"Fall back behind the tankline! Sergeant Khvalynsky, Sergeant—" The muffled voice was Cacliocos'', stabbing through the thick chaos of battle and a hailstorm of static newly raised.


    A new tone sounded within Betelgeuse'' helmet, signaling that a new connection had been established. His ears pricked. A Chimera plasmabolt arced from somewhere down the frontline and whizzed too close to his head, and he jolted backward, flipping around and slamming into the side of the flaming husk of metal he called cover. Warmth seeped into the small of his back, and he crouched away from the metal for fear that his exosuit''s battery pack might be damaged by the heat.


    "TAF Sergeant Hrodwulf Granger to all combatants. Blueprinter Xau has advised the portside wall of this tunnel-way is structurally unsound. All combatants to concentrate explosives fire on the portside wall."


    "When will these clowns start making sense?" Douglas ventilated, gurgling and stumbling past Betelgeuse and then slumping into cover.


    "The siding is hot. Be careful it doesn''t melt through your suit," Betelgeuse said, turning and giving a cursory inspection of his colleague''s exosuit. Douglas'' pupil right pupil trained upon him, or maybe it was an artifact of the man''s severe and progressive strabismus. Finding no breaches, Betelgeuse returned to taking potshots at the Chimera-looking shadows scuttling about in the murk.


    "Yeah, yeah. I eat hot for breakfast."


    The surviving Plasma Leopards had already begun shifting their focus, drawing steep trajectories with their plasma bolts toward the dark and immense cliff-face that was the left-side wall, honeycombing it with myriad glowing pockmarks.


    Voke, Entuban, and the rest of Belekov''s Second Platoon, seemingly reduced in numbers, had by now fallen back to take cover behind the burning husk of metal. Betelgeuse couldn''t help but notice Entuban''s limp as the giant lumbered past him. The Staff Sergeant''s exosuit was covered in dendrite splotches of gore and mucoid polyps shining wetly by the flicker of orange flame.


    "We need the fast runners to get our hypergolics over to portside. Thete, Belekov, Karella, you''re up," Entuban transmitted over company comms-link.


    "Staff," Belekov, Thete and Karella acknowledged, and Second Platoon began to congregate around Entuban''s bloodied form.


    Entuban instructed the PDF soldiers to pass forward their Standard Issued claymores, arranging them carefully in a Mylar blanket he''d retrieved from his medical kit. Then he scrunched the blanket up like a dumpling and secured it with a flannelette strip.


    "Here is one. Payload is yours, Thete. Go ahead."


    Thete hefted it wordlessly, felt the weight of the seven claymores settle in her arms, then sped down the line of Plasma Leopards. Betelgeuse watched her form melt away into the darkness, then shift into an uncertain quantum existence—now revealed by the flash of plasmafire, now consumed by shadow—until the distance made of her a blip mingling with other roiling blips and the thread of his attention could no longer sustain charting her progress.


    "Hurry up, another blanket."


    Betelgeuse dug into his kit and retrieved his Mylar. When folded it was no larger than the palm of his hand. He passed this quickly to Entuban.


    Belekov was up next, a sharp-chinned man with a nose that was upturned and so blunted it lent his face a skull-like aspect. The payload of claymores was prepared and Belekov was gone in even less time than Thete.


    Finally, Karella of the sharply tapered eyes, his features obscured by a dark piece of cloth pulled up over his nose. "Karella," Entuban nodded, and as Karella sped away, added, "and get that damn thing off your face. No need more demerits than we are already having."


    They were gone and the rest of them looked at each other for want of something to do. Betelgeuse was poking his head out of cover but could find no more Chimera to kill.


    Static flexed different amplitudes in his ears. A voice cut through the pattering disturbance, and it was Cacliocos, speaking through a veil of chaos and movement: "Staff, we''re covering behind the tank. Starboard. I''ve told the v-com to join up with your position."


    Betelgeuse turned and squinted. The next Plasma Leopard over was indeed moving. Toward them.


    "Roger, roger. Covering fire!" Entuban commanded, and they flared out to both sides of their burning cover and snapped off several shots as a matter of rote, the armature-rounds shuttling brightly into the nothingness. They aimed at nothing, for a peculiar stillness had descended over the battlefield.


    "Staff, you in Section Five comms?" Betelgeuse sounded, his trigger clicking empty. He returned to cover and glanced at his wrist-transceiver, noting that five blips blinked dully under the Section Five comms-designation.


    "D.B.?"


    "The Chimerae. They''re all gone," Betelgeuse remarked, frowning. The other Plasma Leopard treaded near and Cacliocos together with the other First Company platoons were inching up on the tank''s leeside.


