A/N:
As usual, I'm going to say this story is probably AU, though not especially intentionally so. As always, this story is completely written. As per usual, I will upload one chapter per day (Barring anything out of the ordinary. I will attempt to give readers a head's up via A/N). This was written for my entertainment, and is being published for yours. If you find yourself not enjoying it, then you should feel perfectly free to stop reading. Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best. Or say nothing about it at all, if you would prefer. Do feel free to point out typos, I check my stories before publishing, but I admit my imperfection and would welcome the opportunity to correct any mistakes I may have made.
Writing this story carried me through some tough times, and it's probably worth noting that this is the first story I ever finished before I got tired of writing it. Anyway, if you enjoy reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it, I've done well.
The ridge line on the Eastern side of the dry wash had a nearly perfect line of sight. From a lying down position, one could see almost the entire wash, and the rising sun coming from behind was blinding bright to any who might cast a wary glance in the direction of the elevated spot. The wind, blowing in from the Southwest, brought only the most distant smell of rain. Rain that would, in the end, be blocked by the massive mountain range fifty miles distant. It was nothing but an empty promise. To those inhabiting this scorched land it was torture, a sufficient enough distraction to leave little room for thoughts of a potential ambush from above.
Corporal Tavis had settled into position over an hour ago. Flat against the ground, he could not be seen from below. His upper half was concealed from above by a large scrub bush, the lower half was lightly dusted with sand but not buried, so that he had full mobility should he have need of it. The scope of his rifle was covered with a thin taupe-colored cloth, so thin that his vision was not limited, there not to protect the weapon, but to prevent the scope from reflecting the sunlight and giving him away. The stock of the weapon was supported on two metal legs, whose tiny feet were sunk into the soft sand so that they had disappeared entirely from view. Tavis had both hands on the weapon, right index finger resting on the trigger guard, waiting for its cue from his brain.
He didn't move, barely breathed, staring through the rifle scope at the wash, knowing what he was looking for, knowing it was coming soon, knowing that he would have less than a second to respond, and that single action would determine whether or not his squad lived or died.
Snipers weren't supposed to do duty continuously for more than thirty minutes, as it had been determined that they could not remain fully alert and a hundred percent effective for longer than that. But there was no choice in the matter, Tavis was the only sniper the squad had. Called Fortune Actual by troopers, the squad was composed of two fireteams, one led by Tavis and the other by Private (First Class) Volk, as well as the squad leader, a Sergeant whom everyone in Fortune called 'Mother' (which was also his radio call sign, though whether or not that had anything to do with it was anybody's guess).
They were a total of nine men, but they were still undermanned in that they lacked the proper weapons and special training that was supposed to be a staple of GAR troop squads. They had but one sniper, who served double duty as the leader of one of the fireteams. The second fireteam was headed by a Private rather than the accustomed Corporal. Their "medic" was, in fact, a mechanic by training whose circumstances and natural abilities had led to him gaining experience. They had no walkers, and no real need for a mechanic. Their sergeant had been promoted in the field after the demise of the squad's previous leader (Mother had been head of Fortune's fireteam 2). A rookie had been added to the squad, and Volk had come to head fireteam 2. When the fireteams were split in two, fireteam 1 was called Fortune while fireteam 2 was referred to as Actual. It was a personal blow to Volk's pride that the squad as a whole was also casually referred to as Fortune.
It was a good thing, Tavis thought, that line animals such as himself and his squadmates understood the tremendous strain of staying absolutely still, waiting for something to happen, knowing that the violence would be sudden, explosive, and over before they could blink, but having no idea when it would be or exactly what form it might take.
Mother and the rest of Fortune were just five hundred yards distant behind him, holding, still and silent as was possible. Their ability to do so could not be overstated, but the fewer bodies in near earshot of the dry wash the better. Tavis had not even been allotted a spotter (a spotter was meant to switch places with the sniper at twenty minutes, whereupon the sniper became the spotter) because there was none to be had. Keenly, he felt the absence of that immensely important portion of a sniper team.
