II – THE PROPHET
Salusa Secundus, Nephilim Sector, Ultima Segmentum
"Amon?" A hand jiggled Amon's arm. "Amon, time."
"Uhh, gratitude for that, Sol." Stones dug through Amon's thin bedroll and in to his back. "I was on the threshold of the good part."
"Huh-huh. We have all been there more than once, brother." Sol Yirryl gripped Amon's hand and pulled him upright. "My turn to sleep now."
"Do you want anything from the welfare box first?" Amon shifted to his daypack at the foot of his bedroll and unzipped the lower section.
"Mixed fruits?" Sol rubbed his eye. "I need my sugar, human or otherwise."
"We eat and drink as the humans do, Sol. We are merely humble insurgents bothering the occasional military convoy, not Rangers." Amon fished out a shiny packet with a thin straw attached to the outside.
"Belay that for a moment, Amon. Time to pay respects."
"Sol…?" Amon opened a side pouch and held out a crumpled black bag. "Bag it up and bring it back."
Sol snatched the bag and screwed it up in his fist. "I love this game."
"Sol? Make sure you gauge the wind direction correctly this time."
"Eughh…" Sol picked up his lasblaster and wriggled out through the gap.
"Grego." Amon opened a slim case and brought out a monocular. Gregoire Nightspear crouched on a ledge, his eye to an ocular mounted on a small tripod. "Any activity this morning?"
"Humans and their timetables, brother." Grego flipped a map case open and passed Amon a slate. "Day after day."
"No sign of the Oscars then." Amon's thumb touched the screen. He blew dust away and scrolled through the past eleven days' entries, each detailing the type and quantity of traffic using the road. "Every wheeled and tracked vehicle in the human arsenal so far."
"No Oscars have used the Vigilance-Harawat road for the past eleven cycles, Amon."
"No Oscars…" Amon swept back to the initial entry, detailing the mission parameters. The codename 'Oscar' headed a paragraph detailing the technical specifications of a mobile intercontinental ballistic missile launcher. An image showed a boxy, fully-tracked chassis supporting a launching rail and a collection of four smaller payloads attached to a single forty-foot-long missile.
"Can you fetch me one of those juices?"
"You can have Sol's." Amon slapped the sealed packet on Grego's arm. "Come down. I will keep a vigil."
"Aahh. My knees are on fire." Grego slumped against the wall and stabbed the straw through the packet. "Where did Sol go?"
"Relief." Amon flicked a fly from the ocular's sack covering and put his eye to the lense. An empty double-lane carriageway cut across a wide plain. Stone drainage ditches flanked the raised road and narrow tunnels ran beneath it. "Vacant for how long?"
Grego slurped on his straw. "Check the timer."
Amon brushed the face of his chrono. "Two hours, eleven minutes, and forty seconds."
"Has Sol found his present yet?"
"Present? That block of ferrocrete you hid at the bottom of his pack, you mean?"
"Hah-hah-hah-hah!"
"Sol will not be pleased when he digs that out."
"Nor when he finds this empty." Grego removed the straw, squeezed the packet, and sucked it dry. "Heh-heh, his day is ruined now."
"Bag it up, Grego."
Grego loosened the drawstring at the head of his sack and tossed the packet inside. "The urine bottle is nearly full, Amon. Could we just…?"
"No."
"Is that Sol coming back?" Grego dug his laspistol from his shoulder holster.
"Give the sign."
"Nightshade." Grego gave the sign in Gothic.
"Hellebore!" A knotted bag flew in to the OP. "A gift for you, Grego."
"Gift declined, Sol." Grego shoved his sidearm away. "Anything on UTS?"
"Nothing." Sol scooted beneath the net on his backside. "Grego? Grego, what did you do with my juice?"
"I was keeping eyes on the 619, Sol. Ask Amon." Grego wiped a tube attached to his Ranger vest and stuck the end in to his mouth and drew water from a bladder.
"I know when you are lying, Grego. Do you want Sol in an angry temperament?" Sol rummaged about in the welfare pack.
"He is welcome up here, as long as he can keep his blood pressure in check." Grego peeled a wrapper from a fruit and oat bar. "The nearest aid is three-hundred klicks away, and it is across the 619."
"Grego, pick up your longarm," Amon said.
"I am eating."
"Now, please. I need your eyes."
Grego crammed the bar in to his mouth and screwed up the wrapper. "Eurmph." Crumbs cascaded from Grego's mouth.
Sol took water from his own bladder. "Didn't your mother teach you to chew before swallowing, Grego?"
"Mine did. Yours only knew how to swallow." Grego unrolled a Ranger Long Rifle from a blanket.
"Sol! No grief in the field. Bring your optics up here."
Sol kicked at Grego's heel. "Ohh!" Grego stumbled. The Long Rifle's covered muzzle hit the wall.
"Settle petty squabbles off the field, you two." Gods, if only it were Ilic here instead of Gregoire.
Grego unlatched the Long Rifle's gyro-arm and sat it in the dirt next to the ocular's tripod. "What am I observing?"
"Military convoy. Eleven vehicles heading east to west. Sol, take note of this."
"How many again, sorry?" Sol took the slate from the map case.
"Eleven wheeled transports. Hennus models."
Sol's fingers tapped the screen. "No Oscar?"
"No Oscar."
"Cargo?"
"Cargo unknown. All are covered." Amon traversed his ocular and settled on the tail-end Hennus. A tiny figure occupied a gun turret above the cab. Dust kicked up by the other lorries blew in to his face. He must be enjoying that.
A long, rectangular container flew from the Hennus's rear flap, bounced upon the asphalt and skidded in to the drainage ditch. "Cargo being dumped at the roadside."
Grego nudged the Long Rifle. "I see it. Weapon crate."
Two more cases fell from the lorry and slid down in to the ditch. "Do you have the position, Grego?"
"Holding."
"Sol, noted?"
"Three weapon crates left next to the 619 at 14:34 Imperial Standard. We are going by Imperial Standard time, aren't we?"
"Keep it IS, Sol. Human units of measurement only."
"What are you thinking, Amon?"