    "I noticed," Entuban returned, canting his head toward Betelgeuse, the inside of his visor smeared with blood-colored streaks. The giant was squatting and gripping his railgun by the barrel, the weapon toy-sized in comparison to him. Betelgeuse could see that the trigger guard had been modified to fit Entuban''s fingers. A female Jegorichian, her face streaked with moisture, her forehead large and smooth and bulbous, had picked up where Voke left off and was engaged in sealing the breaches in the Staff Sergeant''s exosuit, and it took a moment for Betelgeuse to recognize the face behind the visor.


    Private Misha Kern.


    "They had the upper hand, and now they''ve retreated. They can see what we''re doing," Betelgeuse pressed.


    "What the hell you wanting me to do about?" Entuban growled, uncharacteristically brusque. His cheeks were a blushing cerise by the tint of life-giving fluids and half-illuminated by the straight and jagged Desertian fires spitting ceiling-ward from the chassis they were covering behind.


    "See if sir can''t convince Sergeant Khvalynsky to bring it up with our TAF officer-commanding Subaltern Aldo. I expect we should execute a tactical retreat in case they—"


    The section comms-link abruptly cut, and Betelgeuse was interrupted mid-sentence by Cacliocos on the company comms-link: "Staff, Julla got his foot cut off. He''s lost too much blood—we need someone to casevac him back to support line."


    "Nano, get Julla to support. You must remember to put him together with Mizzarin and Venna," Entuban gestured with his chin, the severity of his tone leaving Betelgeuse with the distinct impression that failing to do so would cost them more demerits.


    The other Plasma Leopard bumped dully into the blasted hunk of metal, and First Company was made whole again. Twenty or more, all huddling behind the shields of blacksteel.


    Is that all that''s left?


    "Ahman be praised for them tankmen," someone muttered over company comms, and Betelgeuse recognized a Sergeant Von Fenak rapping his knuckles upon the vibrating blacksteel chassis in a gesture of thanks. That man stayed silent as a matter of course, and it was perhaps the first time Betelgeuse had heard him speak.


    Cacliocos stepped into their midst, the man, Julla, draped over his shoulder and hyperventilating. Julla was transferred over onto the broad-shoulders of the one who was called Nano, who wasted no time in making toward the back support line.


    No sooner had Nano melted away from view than a stream of light appeared overhead, targeting the functioning Plasma Leopard''s swiveling turret.


    Betelgeuse knew that its inhabitants were already dead.


    "Lancecannon! Hit the ground!" Cacliocos yelled, lurching forward into a prone position. Instinct took over and the entire company bucked and dove away from cover, flaring like a flock of birds. Betelgeuse'' helmet crunched into broken slate and the world erupted into dramatic sounds and sprinkling gravel and a kaleidoscope of damaged thoughts.


    When he regained his feet he found the Plasma Leopard a shattered ruin, First Company''s mobile cover reduced to just another piece of battlefield detritus. Betelgeuse saw at the far end of the stirring company a wide-eyed Sergeant Fenak looking rather shaken, his body hunched and primed with feline anxiety.


    "Injury report!" Cacliocos transmitted. The man was already on his feet and taking stock of the situation.


    "No injuries. ... Sir, you jump into Section Five comms," Entuban intoned, crunching upright and drizzling dust onto the ground, the giant a picture of level-headedness. "The PLP is having a suggestion."


    A dull tone sounded through the comms.


    "Go ahead, D.B," Entuban sounded.


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    "Sir, the Chimerae retreated very quickly and are most likely baiting a reaction. I am suggesting to confirm with Sergeant Khvalynsky and the TAF superiors if the Allied Forces should not execute a tactical retreat," Betelgeuse explained quickly. He cleaved with the rest of First Company back to their makeshift cover, now doubled-up with flaming matter. He shifted sideways to peek around the side and saw nothing but dead shapes and suspicious silence.


    Everything''s rather quiet. Even the Chimerae''s plasmafire had died down, though with what just happened with the lancecannon nobody could afford to be too sure. Stuttering blasts continued to stream from distant Plasma Leopards, and the occasional twang of railgun fire carried over from the shadows.


    "This is PLP Betelgeuse Sakar speaking?" Cacliocos inquired, coming up beside him and tapping him on the shoulder.


    "Yes sir," Betelgeuse nodded, almost surprised that the officer recognized his voice.


    "I have not had the opportunity to study your dossier. I will not ask you to reveal your Increment, PLP Sakar, but for our sake—is it in any way related to subject-matter-specific considerations?"


    "... No, I would not say that, sir."