Body and mind began to ache from tension, muscles cried out, appealing to him to move, to relax, to shift even so slightly. But he could not, would not. And so he ignored his body's pleas for mercy, taking the measured breaths he'd practiced in training, his eye never leaving the scope as he slowly panned from one end of the wash to the other, the slightest movement changing his perspective radically.
There.
Coming from the South, left of Tavis' position. The first target appeared out of the haze, closer than one might expect. Though visibility should have been excellent due to the position, the heat of the sun made distant objects appear to be wavering, like the rippling surface of a lake. It was difficult to spot real motion from the illusory. Especially when your targets were the same color as the reddish sand.
But these were solid targets. One, two, three, four of them and then more followed, but they were a solid mass, too far distant to even make an educated guess as to their numbers. Tavis keyed his radio a set number of times, a wordless signal to the squad that it was go time.
Any who might have been moving for any reason would freeze. Not one of them would move until they heard the rifle report. Tavis would not have to send a signal that it was over. A single shot would ring out, hit or miss, and the targets would scatter and flee into the heat mirages of the great plain.
The tension in his body reached screaming levels. Every instinct urged him to fire, adrenaline course through his system and demanded action, but training forbade it. He had but one shot, so it had to be a good one. He must wait, but the targets approached so slowly, their pace a meandering amble brought on by the need to conserve energy and keep body temperature down. The only reason they moved at all was that they needed to drink. The wash had but a little muddy water in it the day before, and that was now gone. The only reason the targets were coming on was that they remembered water from the day before. Once they discovered the wash was dry, they would not be back.
Finding them again might be impossible.
Tavis must not miss. He could not afford it. His squad could not afford it.
His stressed system told him he wasn't getting enough oxygen, but he knew his body was betraying him. Hyperventilation would make him dizzy, and cause his hands to shake. He resisted the impulse to breath more quickly, fiercely denying the demands of his body, knowing that the condition was brought about by the flood of adrenaline combined with his stubborn physical inaction.
Sweat poured off him, and it had only a little to do with the heat from the sun that blazed down unmercifully, its killer rays blocked only slightly by the browned bush under which he lay.
The targets were closer now. He could make out their round, nearly furless brown bodies and the small arrow heads perched atop thin necks which attached to bulky shoulders. Heavy bodied, they rocked side to side as they lumbered forth, just over half a ton apiece. Tavis had no name assigned to these creatures, but a sudden stabbing pain in his stomach told him what they were: food.
MREs had been rationed, the supplies had dwindled, and now they were gone. Tavis hadn't eaten in three days. Exhausted starvation would not be long in coming if he failed. They had thus far found none of the plant life said to be edible on this planet. Poisonous or simply indigestible, yes. The plains were rolling with dry grasses that did nothing for the clones nutritionally, but they could give you one hell of a stomachache, not to mention less pleasant symptoms. The few trees to be found were toxic, the bush under which Tavis lay was simply impossible to swallow. If you tried, you'd gag on it.
The day before, they had come upon the creatures, but had seen them too late. The animals had startled and fled. Had the area not been so dry, there would have been little chance of them returning. But they needed water to survive, and their thirst was such that they were forced to overlook the danger.
The clones themselves had been in bad shape, their water supplies having dropped dangerously low. The muddy water of the wash had been their salvation. Now, if only the arroyo had one more miracle in store. It looked very much like it did as the targets kept coming, their shapes gradually solidifying and becoming distinctly different from the surrounding land.
The targets were numbered based on the order in which they had appeared, and Tavis took aim at the second target's head. But his finger stopped at the trigger as he realized something was wrong. The top of the animal's skull was armored with heavy bone that swept out from its head to form curved horns that were roughly five feet long. He adjusted his aim to a point just behind the animal's left shoulder.