"That is one-hundred per cent corruption in the upper supply echelons, Gregoire. A bent quartermaster selling arms to the enemy. I think this new development permits closer observation." Amon reduced the ocular's extreme magnification. "Grego, I am looking at a ridge to our south-east. It may give us a better observation of the 619."
"A better sniping position, you mean. I would rather we did not veer off-mission and wipe a handful of humans from existence."
"We will be far farther than human eyes can discern. I see no harm in uprooting and moving our OP nearer to the road. Sol, can we have your input, please?" Amon got down from the ledge.
"Hold this." Sol handed Amon his carton. "Hold it, don't drink it."
"Brother, I would never." Amon grinned. "It is by your knee."
Sol peered through the ocular. "…And this new lay-up benefits how?"
"It brings us closer. Around about the three-thousand-yard mark, so giving us a clearer view of the humans' intentions regarding the tipped cargo."
"Nothing to do with Oscar then?"
"Oscar is still our primary objective. We can keep this OP as our secondary and leave our heavier equipment here. Take our small-arms, comms, medkit, and the UTS with us."
"Sol?" Grego replaced the covering on the Long Rifle's optics.
"What do you think, Grego?"
"I see no major risk in establishing another OP, Sol. We are not deviating from the mission plan by doing so."
"Agreed? Agreed. I will inform the captain. Can you set the LRT up please, Grego?" Amon took a small disk from his daypack and set it on the floor. An orb sitting in the centre jumped from the disk and cast blue light against the slope of the hill. A Ranger in a hooded cloak materialised.
"Brother, report." The image distorted. Grego leaned further out of the OP and held the LRT up higher.
"Captain, we have had no visual on Oscar for the past eleven cycles. The three of us have agreed to establish a second observation post six-hundred yards nearer the 619, while keeping our current OP a secondary."
"Why the change in location, brother? Talk me through your reasoning."
"Captain, I observed the tail-end vehicle of a military convoy deliberately dropping weapon crates at the roadside. This was at 14:34 Imperial Standard. Ranger Gregoire Nightspear kept vigil with me and he confirmed the sighting."
"Your mission is to observe, not to engage."
"We will still be three-thousand-plus yards out from the 619, Captain."
"There are no Rangers on Salusa Secundus, brother. Keep to your mission."
"We understand. We are in agreement, Captain. Our heavier equipment we intend to leave here. Ranger Nightspear has the Long Rifle and the UTS. Ranger Yirryl, fire-support and med, and myself as patrol commander and spotter."
"Send half-hourly updates."
"Received and understood, Captain. End traffic." Amon wrapped his hand around the orb and replaced it in its tray. "Sol, Grego, make ready."
Three figures in dust-ridden, cameleoline robes descended the hillside along a narrow track. Grego led with the Long Rifle, Amon followed twenty feet behind Grego, and Sol brought up the rear. This place can't have ever had rainfall. Amon's boots dislodged loose stones and sent them tumbling down the slope and in to the wadi. Dust devils roamed the plain and shimmering haze covered the road.
"I thought I could feel something in my pack, Sol."
"Hunh-hunh-hunh. Those calories will not burn themselves, Grego."
"Oh-ho, you tread carefully from now on, Solene."
"Do not call me that, Gregoire. You were clearly the least favoured child of the two."
"Brothers. Time," Amon said.
"Was that half an hour already?" Grego crouched at the edge of the track.
Amon swept his robes over his head and sat down on the path. "Captain, we are at the foot of the hill. Proceeding through the wadi." Amon held his hand the transmitter's lense, keeping the bright light minimised.
"Understood. Use caution."
Amon tucked the transmitter away and picked up his lasblaster. "Proceed, Grego. We will follow in your footsteps."
"In my footsteps, Sol." Grego left the path and sidestepped down the last stretch of the slope to the wadi floor. Amon left a twenty-foot gap then followed in Grego's prints.
"Track marks here, Amon. They have not been covered yet." Grego climbed on to a rock with a shallow, smooth slope and perched on the edge. "They split and curve around this rock."
"Military soles?"
"I think they are children's feet."
"Any animal tracks?" Amon frowned down at Grego's larger tracks alongside much smaller, very slight prints. "Shepherds perhaps?"
"…No. What would they be shepherding out here?"
"Sol, keep your eyes up. We might not be alone out here."
"Humans?" Sol squatted on the lower slope and aimed his lasblaster at the nearest ridgeline.
"Recent tracks." Amon used Grego's prints and closed the gap between them. "Good and bad news then."
"Is it bad or good news if we stumble upon them?" Grego sucked from his bladder. "Out here, no-one would know if a couple of herders went missing."
Amon hooked a finger and stabbed it at his and Grego's tracks. "Sol, walk in our tracks!"
"Sorry, the…" Sol's fingers touched his eyelids. "The light is messing with my depth perception."
"Wear these. They will keep the glare to a minimum." Amon tossed a pair of tinted goggles to Sol. "I will want those back too."
"So…" Grego squinted at Amon. "Left or right?"
"Which way is the wind blowing?"
"Ask the gods."
"And they would say to take the right path. After you, Nightspear."
"Do you want me to fix the terrain scanner up, Amon?"
"Leave it until we are on higher ground, Sol. Off you go. Keep your spacing generous."
Sol perched on a low rock and slurped a juice carton. "I enjoy eating human. These juices are perfect. Shame about the sugar though."
"Eating human?"
"You know what Sol means, Grego." Amon skirted the rock. "I would eat Alaitoc. Well, maybe if they put me at a table with Alaitoci cuisine and had a gun to my head."
"Eh-heh-heh. A gun to your head?"
"I'd eat on pain of death." Amon smiled to himself. Ahead, Grego jumped a slim gap between outcrops and dropped to the Wadi floor.
"I hope you brought more of those cartons along, Amon."
"Sol, you are not having any of my—" Dust shot skywards, obscuring Grego. A roar rolled through the wadi. Caked in dust, Amon lifted his head. An eeeeeeee filled his ears. "Grego?" Amon patted the dirt and dragged his lasblaster over.
"Grego? Grego, answer me!"
Amon coughed and leaned on his lasblaster. "Grego…?" Dust curled up the slopes. Amon waved his hand in front of his face and planted a boot in Grego's print. "Grego?" Grego lay on the ground, his arms spread-eagled, and the Long Rifle lying just out of his reach. Above a blackened depression, bloody lumps of flesh stuck out of a torn-up trouser. "Brother?" Amon tugged the straps of Grego's pack from his shoulders and moved it beneath his head.