    An immense crash echoed in the distance, followed by an ominous sound like cracking lumber. Then, more explosions, chained like a million firecrackers and surging angrily through that immense place.


    Cacliocos turned and studied the farway wall, his expression hung with a dreadful uncertainty. He wasn''t sure.


    "Sergeant Jutson, do you read?" he sounded into the comms, scanning the frontage as if he could penetrate the thick gloom. The Hollow runners were taking their time.


    No answer. Static.


    "Thete, Karella, Belekov?" Cacliocos sounded again, his intonation unnaturally flat. "Status report!"


    From his vantage Betelgeuse could observe worry creep into Entuban''s features.


    The firecrackers kept sputtering. Then, the static waxed and waned. A voice, recognizable as Belekov''s, filtered through: "Thete is with us. We can hear you fine. There was some interfere—*krrshk*"


    Belekov was cut-off mid-sentence and the static reasserted itself with a vengeance.


    "Kak!" Cacliocos cursed, turning back to Betelgeuse, his eyes bloodshot and his brow furrowed deeply. There was insurmountable evidence that they were being jammed. "What is your basis, Sakar?"


    "They came and fought close quarters for an unidentifiable reason, then retreated just as quickly. And they''ve jammed comms as well. They want us here for some reason, sir," Betelgeuse asserted, meeting Cacliocos'' gaze.


    In those dark eyes Cacliocos observed self-assurance and the glint of something sharp. He''d always associated calm confidence with the meeting of straight lines over the horizon. And he found within Betelgeuse'' fathomless pupils parallel lines that met in some un-mathematical universe where perception shaded into thought.


    "—Sir, I am not able to get through to Khvalynsky. We are being jammed," Entuban interjected, shifting his girth toward Cacliocos.


    "You must have missed what PLP Sakar was just saying," Cacliocos remarked drily.


    Seconds passed. A deluge of explosive sounds was being thrown from the direction of the portside wall, bouncing chartlessly about the tunnel-way and synchronizing with the ground''s temperamental trembling.


    A sudden quake drubbed against the soles of their feet. Those of the company that were standing dropped to their haunches. Eyes snapped wide open and pupils dilated.


    "*krrshk*—sir! Do you read?" Belekov''s yells cut through the static.


    "Belekov, status report!" Cacliocos snapped.


    "Three of three. Reaching you shortly." Indeed, no sooner had Belekov''s voice dropped than three figures materialized around the edge of the oddly canted Plasma Leopard some hundred meters away.


    Cacliocos was watching them with shaded eyes, and sweat was streaming in rivulets down the sides of his face. His lips pressed into a hard line. Betelgeuse could see Entuban''s mouth moving silently as he clocked another attempt to reach the TAF officers, to no avail.


    "... Sir," Betelgeuse pressed again, pushing closer toward Cacliocos'' crouched form. "I would advise a tactical retreat."


    But a hand placed itself upon his shoulder, arresting his tentative advance, and he twisted his head to see Gelam staring into him with a vaguely hostile intentions. Betelgeuse wagged his shoulder and shrugged off Gelam''s palm.


    Belekov and Thete arrived in a tumble of dust, panting with exhaustion. Karella came last, his face free of its cloth veil, and Betelgeuse contemplated within that visor hard breaths, close-cropped hair and feminine cheekbones which stretched that smooth and fair skin taut.


    It was exceptional performance, considering that the left-side wall was more than a kilometer away. The distant sounds of explosions were starting to peter out, to be replaced by an incredible rumbling that was slowly increasing in intensity.


    "Sir, the Taffy, Sergeant Granger, was there," Belekov breathed, as Karella secreted himself into that silent mass of wide-eyed soldiers, and Thete came to rest on her haunches beside Betelgeuse. "They''re planning on overloading one of the tanks'' plasma reactors at the base to collapse the whole thing."


    There was a strong and sourceless bitterness to Belekov''s expression that Betelgeuse could not place.


    "Did he give any instructions?" Cacliocos inspected his wrist-transceiver.


    "—Sir, Sergeant Khvalyn—" Entuban suddenly began.


    "Shut up a moment. Sergeant Belekov, quickly!" Cacliocos snapped, cutting off Entuban mid-sentence.


    "No, no, I don''t think—" Belekov was waving his hand in front of his face, prevaricating, thought Betelgeuse.


    "What did he say, exactly?"


    Belekov bit his lip.


    "Belekov, I do not have time for this," Cacliocos said, raising his eyes.


    "Said to hold our ground," Belekov admitted. The edges of his eyes twisted and his pig snout quivered by the firelight.


    "Staff, what is it you wanted to say?" Cacliocos continued, returning his eyes to his wrist transceiver.