Maybe that wouldn't be a kill shot, but guaranteed the head shot would lead only to a stampede. If he aimed for the animal's eye, his shot might easily graze the downward curve of the horn. The animal might be injured, and it might die eventually, but there would be time for it to flee from harm.
A shot to where he hoped its heart was would hopefully kill it, at the very least the animal's leg might buckle under it, giving him time to make a second shot that would bring it down entirely.
He took a breath, and fired.
The explosion of noise was deafening. Literally hundreds of hooves thundered against the hard packed dirt as the animals scattered in all directions away from the sound of the shot, and also from the stricken creature, who became invisible in the dust and mob of reddish brown bodies. Tavis would get no second chance, and he wasn't sure he'd succeeded.
His frustration at not being able to see if he'd hit his target made him want to unleash a howl of frustration. He instead slowly folded the stand for his rifle, got stiffly and unsteadily to his feet, waited for the blood rushing to his head to subside and slung the weapon over his shoulder.
The animals who had fled in his direction to get away from the blood scent rolled their cow-like eyes to show the whites, bellowed their panic, whirled and galloped away. Tavis did not expect them to come uphill at him, it was too much effort and they were frightened of him. But he did not dare go down into the wash until the last of the alarmed beasts fled.
And then there was only silence.
As much as there had been noise thirty seconds before, the quiet was now absolute. Nothing stirred. Not even the wind. The dust hung in the air, seemingly motionless but in fact rapidly settling.
Tavis stepped over the lip of the ridge and slid down into the arroyo. He could see nothing through the dust. He coughed as it hit the back of his throat, he'd left his helmet on the ridge. You couldn't see through the scope properly with it on. He'd forgotten it in the heat of the moment.
That would earn him a chewing out. But maybe the sting of that might be lessened if he succeeded. And that, for the moment, was absolutely all he cared about.
His squad was dying, and the single shot he'd fired would be the deciding factor of whether they lived to fight another day or died here and now. The not knowing was almost more than he could stand, but he forced himself to walk slowly, to check his surroundings anew with every step.
A dark shape loomed ahead. It was then that he knew he'd succeeded. He didn't have to go back and key the radio in his helmet. Already he could hear the shuffling of tumbling sand as the rest of the squad came over the ridge he'd left behind, every bit as eager as he had been.
Close up, the animal stunk. It was ugly, and a gaping hole in its side had done nothing for its appearance. Already insects buzzed around the wound and the beast's lifeless staring eyes. Its thick tongue hung out of its open mouth, and the smell of its death was almost nauseating.
But it was edible, or so the reports said. It was food. And that was all that mattered.
The ecstasy of relief chased all tension from Tavis' body and he fell into a sitting position. He felt lightheaded, and more than slightly dizzy, and he knew he was probably shaking. It would subside in a minute. He just needed to breathe, and let the others do the rest of the work. He was spent, but he'd gotten the job done, and that was all that mattered in the end.
"Well done," Mother commented as he passed.
"Way to go, Cor!" exclaimed the ever excitable shiny of the bunch.
Tagging along behind him was Volk, whose demeanor was best described as stormy. It was inexplicable, but he seemed to think he was in some kind of competition with Tavis, and the verbal reminder of the differences in their rank from a member of fireteam 2 did nothing to improve his mood.
He had picked up Tavis' helmet and now threw it without warning at Tavis. Tavis caught it, which stung slightly. Volk had thrown it far harder than necessary.
"Better keep track of your equipment, moron," Volk growled, but there was little malice in his voice.
Even the stonehearted Volk could not remain cold to a brother who had just saved his life, as well as the lives of all his men. No matter how much he personally disliked that brother. Petty rivalries were unavoidable, but survival took precedence.
Tavis wasn't about to let Volk rain on his parade. He'd done it, carried out his assigned duty and made the shot, and there was nothing anybody could say or do to take that away from him, least of all Volk.
His brothers would be fed. For the moment, he cared about nothing else.