"Uhhh, Amon?"
"No-no, stay down, Grego. You took a fall." Amon unwound a tourniquet from his lasblaster's stock.
"Why are you—?" Grego lifted his head. "AGH—AARGH!"
"Hush! Hold still, Grego. Hold still." Amon wrapped the tourniquet around Grego's thigh. Grego's shoulders heaved and his hands dug channels in the dirt.
"Give me my—give me my—"
"Leave the rifle, Grego—no, don't touch it!" Amon slapped Grego's hand away from the dripping mess beneath his knee.
"Kurnous, a toepopper!" Grego screwed up his face and slammed his fist in to his leg. "GRRRGH."
"Sol. Medkit up here, please."
"Grego?" Sol belted through the wadi, one hand holding his lasblaster up, the other holding the medkit. "Grego!"
"With caution, Sol!" Amon tightened the tourniquet.
"Aahh, not so tight, Amon." Grego's fingers tightened around the back of Amon's neck. "I can't feel my leg now."
"Trust me, it is better you did not, brother." Amon pulled his mask down. "Keep watch of the skies. Tell me what you see."
"Amon." Sol dropped the medkit in Amon's lap. "That far ridgeline. I can cover you and Grego from there."
"No, the UTS. Do you have the UTS on you?"
"I left it in my pack back there."
"Retrieve it, set it up on a vantage point, then set yourself up on the ridge."
"Yes."
"Keep us and the 619 in sight. Do you have the ocular?"
"Yes."
"In our footsteps then, Sol. Hold still, Grego. I have to check you for other injuries."
"I need the…" Grego pattered at the medkit. "Something to take my mind off…"
"Wait, wait. Let me check your body first."
Grego squeezed his groin. "Confirm for me."
"Apologies in advance." Amon popped a Wraithbone knife from a sheath on his Ranger vest and slit the material around Grego's groin and felt Grego's genitals. "One… two… and three."
"Am I intact?"
"Confirmed, brother." Amon grinned. "You can still get it up."
"Still? Still! You insult a Nightspear, you see him at dawn with laspistols."
"Trust me, I am more afraid of what Melodie would do to me if I didn't bring you back home in one piece."
"Well, you've failed in that regard, brother." Grego clawed at his severed foot. "Get that quarter of me, would you?"
"It can stay there for now." Amon ran his hands up and down Grego's legs. "Let me check for any leaks."
Spittle stained Grego's grimy lips. "Arrgh, you're lucky. No naggers at your elbow or biters dragging the hem of your robes."
"They can re-attach it, Grego. Failing that, they will grow a new limb for you. This might hurt a little." Amon took off his own sack and propped it underneath Grego's leg.
"AGH. What was that?"
"Just elevating your leg. Too low and you bleed out. Too high and you bleed in."
"Do I look like I give a damn about that?" Grego punched Amon's shoulder.
"Sol? Sol, where are you?" Amon twisted. "Sol, why aren't you answering your comm?"
"One moment, Amon."
"Is that UTS online? I want a continuous scan of the area of operations as soon as possible."
"Damn the UTS. Get Sol to come over and help carry me out."
"That is my decision to make, Grego. Language, by the way." Amon patted Grego's cheek.
"That's all I have now, Amon." Grego gritted his teeth and thumped Amon. "Bad language."
"Well, you have not started on the Gothic profanity yet. I would say we are still in the clear."
"UTS online, Amon."
"Come to me."
"What about the ridge?"
"Come to me first. Use our tracks."
"Use our tracks. Understood."
Amon uncapped a tube and stuck it in Grego's thigh. "Did you feel that?"
"Feel what?"
"That is a good sign, brother." Amon slipped the tube in to a pocket and drew a numeral on Grego's brow. "Let me just…"
Grego squeezed an eye shut. "Now what?"
"Marking you."
"For whom?"
"Don't be dense, Grego. You have lost a leg, not your mental faculties."
"Why are you antagonising me, Amon? Did I sleep with a woman you liked fifty cycles ago? I knew you were one to hold a grudge."
"Now, you are definitely talking crap, Gregoire. And I do not use that human word lightly. Be quiet."
Sol ran up and dumped his daysack on a nearby rock. "UTS is operational, Amon. The feed should come through to your wrist-slate."
"Ease the pace, Sol." Amon blew on the slate attached to his forearm and wiped the keys clear. "No rush out here."
"The feed refreshes every ten seconds. The charge is good for seventy-two hours continuous too but it narrows the radius."
"Which is?" A three-dimensional map of the surrounding waste expanded from Amon's slate.
"Six klicks instead of ten."
"We can work with that."
"We can work with that. Do you still want me up on the ridge if we have the UTS in play?"
Amon bit on his cheek. "Could I get your diagnostic on Grego?"
"Hello, Grego." Sol knelt down and squeezed Grego's hand. "Was that your whining I could hear earlier?"
Grego grinned. "Was that me? I cannot recall."
"Mmm." Sol turned Grego's head towards him. "One, Amon?"
"One so far."
Sol followed a trail of blood crystals with his eyes to where it ended at Grego's severed leg. "Do you think we could…?"
"Forget the leg. The leg is off-limits. Check our brother."
"Can you make this any tighter?" Sol pulled on the tourniquet. "No."
"Any areas I may have missed?"
Sol probed up and down Grego's legs. "Nothing on lower." He moved up to Grego's torso and undid the clips holding his Ranger vest.
"Why are you undressing me?"
"I wish to make love." Sol drew the front half of the vest away and passed it up to Amon. "Any wet patches on your upper torso or arms, Grego?"
"You tell me."
"Nightspears. Ne'er a more useless family of reprobates."
"Eurgh. I could take you, armed or otherwise with one hand tied behind my back."
"One leg, you mean." Sol sat back and swept his hood down. "No other leaks. Just the leg. What do you want to do?"
"Pack up and call for pick-up."
"What about Oscar?"
"Had he used the 619 we would have known it by now. Eleven cycles without a sighting. There are no ICBMs in-transit." Amon flicked a stone from his boot. "They never left their silos."
