. Then Skthveraachk, with his tipped lance and still shaking core. It moved slowly to its right, the barrel of its weapon dancing and jolting between those present. Carefully, the scout raised a claw to his Band, and ensured it was switched off.

“Sing louder for aid.”

“Others are half-frenzied. Are not responding.”

“We go, all at once. Six for one humanite. This is good trade.”

“Where is it going?”

“*^&**^&**^&*!” It did not shoot. Aimed for them, yes, but did not shoot. Why? They would attack as soon as it attacked. It knew this. It did not wish this. Because this was a humanite that did not wish to die.

“It is trying to avoid us. It wants to escape.”

“It is a soldier. It should be killing us.”

“Move away from your left.” The menials obeyed, instantly. They scuttled tenthlengths to their right. Alien, with deadly weapon still aimed, shifted further to its right. Towards the nearest gap in the rocks, leading off into the howling gale of wind and dust, out of sight and harm. Skthveraachk realized his own lance was pointed, now, as its was. Aimed, awkwardly, but true for the creature’s core. How to make it spit? Trigger at the base. He dug claw for it, but found it too small a hole for his grasper. “Hostile’s priority is not to kill. Hostile’s priority is to run.”

“Then we attack now!”

“It will attack if we attack.”

“We allow it to run?”

“No!” They had it. It was theirs. If it fled, if it escaped with the others no doubt being chased ineffectually, it could outrun them. He had seen it. Formites had speed, but humanites had endurance. Formites would tire before the alien did, and when next they fought, this one alien would, could, kill tens of their kind. It had to die. Here. Another step to his right. Another step to its right. And for an instant, it looked away from the threat. Showed the back of its head. His heart was thudding to a war march. “Wait. Wait.”

“We wait. It will flee.”

“Yes.”

“Allow it to flee?”

“Allow it chance to flee. When it flees, it will turn. When it turns, it will die.”

“It will not turn!”

“It will turn. You must be ready. All must be ready.”

“We are ready.” Did they believe in him? Belief was unnecessary, trust immaterial. Obedience was all. No formite would show its back to an enemy and expect to live. No creature great or small on their world would expose abdomen when threat remained. Another step. Another glance. It did not wish to fight, so it was not thinking of the fight. As the humanite who saved menial did not think of the act, as the humanite who fought to reclaim comrade’s corpse did not consider the danger. Emotion. Not logic. Emotion. Not sense. Step. Glance. The gap so close. He tasted its fear in the air, knew it to be true. Skthveraachk did not comprehend these creatures, but he knew how they thought. And if he knew how they thought, he knew what they would do. And if he knew what they would do…

Step. Glance. The beginnings of a turn.

“Now! Now! Now!” Two orbs of bile. Two stones. One spear. All impacted the alien at once, cutting through its stomach and puncturing clean through its leg and melting the mask of its helm and bubbling the flesh of its arms. It fired without looking. Skthveraachk felt heat boil his skull. Eyes rose to the sun and sky as he fell backwards, rigid, losing sight of the alien’s own collapse. His helmet toppled from him, blissfully, blessedly, the heat which felt as though it could melt his voice itself removed and distant. Panic scent had spurted from the scout, but as the nearest menial felt and touched at his skull, it confirmed with a chitter that there was no present damage. Skthveraachk hugged the lance to his core, and vents clogged with dust coughed out either of his sides.

“Skthveraachk scout knows what humanites think?”

“Skthveraachk scout knows what some humanites think.” A good guess. A calculated understanding. Some of both. Some of neither. Their two bars were long used up. Would the flying machines still attack them if the Coalition had gone? That, he did not know. That, he did not wish to find out. An upside-down look, his body still sprawled out on the sands, afforded him first a view of the more distant, squelching mass of metal and meat that had once been a humanite. Then, the similarly melted bowl that had saved his final note, to be sung later. “Skthveraachk scout ... is going to need a new helmet.”