As Avery regained his balance, the second dropship swooped overhead and came to rest on the other side of the nearest pool. Tracking the ship's downward progress, Avery spotted another of the large aliens—this one in red armor and with black fur—as it emerged from the magnolia trees on the gardens' lowest tier. It too carried a bladed pistol and was using the weapon to guard the retreat of a pack of shorter, gray-skinned creatures with conical orange backpacks. Avery saw MA5 muzzle flashes in the trees. But the red-armored alien quickly loosed a salvo of burning spikes to quiet whatever recruits had been brave enough to fight back.
Avery raised his pistol and emptied his clip. He knew his rounds wouldn't punch through the alien's shields, but all he wanted was to draw the thing's attention and keep it from hitting any of the recruits.
As Avery's shots flashed harmlessly against its back, the alien turned. But by then Avery was already running south for the safety of a boulder. He reloaded and slid around the stone, hoping to pick off one of the smaller aliens. But most of them were already aboard the dropship. A lone straggler was just now stumbling from the trees. One of its arms was slacked by its side, and it seemed injured. Avery was about to finish it off when the armored alien grabbed its wounded comrade by the nape of its neck, ripped off its mask, and flung it into the whirlpool. The creature sunk beneath the surface then bobbed up, clutching at a pair of hissing tubes connected to its tank, before it pitched into the next pool and tumbled toward the falls.
While this unexpected fratricide ran its course, the second dropship's ball turret finally swung into action, and Avery soon found himself diving back behind the boulder to avoid searing bolts of plasma. The splash of ionized gasses against the rock set Avery's teeth on edge.
But after a few seconds, the turret ceased fire. Avery heard the groan of anti-grav generators as the drop-ship twisted up into the sky. When he came out from behind the boulder, all the aliens were gone.
"Hold your fire!" Avery barked as he approached the magnolias on the far side of the pool.
"I'm coming in!" Behind him, he could hear the reports of the bravo squads' rifles, firing on the first dropship as it rose from the gardens. "What happened?" Avery growled at Stisen as he neared a huddle of 2/A recruits. The men were packed close together in a jumble of mossy granite. The rocks were dotted with holes that contained glowing remnants of the red-armored alien's igneous spikes. Little smoky fires burned in the surrounding ferns where some of the rounds had ricocheted.
"What happened?" Avery asked again.
But neither Stisen nor any of his squad said a word. Most of them didn't even bother to meet Avery's gaze.
Combat had filled Avery with adrenaline, and he was about to lose his temper when he realized what the recruits were looking at. It took him a moment more to recognize that the thing splayed against granite was the savaged body of a human being. And it wasn't until Avery knelt down beside the corpse that he recognized Osmo's plump, boyish face streaked with his own blood. The recruit was split open across his belly.
"I told him: Stay away from the lawn." Stisen swallowed hard. "I didn't want him to get hurt."
Avery clenched his jaw. But he knew there was no way the squad leader could have anticipated that the second dropship would swing in behind them, low above the river, and secretly release a backup team. "Did you see him get hit?" Avery asked.
Stisen shook his head. "No."
"It was one of the little ones," Burdick whispered. His eyes remained locked on the spill of organs from Osmo's gut. "It knocked him to the ground. Tore him apart."
"I heard his weapon fire," Stisen said. "But it was too late."
Avery rose to his feet. "Any other casualties?"
Again Stisen shook his head.
"Byrne. Talk to me," Avery barked.
"Captain's hurt pretty bad. Bravo squads have three wounded, one serious. Dass says his boys are fine."
"Thune?"
"Not happy. Pedersen's dead."
"Looked like it."
"We better clear out, Johnson. Bastards might circle back."
"Agreed." Avery lowered his voice. "I'm gonna need a bag."
"Who?"
"Osmo."
"Shite," Byrne spat. "Alright. I'll tell Healy."
Avery removed his duty cap and wiped his hand across his brow. Staring down at Osmo, he noticed the recruit still held his MA5 tight in his right hand. The Staff Sergeant was glad Osmo had seen his attacker and had a chance to go down shooting. Osmo's rifle fire had alerted his comrades to danger, saving their lives even as he lost his own. Avery tried not to blame himself for what had happened. Like Stisen, he had done what he thought was best. Osmo was just the first recruit to fall. As much as Avery hoped he would also be the last, he steeled himself against the knowledge that the aliens had just begun a war—and that there would be a lot more casualties to come.
Maccabeus released his hammer and let it clang onto the troop-bay floor. This was the Fist of Rukt, an ancient weapon passed down from one Chieftain to the next for generations of Maccabeus' clan. It deserved greater care. But Maccabeus was too worried about Licinus to stand on ceremony. His ancestors would have to understand.
"Vorenus! Hurry!" he bellowed, muscling Licinus upright. The Spirit shook violently as it hurtled back into the hazy sky, and even the mighty Chieftain had a difficult time propping his wounded pack member's unconscious bulk against the bay's inner wall.
Vorenus stumbled down the bay, hefting a portable aid station. He set the octagonal box by Licinus' feet then held him steady while Maccabeus fastened restraining bands around his legs and arms. Sangheili Spirits had sophisticated stasis fields to keep their warriors upright. But Maccabeus had been denied this technology as well, and he'd had to make do with a more basic solution.
"Give me a compress!" Maccabeus peeled off Licinus' breastplate. The armor had a crack down the middle that oozed dark red blood. Once the plate was free, Maccabeus smoothed his wounded pack member's brown fur, probing for two whistling holes in his chest. The aliens' weapons had penetrated one of Licinus' lungs, forcing its collapse.
Vorenus handed Maccabeus a thin sheet of bronze-colored mesh. Properly affixed, the material would form a partial seal over the wounds, allowing air to escape as Licinus exhaled but keeping it out as he inhaled; as long as the lung wasn't too badly damaged, it would reinflate. The mesh also contained a coagulant that would help keep the young Jiralhanae's remaining blood inside his body. When they made it back to Rapid Conversion, Maccabeus would let the ship's automated surgery suite do the rest.
If we make it back, the Chieftain growled to himself as the Spirit jerked to starboard, executing another evasive maneuver. So far the aliens hadn't activated any anti-air defenses, but Maccabeus felt certain they would. The aliens' infantry weapons were fairly crude—not much more sophisticated than the Jiralhanae's at the time of the San'Shyuum's missionary contact.
But they had to have missiles or some other kinetic weapons system, or their planet would be defenseless. And Maccabeus doubted the aliens were as dumb as that.
"Uncle? Are you harmed?" Tartarus' voice boomed from Maccabeus' signal unit.
"I am not." The Chieftain gripped the back of Vorenus' neck.