"That is just like the humans though, is it not? A little too cold-footed around their precious tech."
"Superstitious nonsense." Amon drew the transmitter from his sack and set it on the rock. "Captain? Captain, this is Amon. Please respond."
Sand wafted over the captain's figure "Ranger, you are four minutes overdue for your—"
"Ranger down. Landmine case."
"…Who?"
"Ranger Nightspear. Everything below the right knee is gone. His condition is stable for now. I request an airlift as soon as possible."
"Airlift is unavailable at this time. Continue sending half-hourly updates. I will contact you again when airlift is available."
"Why is airlift unavailable? I do not understand. A Ranger is lying beside me wounded."
"Too much human traffic, Ranger. Your area of operations is a high-risk zone. You must wait until nightfall."
"No. No. I urgently require a lift 3500 yards north of the 619." Amon jabbed a finger down at Grego. "I can mark the landing zone with a strobe. Send medical aid once night has fallen. Please."
"If the casualty is stable, you can wait until dusk. Is your position under threat?"
Amon scanned the ground around him. "No, no, we are secure."
"Then limit movement and keep your profile low." The captain's image dissolved.
"How long until dusk?" Sol said.
"Five—five and a half hours."
"Should we take turns with Grego? Keep him company?"
"I need you on the ridge, Sol, at least until dusk. Lay up with the ocular and keep eyes on the 619."
"Should I take Grego's optics?"
"Leave the Long Rifle. Mark any suspect areas you find. Maximum caution, brother."
Grego's eyelids fluttered. "W—where are you off to, Sol?"
"Up to the ridge, Grego. Sit tight now, brother. Help will be here at dusk." Sol tapped his fist against Grego's and moved off.
"Are you leaving me too?" Grego tugged at the hem of Amon's cloak.
"No, brother." Amon took off his cloak and spread it over Grego's head. "Worry about yourself now."
"He is my brother too."
"Amon? I have found one."
Amon touched his earbud. "Found one of what, Sol?"
"A mine!"
"Then mark it and move on."
"I have nothing to mark it with."
"Use those juice cartons. Mark the mines with the straws."
"Both cartons?"
"Yes…" Amon pulled a full carton from Grego's sack. "Sorry, Grego. Sol, do your best. I will throw you another carton once I have…"
"Let me help." Grego grabbed at the carton.
"No sugar. Water only." Amon put a straw between his lips.
"Another mine, Amon."
Kurnous, this place is littered. Amon nudged the point of his knife in to the dirt beside Grego. "Grego, keep your elbows in."
"Can I have some water, Amon?"
"Grego, if you make a move…" Amon levered a large stone out and laid it on a raised rock. "It will be three, two, one, zero in quick succession, and no little Nightspear babies."
"I never had what Ilic had. The worser of the two, that is who I am."
"Grego, you are ahead of me in that regard. Now who is the worser?"
"Women only saw Ilic, never me."
"Melodie, Grego."
"Only because Ilic introduced her to me. Ilic, Ilic, Ilic!" Grego bashed his head in to his pack.
"A self-pitying Ranger. Who is this I keep the company of? Nightspears do not whine or give up, and now I hear self-pity from your mouth, Grego! You can be silent and think about being alone with Melodie. I shall pretend I did not hear what you said then." Amon probed around Grego's sack. "There. You have a six-inch exclusion zone around your body."
"Ohh, a six-inch wonder. How average. Can that be read out at my service? Gregoire Nightspear, how average a Ranger."
"This puts you on a plinth far above average. You are a war hero, Grego; a veteran. Nobody—nobody can put you down for that."
"It just seems a bit of an anti-climax though. I fell not in battle but through treachery and underhand conduct."
"By which we operate. Striking from three-thousand yards is no different from planting landmines and leaving them behind to sow terror."
"Amon, I have reached the ridgeline."
"Well done, Sol. Signal from where you are." Amon stood up and waved. "I see you. Do you have a clear sight of the 619?"
"There are a few blind spots where I am but I have a fairly clear view."
"Good. Do you have hydration and nutrition on you?"
"Just what I have in my daysack. How is Grego?"
"Grego, how are you?" Grego performed a rude gesture. "Grego is splendid."
"Did the welfare box come with us?"
"Back at our secondary—well, I should say our OP. No point setting up another one. Let me know if you see any suspicious activity on the 619. I will keep the captain updated."
"Are we here for the afternoon then?" Grego pinched his leg. "I had not planned on spending it lying down." A stone rolled down the hillside and thudded in to the wadi. Amon flung his body over Grego's. "Eager, Amon."
"Quiet, Grego!" Amon scooped up his lasblaster and aimed at the ridgeline. "Sol, eyes on the ridgeline directly to my north. We may receive contact there." Amon canted his lasblaster and keyed the UTS to deliver pings to his earpiece.
"UTS?"
"Anything comes up, I will hear it."
"Do you want me covering the 619 or the ridgeline?"
"Watch the 619."
"Amon. Amon." Blood crystals shone on Grego's fingers. "Bleeder."
"No…" Amon set his weapon down and took hold of the tourniquet. "Tight as it can go. Still bleeding though…"
"Biofoam."
"Only enough for a few squirts." Amon uncapped a small silver canister with a thin nozzle and squirted grey foam in to the wound.
"GAARGH."
"Yes, it is cold. It will also save your life."
Grego's lips peeled back from his clenched teeth. "Fix me a drip."
"Tourniquet first." Amon leaned towards the Long Rifle and stretched out his arm. His fingers grazed the rubber wrapped around the stock.
"Careful, Amon, careful."
The Wraithbone scoured the surface. Amon walked his fingers across the rubber and gripped the curve of the stock. With the longarm in his hands, Amon unwound the tourniquet and tied it around Grego's thigh. "Still bleeding?"
"I cannot tell." Grego prodded his right hip. "Everything below here is gone."
"Better not to feel, Grego."
"Could I have another shot?" Grego shoved his fingers in to the medkit.
"Patience!" Amon jerked the medkit away. "Many hours to go yet. Drink, Grego."
Shadows lengthened. The numerals on Amon's chrono ticked around. Still bleeding. Amon opened an IV kit and fitted the largest needle to the end of the line. "Left arm please, Grego." Once a tourniquet was tied around Grego's upper arm, Amon swabbed the skin above the largest vein in Grego's arm and inserted the cannula.
