Hours bled together under the oppressive weight of the jungle canopy. Roric moved with disciplined slowness, the ache in his ribs a constant reminder of the predator encounter, his makeshift bandage already stiffening with dried blood. Thirst clawed at his throat, a more immediate threat than the unseen dangers lurking behind every pulsating vine and glowing mushroom. His training provided a framework – move deliberately, observe constantly, conserve energy – but the alien context frayed his nerves. Every rustle, every snap of a twig, sent jolts of adrenaline through him.
He paused frequently, listening, straining to filter meaningful sounds from the jungle's disorienting chorus. The ground continued its gradual slope downwards. Then, beneath the cacophony of clicks, chirps, and deep vibrations, he heard it – a faint, steady rushing sound. Water.
Hope, sharp and sudden, spurred him onward. He moved faster now, pushing through dense ferns whose fronds left shimmering, iridescent dust on his torn fatigues. The rushing sound grew louder, promising relief. He broke through a final curtain of hanging moss and stopped short.
Before him, a stream chuckled its way over smooth, grey stones, cascading down a small, moss-covered rock face into a clear pool. The water glittered, catching the filtered, multi-coloured light from above. Strange, fish-like creatures with feathery fins darted through the shallows. Tall, reed-like plants with glowing blue tips lined the banks. It looked impossibly pure, inviting.
Too inviting. CRRF survival training hammered the warning home: Never trust an unknown water source without purification. He scanned the area meticulously. No obvious signs of contamination, no carcasses upstream, no unhealthy-looking vegetation nearby. The small, finned creatures seemed vibrant. Still, the risk…
His thirst decided for him. Kneeling cautiously by the pool's edge, knife ready, he scooped water into his cupped hands. It was cold, crisp. He took a small sip, testing it. No immediate acrid taste, no burning sensation. He waited a minute, senses on high alert for any adverse reaction. Nothing.
With a sigh of relief that felt torn from his very soul, he drank deeply, then refilled his battered canteen. He splashed water on his face, washing away the grime and sweat, the simple act feeling like a monumental luxury. He even risked dipping his wounded arm into the cold stream, letting the water clean the gashes, biting back a hiss of pain.
As he secured his canteen, something glinted upstream, half-hidden by the glowing reeds. Metal. Angular. Definitely not natural.
Heart rate kicking up again, Roric moved towards it, keeping low. He circled around a cluster of the scale-barked trees, using them as cover. The glint resolved into a larger shape – a jagged piece of wreckage, torn metal fused with circuitry Roric vaguely recognized, though twisted into unfamiliar configurations. It was partially embedded in the stream bank, streaks of black scoring its surface.
He approached cautiously, scanning for threats. The wreckage looked like part of a fuselage or wing section from one of the flying machines he'd seen. Sleek lines beneath the damage suggested it might be from one of the Aegis interceptors, rather than the rougher Corsair skiffs. Recent, then. Likely from the battle he'd fallen through.
He ran a gloved hand over the cool metal. Strange symbols, complex geometric patterns unlike any Earth language or military insignia, were etched near a ruptured power conduit that sparked feebly. Wires spilled out like metallic entrails, some glowing with residual energy. This technology felt… different. More advanced in some ways than CRRF tech, yet also strangely integrated, almost organic in its complexity.
Further investigation revealed more debris scattered nearby – smaller fragments, shattered crystalline components that pulsed with faint light, and unsettlingly, a single, scorched gauntlet lying palm-up in the mud, its design elegant and alien. No body attached.
He felt a chill despite the humid air. This wasn't just wreckage; it was a grave marker. A reminder of the violence that permeated this world, even in the midst of its lethal beauty. Was the pilot flung clear? Vaporized? Another casualty in a conflict he didn't understand.
He was examining the intricate mechanism of the gauntlet when he heard it – the distinct snap of a twig breaking underfoot. Close. Too close.