    "I got ''im. Sergeant Khvalynsky is sending a runner… there, there he is," Entuban pointed vaguely in the direction of the starboard wall. A figure had just then materialized out of the foggy shadows, and it bore the face of a young man whose skin was rouged in sepia. "I''ll patch him into company comms, sir."


    "Hold on…" Cacliocos sounded, raising his arm and narrowing his eyes. "He is TAF?"


    "... I suppose so, sir," Entuban responded.


    "Okay. Let him in," Cacliocos said.


    ''He can''t be older than me,'' Betelgeuse thought. He squinted and espied a single chevron painted upon that man''s helmet, red by the receding flames of the blasted tanks behind them. His rank was Private. He realized, as his eyes retread that tanned, ephebic face, that those were Saltillan features.


    ''A Saltillan working for the TAF,'' Betelgeuse mused. He glanced toward the left-facing wall, noting that the Allied Forces'' barrage had died down. The underground tremors were flexing and receding and reaching peaks violent enough to shift his weight.


    ''Got to come up with some kind of plan for if it''s what I think it is—staying here may well prove to be a death sentence. But there''s no way I can communicate to Thete, Voke and Douglas, seeing as Entuban and Cacliocos are plugged into the Section Five comms-link,'' Betelgeuse mused.


    The tanned-skin Private reached First Company in a flurry of bootsteps, eyeing Cacliocos with a haughty expression.


    "Subaltern Cacliocos," he transmitted, and there was no other way to describe his tone but arrogant. "Message from Sergeant Khvalynsky. First Company is to hold the line here."


    Betelgeuse nudged Douglas in his oblique and pointed his chin in the direction of support line. Douglas'' upper lip curled, and then he slapped the calves of Thete and Voke.


    "Tell me, Private…" Cacliocos began, then trailed off.


    "Private Joy," the Private said, staring Cacliocos straight in the eye.


    "Private Joy. Tell me, is TAF First''s comms still jammed?"


    Private Joy snorted. "Of course." He obviously didn''t think very highly of Cacliocos.


    "Sergeant Khvalynsky''s just the next position over, is that right?" Cacliocos inquired, edging closer to Private Joy, his expression grim as death.


    "Yes. I don''t appreciate these questions, sir," and the honorific sounded like an insult.


    "I wish you learnt how important it is to be careful. You are too young." So much was going through Cacliocos eyes and the ground''s shaking felt like it must cause his heart to spill out of his mouth.


    "… If you will excuse me, I must be making my way back," Private Joy declared huffily, somewhat nonplussed by Cacliocos'' strange words.


    "You should be thinking about your parents, Joy. The important people in life are what make it worth living."


    "What—"


    Betelgeuse and Thete had just started a conversation with their eyes and were at the stage of debating the morality of running, when a strange scream reverberated through the comms and then promptly ceased. The spark of disturbance rose so suddenly and so quickly that Betelgeuse'' hand shot reflexively to his chest; but before he could formulate any specific thought, the grasp of compulsion had already faded away and Betelgeuse, feeling Frederica''s Incunabulum snug against his pectorals, was left wondering if he had been imagining it.


    Then he saw Thete''s biological eye widen and heard Entuban yelping in surprise, and he wheeled, railgun in hand, and before them Cacliocos looked to be holding Private Joy''s chin in a queer and intimate manner, their visors pressed, kissing, into each other.


    A fountain of red was erupting from the top of Private Joy''s head and the man''s eyeballs were splaying to both sides, and Cacliocos stepped away to allow his erstwhile companion to slump twitching to the ground. The black handle of Cacliocos'' combat knife stuck out from under Private Joy''s jaw, and the blade had gored through the still-palpitating tongue and through the roof of the young man''s mouth into his brain and then out through his fontanel.


    Blood welled up within the visor and the corpse regurgitated and in seconds it was no longer possible to discern the once-handsome face through the burbling muck.


    "Cacliocos!" Entuban managed, his momentary spell of incoherence past.


    "Get me a Chimera plasma bolter quickly," Cacliocos said, his tone flat and emotionless. "We burn him."


    He had drawn himself to his full height, his suit smeared with a tar-like mixture of blood and dust. The ground was determined to shake itself to pieces, and behind Betelgeuse the dead tanks were still burning turquoise and vermilion, the wan light making a deathmask of Cacliocos'' grime-streaked visor. His unblinking eyes shone like gemstones, staring out from an expression of steel and passing over a gaggle of shocked faces and regarding them with legendary composure.


    "Then we execute movement to support line," he concluded, as his wandering gaze was arrested by Betelgeuse'' adamantine glare.