"Amon, I think you missed an update."
"Let it go, Grego. Nothing has happened." Amon removed the needle and connected up the tubing.
"Tell me if your arm starts to hurt, Amon."
"Long time yet." Amon balanced the tubing on his knee and held the bag aloft. "Sol, anything?"
"Nothing on the 619, Amon. Has the UTS picked up anything?"
"Negative contact."
"Time?"
"18:47. Once night has fallen; I need you to retrace your steps and take over from me."
"Where is that lift, Amon?"
"Coming, Sol." Amon switched hands with the IV bag. "Grego, our lift is on the way."
"I thought you knew," Grego murmured.
"Knew what?"
"Can you hear it?"
"Sol, can you hear anything?"
"Hear anything…? Wait, wait, I thought I heard…"
"They were quick, weren't they?"
"Wait, Grego." Amon moved the weapons beneath an overhang. "Hold this up. Do not let it fall." Grego took over holding the IV bag. "Stay still." Amon swept fresh sand over the depression.
"Human aircraft, Amon. She is north of the 619 and bearing down on our position."
Amon keyed the UTS. "I heard nothing. The UTS must be malfunctioning. Is it a fast-mover?"
"VTOL, VTOL."
"Cover, Sol, cover!" Amon flipped his and Grego's cameleoline over them. "Grego, hold the bag as close to your chest as possible but keep it upright, and keep the tube out of the dirt."
"I am concealed as best I can. How are you for cover?"
"Grego and I are underneath our capes with our packs and the medkit. Weapons are stashed beneath a rock."
"UTS?"
"Out of reach. I am shutting it down." Amon keyed in the shutdown sequence. "Go quiet until the VTOL passes."
"Yes."
The drone of turbofans picked up. Wind scoured the wadi, blasting stones across Amon and Grego. Amon stamped down on the edge of his cameleoline and held down Grego's cloak. A searchlight cut through the dust.
"Melodie."
"Ssh!" Amon seized the flapping cameleoline with his teeth. Sand whipped inside the shelter, stinging his eyes. Light shone through the cape. Any moment now. Amon tensed his shoulders. The searchlight prowled the wadi, passing over them twice before the gushing air dropped away and the roar receded. "Sol, status?"
"All secure."
"All secure, Grego."
"Where is our lift, Amon?"
"Coming, Grego. It is coming. Another hour or two."
Come on, Captain. Make the right choice. We are useless here.
Hours later, Grego lay beneath his cameleoline on the ridge with his eye to the ocular. "Sol, are you awake?"
"Stones are cutting in to my knees, my back is bent, and I am sitting in the middle of a minefield, Amon."
"Just checking." Amon nudged the ocular. Fast-moving white blots showed up in the grainy green circle. "Activity on the 619."
"I do not suppose it is Oscar…"
"Three civilian vehicles painted white, heading east to west at speed. Blacked-out headlights."
"Bets that they are after the weapons?"
"I do not gamble myself." Wind cast muck across Amon's field of vision. Not now, please.
"Are they after the crates?"
The vehicles swerved and figures dropped out and skidded down the embankment and in to the drainage ditch. In fifteen seconds, they had the crates loaded on the flatbeds and were mounted up. Dust spurted from beneath the vehicles' tyres. "Correct. Vehicles are heading back the way they came."
"And this benefits us how?"
"You asked, Sol. How is Grego?"
"Asleep. Passed out. I have no idea."
"Sol, he is your responsibility. Does he have a pulse?"
"Throbbing. Faintly."
"When he awakens, will you talk to him? Entertain him. Keep him occupied.
"Teach him Regicide, shall I? That silly game the humans play."
"You will do as a brother must." Amon unfolded a wipe and rubbed the lense of the ocular.
"Stars, Amon."
"Tell me which way home is."
"Ours or yours?"
"That matters not. Just stay awake, Sol. Think of the… women you like."
"Short list, Amon."
"Use your imagination, brother. Iced tea. Dangling your feet in the water. Fish nibbling your toes."
"Ohh, water."
"You have your bladder, do you not?"
"Lukewarm now. We have more up at the hideout. Do you think we could carry Grego up there?"
"Not in the dark, Sol. And besides, the gradient is too sharp."
"Really, Amon?"
"Yes really, Sol! We cannot risk aggravating the wound further by tilting him. If either one of us treads on a mine, we are stuck here permanently. Do not forget that."
"I, er… I marked a third."
"Please just sit tight for now, Sol. Another three hours and we will exchange places."
Gusts grew stronger on the verge of midnight, blotting out Amon's ocular and rushing over the craggy rocks and down in to the wadi. His hood flew back and sand stung his uncovered eyes. Every half hour, Amon opened communication with the Rangers' base and sent an update. Nothing has changed. Secure for now. When will you come?
"Sol, are you awake?" Amon struggled down from the ridge, wind plastering stones up his cloak. A yellow straw blew across the path in front of him. Amon knelt and picked it up. Thin dust coated his and Sol's prints, leaving nothing but faint tracks. "Brother, are you awake?" Amon lifted his boot and pressed it against a print heel-to-toe. His cloak blew outwards and Amon lurched and threw out his arms. "Sol? Sol, answer your communicator. That is an order!"
A hooded figure sat with a bowed head beside a lump covered in a billowing cloak. "Sol." Amon shook Sol's shoulder. Sol's head reeled back.
"Tears of Isha, Amon! You frightened the life out of me." Sol clutched his chest. "Did I…?"
"Recognise?" Amon held up the straw.
"Sol, I left that as a marker!"
"The wind carried it free. Could you find it again?"
"Come light, maybe."
"Well, you kept the bag up. Well done for that."
"Mmm." Sol rubbed his shoulder. "Not a wink from Grego. Present pulse. Faint though."
"Pass here." Amon took the IV bag. "Do you want to make your way up to the hideout and bring some food and hydration down?"
"Anything from the captain?"
"No. Tread with caution."
"Yes." Sol adjusted his goggles and dug his lasblaster out from beneath the rock it sat under alongside the Long Rifle.