Roric dropped instantly, melting into the shadow of the largest wreckage piece, knife flashing into his hand. He held his breath, straining his ears. Silence, save for the gurgle of the stream and the ever-present jungle hum. Had he imagined it?
No. Another sound – the soft scuff of a boot on damp earth, moving parallel to the stream, downstream from his position. Someone was here. And they were trying to be quiet.
Hunter or hunted?
His tactical brain took over. He was partially concealed by the wreckage. The newcomer was moving along the stream bank. Roric shifted silently, peering through a gap in the torn metal.
A figure emerged from the dense foliage about thirty meters away, moving with the quiet confidence of someone intimately familiar with the terrain. The man was older, maybe mid-fifties, with a weathered face framed by a thick, unkempt grey beard. He wore a mismatched assortment of worn leather and scavenged pieces of dull metal plate armor, looking practical rather than polished. A long, straight-bladed sword hung in a simple scabbard at his hip. He carried no rifle, no energy weapon Roric could see. His eyes, sharp and cynical beneath a scarred eyebrow, scanned the jungle constantly, missing nothing. They flicked towards the wreckage, lingered for a moment, then continued their sweep. He hadn't spotted Roric yet.
Roric stayed frozen, assessing. Native? Another… arrival like him? The man's gear looked functional but primitive compared to the Aegis wreckage, yet he moved like a seasoned operator. Dangerous.
The man paused, kneeling by the stream, apparently checking the ground. Footprints? Had Roric been that careless? The man's gaze lifted, slower this time, sweeping back towards the wreckage. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He'd seen something. A disturbance? Roric's own tracks?
Slowly, deliberately, the man rose, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He began walking towards the wreckage, not directly at Roric's hiding spot, but on an intercept course, his movements casual but radiating tension.
This was it. Standoff. Roric could try to remain hidden, hope the man passed by. Or he could reveal himself, try to establish contact. Hiding felt like delaying the inevitable. Contact… was a gamble. Friend? Foe? Cannibal? Slaver? The possibilities were endless and grim.
He needed information. He needed help. He was wounded and alone. This man, despite the primitive weapon, looked like a survivor. Maybe the survivor to learn from.
As the man drew within ten meters, Roric made his choice. He rose slowly from behind the wreckage, knife held loosely at his side, visible but not overtly threatening. His other hand was raised slightly, palm outwards, the universal gesture for 'halt' or 'peace.'
The man stopped instantly, his body language shifting from cautious approach to coiled readiness. His cynical eyes locked onto Roric, taking in the torn, unfamiliar uniform, the bloodied arm, the youthful face beneath the grime. There was no surprise in his expression, only a hard, calculating assessment. He didn't draw his sword, but his hand remained firmly on the pommel.
They stood there for a long moment, silence stretching between them, broken only by the stream and the jungle's hum. Roric could feel the man's gaze dissecting him, noting his gear remnants, his physical state, the way he held himself.
Roric cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. "Hello?" The word sounded absurdly loud, alien in this setting.
The man's expression didn't change. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing further. He said nothing.
Right. Language barrier. Of course. Roric mentally cursed. He tried again, pointing to himself. "Roric." Then he gestured vaguely around them, a questioning look on his face. Where am I?
The man watched him, unmoved. Then, slowly, deliberately, he spoke. His voice was a low growl, the words guttural, completely incomprehensible. It wasn't Separatist dialect, not Coalition Standard, nothing Roric had ever heard.
The man paused, seemingly gauging Roric's lack of reaction. He grunted, a sound somewhere between amusement and contempt. Then, he did something unexpected. He tapped his own chest, his expression still wary but with a flicker of something else – recognition? Resignation?
"Silas," he rasped, the word scraping out like stones rolling downhill.
He then pointed directly at Roric, not with hostility, but with a specific, deliberate gesture, index finger extended. He spoke one sharp, clear word, a question heavy with implication, his cynical eyes boring into Roric's.
"Echo?"