"Pass me the LR." Amon hacked a hole with his knife and worked the blade in a circle.
"What are you doing?"
"Were you intending to hold the bag up all night?" Amon jammed the Long Rifle's muzzle in the hole and hooked the tube through the thumbhole in the stock. From his Ranger vest, Amon took a shredded cord holding the nipple on the end of his hydration tube in place and tied the length around the bag and the stock.
"Wish I had thought to do that." Sol climbed on to the rock and balanced on the slope.
"Sol, get down."
"The wind carried the UTS over. If I can reach it, I will set it upright."
"Sol!" Amon snatched at Sol's ankle. "One wrong step."
"Amon, we have no eyes outside the wadi. Check the scanner!"
"Bloody-handed One." Amon ducked beneath Grego's cameleoline and called up the UTS on his slate. A fuzzy image flickered. "Unsafe, Sol." Amon shut the scanner down and passed the transmitter up to Sol. "Make the hideout, reach out to the captain and inform him Grego is deteriorating and will not make the dawn."
"Lie to the captain?"
"This falls on my shoulders, Sol. For a brother."
"A brother." Sol let himself down and stepped in to the fading tracks.
Strength, Nightspear. Amon drew Grego's cameleoline over his head and weighed the hood down with a stone. Stars twinkled. Beauty in its purest form. I wish the Gardens of Taderera at home blossomed beneath a natural canopy.
"Amon, I have reached the path."
"Carry on, brother." Amon reached for a ledge and climbed up the slope. Now, where did you fall? A glowing reticle weaved through the wadi and settled on the upended UTS lying in the dirt thirty feet away. Amon lowered his lasblaster and popped his wraithbone from its sheath and flipped it around in his palm.
On his stomach, Amon eased the tip of his knife through the surface and pried a round, flat stone loose. Clouds streamed from his nose. The stone touched a round object. Found you. Amon marked the site with his straw and bent it at the head. Stones skipped across the wadi. A rock thudded down the slope, cracked against an outcrop, bounced, and ploughed in to the wadi floor. A pillar flew in to the sky, catapulting dust outwards. Amon turned his head away from the explosion and pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders.
"…answer me! Amon, where are you?"
Hair thick with sand, Amon coughed up brown phlegm. Perforations bespattered his Ranger vest. His sleeves were ripped and blood crystals turned his fingerless gloves sticky. "Mm-mm." A shaking hand brushed the tip of his ear and came away stained and shining.
"Amon? Amon!"
Amon clicked twice on his comm and took his knife. Two sharp detours later, Amon righted the UTS and set it on a rock and sat down beside it. "Sol. UTS in hand." Blood crystals covered the Wraithbone.
"Amon, that mine…"
"Grazes. No cause for concern." Amon let the knife drop. Uneven rock pressed in to his spine.
"Gods, Amon!"
"If I come over to the track, will you meet me there?"
"Of course. I will bring the welfare package down."
Amon crawled over to Sol's tracks, testing the ground every few feet, and made it to the bottom of the path. "I had not wanted to discuss this while Grego lay awake."
"No lift tonight?"
Amon collapsed on the path and gazed up at the stars. "I am sorry, Sol."
"I spoke to the captain. He wanted you."
"I see." Amon rested his chin in his cupped hand. "Are you coming down?"
"Two minutes and I will be there."
Eleven minutes later, Sol carried the welfare box down the track and set it next to Amon. "Blanket." Sol took a blanket from the top of the box.
"Give it to Grego."
"Not for you, Amon You can tough it out."
"Hunh-hunh." Amon fished around in the welfare box and drew a fruit and nut bar from inside.
"I had an idea to mark danger areas with our strobes. How does that sound?"
"I see where you are coming from, Sol, but I wouldn't want to risk attention from enemy aircraft, and especially not from the high-flyers forty-thousand feet up. We'd never even hear the ASM before it left three Ranger-shaped smudges in the crater."
"Cluster bomb?"
"No strobes, Sol. If the pickup has trouble locating us, then we starting flashing them, and pray to the Gods it is indeed our pickup. We have no communications with our landers. The most we can hope for is for the captain to relay our transmission to the pilots. That way there will only be a short delay before they can correct." Amon screwed up his wrapped and stuffed it in his pocket. "Now, shall we trade places?"
"Ahh." Sol squeezed his fist shut. "Of all the items. I forgot the urine bottle."
"No, just—just go, Sol. This wind will have covered it up by the morning anyway."
"Could we carry Grego at least to the foot of the track, where the incline is still shallow? We have a safe path through the minefield."
"Sol, moving him could kill him."
"The—the end of the wadi then. It is flat—"
"And risk more mines? Sol, if either of us goes down, that is another third of our combat effectiveness lost. You or I cannot carry two of us. One is manageable, two unworkable. Keep control of the situation. We minimise the risk now to the three of us. Baby steps, Sol." Amon pulled his hood up. Stones fell from it and trickled down his neck.
"Makes you wonder why children strayed here in the first place. Lost? Playing? Human reason is…"
"Unfathomable." Amon slung his lasblaster. "Keep in touch, brother."
"Amon?" Sol tossed the transmitter across. Amon caught it against his chest. Inside the OP, Amon laid the transmitter on the floor and switched it on. "Captain."
"Ranger. You are overdue your report. What is your team's status?"
"Two active, one wounded. Condition stable for now. Again, I request a lift on grounds of medical emergency."
"Ranger, lift is currently unavailable. Remora transports are due in from Dharvan. Sandstorms have them grounded at this time. You will be informed once they are airborne."
"Captain, Ranger Nightspear is lying in the middle of a minefield of unknown quantity or disposition with a severed leg—"
"A problem directly on your plate, Ranger, not mine. I cannot co-ordinate a rescue effort while our flyers are grounded. A foot expedition will take weeks. You are on your own."
"Captain, if you do not send that lift, you are going to lose all three of us. Minestrike or enemy action. It is your choice."
The captain faded. Amon pushed the orb down and flung the transmitter at the dugout wall. A double-thud reached Amon's ears. Two mines? Amon twisted. "No. No, NO!"
Dust clouds hung over the wadi. Stones shot out from beneath Amon's heels on the way down the track. "Sol? SOL?"
Sol lay next to two shallows depressions, one beneath his left heel, the other just behind his head. His upper and lower lip had been torn away, leaving a grimace fixed. Tendon held his left foot on by threads and blood crystals oozed from the back of his skull.
"Sol…?" Amon approached Sol and stopped at the edge of their tracks. "If you can, give two squeezes on your comm." Dry smoke whipped around Amon. "Let me know you can hear me, brother."
Tattered material flew off in scraps from a glove. A thumb rose and stood up straight. A forefinger and middle finger sagged. Both dangled by scraps. "…Oh, Gods." Amon's knees hit the dirt. "Brother."
"Sol? Amon!"
"Here, Grego."
"Sol, why do you not reply?"
"He will in his own time."
"I need… I need… I need another shot."
"I cannot, Grego."
"AMONNN!"
Amon got up and stormed around to where Grego lay. "What, Grego?" The IV bag lay on Grego's stomach. Amon bent the tube and forced it through the Long Rifle's stock. "Tell me next time."
"Give me another shot." Grego's fingernails dug in to Amon's knee. "Give me!"
Amon took a green tube from the medkit and stuck it between his teeth. "For Sol." Sol groaned. "Coming, Sol." Amon removed his mask and wrapped a tourniquet and a bandage in with the morphine and the biofoam can. He retraced his steps and threw the package to Sol. "Painkiller, tourniquet and bandage, Sol. There is a little biofoam left too."
"Come get me, Amon." Sol lifted his head. A flap of hairy skin and bone fell away, exposing glistening, grey matter.
"No! No, Sol, keep your head on the ground. What I want you to do is remove the wrapper from the dressing and wind it around your head and make sure it is as tight as it can be. Come on, Sol, you have trained for this. Diagnose yourself!"
"Er… Arghh." Sol bit in to the dressing's packet and shook the dressing loose. "MMPHH." Sol chewed through the skin holding his fingers on and spat them on to his chest. "Urgh." Hands shaking, Sol held the end of the dressing in place with his elbow and wrapped the length around his head. "Am I… Am I fixed now?"
"Nearly there, Sol. Your tourniquet. Unwrap it and tie it around your left thigh."
"W—w—why? I just fell over, Amon."
"Do as your team leader says. Tourniquet. Left thigh. Tight." Sol loosened the tourniquet and wrapped it around his right leg."
"Left leg, Sol. Left." Amon jabbed his fist in to the ground.
"Why did you give me morphine and biofoam?"
"We will come to that. Tight, Sol. Tie it tight."
Sol's leg rose. The threads dragged his foot with it. "What is—? AGH—AARGH!"
"Sol, uncap the green tube and inject your left leg. Left leg!"
Sol spat the cap out and punched the needle in to his leg. "Ah. Aahh."
"Good, now uncap the biofoam and use it on your leg. Plug the wound."
"Plug what wound?" Sol's hands shook. "How do I plug it if it's hanging on by a thread!"
"Sol, put it down and look at me. Look at me! Unless you plug the wound, you will bleed out and die. Plug the wound. That is an order, Ranger!"
Sol bit the cap off and poured foam in to the wound. "Euurgh. We are never leaving this wadi, Amon."
"Yes we are, Sol!"
"Nothing left." Sol held up the biofoam. "Can you come over?"
"No, Sol."
"Amon…" Sol sat up and hugged his shoulders. "Please come over. I'm scared."
"So am I, Sol. Just stay where you are. Help is coming."
"Water?"
"Your bladder, Sol."
"My back is wet."
"Burst? Has it burst?" Amon scrambled over to Grego. "How about you, Grego? Hydration?"
"What happened to Sol? I cannot hear him."
"Must have lost his bead when the…"
"When the…?"
"Accident, Grego. Worry about yourself."
"Sol? SOLLLL!"
"I'm here, Grego."
"A little less noise please, Grego!" Amon snapped.
"How are you, Sol?"
"Lying in bits, brother. My bladder has burst."
"Uh-hur. Did you hear that, Amon?" Grego grinned. "Sol's bottle has gone."
"Serious, Grego."
"Is that for me?"
"Your bladder is intact!" Amon shook a water bottle at Grego. "This one isn't covered in saliva."
"Amon, where are you?"
"Sol, look at me. Stretch out your arm." Amon swung his arm. "Sol!" Sol raised his arm above his head and opened his hand. The bottle hit his fingers and thudded on the ground. "No!" Amon hunched over and crossed his arms in front of his face.
"Amon? Amon, I can't get the cap off." The bottle lid stuck between Sol's teeth. "It's sealed."
Amon's head drooped. "Sol."
Sol shifted the bottle to the side of his mouth and twisted it. "Errgh, got it."
"Please do not drown, Sol." Amon sat back against a rock and folded his arms across his chest. "Grego, are you still connected?" Grego gave two clicks on his comm. "Have that. Save your breath, Grego." Amon nestled his chin on his breast.
Pink stained the sky. Orange light peered over the eastern horizon. A sonic boom echoed through the hills. Amon sucked in his numb lips. Sol lay motionless twenty feet away. "Grego. Grego?" Amon's comm bead crackled. "Umph." Amon rolled his neck and ankles. "Did you sleep?"
Dust coated the cameleoline covering Grego. A corner flapped loose. Amon moved over to Grego, his eyes fixed on the ground. "How are we this fine morning?" Amon lifted the cloak over his head.
"You were not who I wished to wake up to." Pale eyelids opened. A stain darkened the dirt around Grego's leg. "Did you bring breakfast?"
"Breakfast…" Amon dove for the welfare box and wiped the lid off. "How about a liquid breakfast, Grego?"
"Uh-uh."
"Grego, you cannot eat safely while on your back." Amon took water from his bladder and broke the seal on a new bottle.
"Then hold me up."
"Well, hold still." Amon wrapped his arm around Grego's shoulders and sat him up. "Here." Water dribbled down Grego's chin. "Hurting?"
"Mmm. Mm-hmm."
"Do you want to go back down?"
"I was… I was thinking last night. All the citations the Alaitoci Rangers have earned over millennia. Mount Kontoratchi, Serenna's Pass, the Goher Crusade. What in the name of the Gods were we doing aiding the humans there? The humans, Amon! The four-legged hounds that walk upright."
"But against a far, far deadlier foe, Grego. Which side would you have chosen; those corrupted by the Warp or those not?"
"Amon, they are all the same to me. If we see round ears, we shoot."
"Of course."
"Is this for our sins? To die face-down in a wadi to clumsy-footedness without sight nor sound of the enemy?"
"No, you'll die face up instead." Amon grinned.
"Amon…" Grego's fist rose. "You have a ten-second head start then I am coming after you and I intend to ram this fist very, very deeply inside of you."
"Ah-hahaha. Come on, you have got to laugh." Amon tapped the back of Grego's shoulder. "I am serious though. The captain knows. And once the sandstorms have died, he will direct Remorae up here. They will lift us out."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight, brother." Amon unlatched his slate from his forearm. "Be our eyes for now, Grego."
"Understood." Grego wrapped the keys around his forearm and called up the terrain scanner.
Rough stone scraped Amon's elbows and knees. Holding his wraithbone backhanded, Amon tested the ground in front. "Sol…? Sol, if you can hear me, stay still. Do not move. I am crawling over." Amon wet his lips and wiggled a stone out. Sunrays stretched over the hills to his left. Already, little sweat beads ran down from his hair and inside his collar. "Grego, I am blind. Tell me if you see anything."
"Is that a joke?"
"No, you know me. I have a much more macabre sense of humour than that."
"You are smiling."
"Grego, you have to laugh in a situation like this."
"You are not the one with only one leg, Iyanden-born. You know, there is a surprising amount of weight behind a severed leg."
"I am not the one with a loving bondmate, Alaitoci. She will certainly be pleased to see you coming home early. Did you just threaten to beat me with your own leg?"
"Well, I have to have some future use for it. Maybe I shall hollow it out and mount it on my mantle."
"Heh-heh."
"Alright then, you have to laugh."
"Urghh, Grego…" Sol sat up.
"Stay down, Sol."
"Amon." Sol massaged his eyelids. "Amon, I am blind."
"Ssh, Sol. Leave it! You are lying in the sun."
"Where is…?" Sol swept circles in the ground.
"Sol, stay still—STAY STILL!"
"Amon, tell Sol to put his ears back in and let me talk to him."
"Shush, SHUSH!" Amon flung his arm up. "Grego, what does the UTS read?"
"…I think the UTS may have fallen over again."
"Damn it." Amon's head swivelled. The bare hillside faced him to the north, the lower ridge rose to the south and the wadi meandered away to the east and west. A khaki speck cleared a hillside to the west and dipped its wedge-shaped nose. Fat rocket pods hung beneath angled wings. "Sol, prone. Stay still!" Amon flattened. Stones gouged his cheek.
"Amon, VTOL!"
"Shut up and stay still!"
"What is that noise?" Sol leaned on an elbow and looked over his shoulder. "Amon…?"
"SOL, DON'T MOVE!"
Turbojets blasted over the Rangers' heads. A square body with a twin-boom tail shot in to the rising sun. Keep flying, keep flying. Sand grated beneath Amon's fingernails. The aircraft dipped its left wing and banked. "Sol. SOL!"
Spurts of dirt stampeded through the wadi. Mines touched off, the explosions drawing closer and closer to the Rangers. Streaks flew overhead and missiles struck the slopes above them, dislodging rockslides. Amon buried his face in the dirt and clutched his hands to his head. Crashing rocks and a growing howl bored in to his ears. "Sol—" A hard object smacked Amon's head and clouds enveloped him.
A fist squeezed Amon's lung. Lying crooked with his back to a rock, Amon dragged the back of his hand out of a mound and up his vest. "Urgh…" The cover of his Ranger vest was ripped through and the Wraithbone plates inside cracked in to pieces. "Mmph." Amon placed his hand over the crack in his armour and tilted his head back. Sand stuck to his lashes and scratched at his eyes. "S—S—Sol. Grego." Amon's head flopped. The sun, high in the sky, shone through the brown clouds occupying the wadi.
One-handed, Amon undid the clips holding his Ranger vest and lifted it off. Blood crystals glued his tunic to his chest. Numb fingers walked through the dirt to a half-buried wraithbone hilt and pried the blade free. Amon sliced his tunic from neck to waist and peeled the halves away. Crystals surrounded a hole beneath his right nipple, just wide enough for his fingertip to enter.
On his elbows, Amon crawled along. With each breath, Amon's head grew lighter and black spots played around in his vision. Sol? Grego? Cloth fragments fluttered in the wind. Smashed tubes and spilled pills littered the wadi. A fouled dressing, stretched to its longest, flew past. A severed tourniquet was draped across a rockface. "Sol?" Amon reached for his comm and clicked it. Torn-up wraithbone protruded from a tattered cameleoline cape. A burst IV bag blew against Amon's cheek. "Gre-go?" A straw stood with the head at right-angles. Amon crawled around it and slumped against a build-up of sand and stone.
Mount Kontoratchi, Serenna's Pass, the Goher Crusade, and now Salusa Secundus. What battle honours are to be gained from this dusty speck? A murmur crept from Amon's chapped lips. His tingling fingers aimed the point of his knife between his second and third rib and plunged it through the skin. Air hissed through the puncture. "Aahh." Amon's chest heaved. "Sol. Grego."
The crushing sensation on Amon's lung built up. The waning sun passed behind a peak and the light began fading. Covered head to toe in dust, Amon blew on a tarnished gemstone hanging from a cord around his neck. So ends the life of an outcast Ranger, far from home and without a single mourner. Amon's lip curled and he smirked. You have to laugh.
A dark smudge formed in the swirling dust. Its face hidden behind a pair of enormous lenses, a figure in a black robe melted from the murk, casting a shadow across Amon. Amon lifted his head. Two coiled tubes ran down from a respirator and disappeared inside the robe. The figure stooped and a brown glove turned Amon's cheek. "Who are you?" A voice buzzed.
"Ranger. Verdial Caste. Iyanden…" Amon swallowed a bubble in his throat. "'Ware mines."
"Who are you?" Black-clad figures shifted from the dust and surrounded Amon.
Amon licked his lips. The figures faded. Black and brown flowed together in a blurry haze. "Amon—Amon—Amonther Numerial."