He heard the metallic snick and clank of hundreds of broadswords being removed from their racks, and he dutifully attached his own to the magnetic scabbard on his back. Now, he could hear the oily clicks of automatic weapons being checked. The shadowy transport echoed with the sound of accelerated breathing and the quickened cadence of hundreds of hearts beating like battle drums. Everson’s nose was assaulted by the coppery smell of adrenaline. A vein ticked in his temple as if counting down the moments.

And then the iris door of the vessel began to open, allowing a blistering ray of light to fill the transport. Everson sensed the mass of troops leaning forward as one, as if collectively pulled by the gravity of inescapable Fate. The circular door continued to open, flooding the interior with light, and Everson couldn’t tell if he was instantly flushed by the wave of heat blasting into the transport or by the blood rushing to his face. After a few blinks, his eyes adjusted and he could see the future.

Thousands of Manolith warmen were amassed in the near distance, awaiting their arrival. Everson was horrified. With a thunderous roar, the foremost Indiran soldiers charged, spilling out of the transport and onto the foreign soil. Contrary to his every rational instinct, Everson rushed forward with them. The Indirans and Manoliths came together like the turbulent waves of opposing oceans, determined only to obliterate each other and lay claim to the sand between them. The clash of swords and the repetitive reports of handguns were shortly joined by the seemingly ceaseless screams of the wounded.

In the midst of the melee, Everson flailed madly about, defending more than attacking, his frantic maneuvers more a reflex of desperation than expertise. Though his training had been intense and immersive, it could not have possibly prepared him for the blood orgy that was close-quarters combat. Men much more capable than he died all around him.

Everson had never met a Manolith. At the moment, he wished he never had. He was surrounded by them. They seemed innumerable, like a swarm. Their pale complexions were shocking to him, their expressions of hatred made all the more frightening by the fury with which they fought, as if the very fires of creation burned within them.

Somewhere in his terrified brain, Everson recognized that his anonymous enemies seemed to be no older than he was, young men barely beyond the threshold of manhood. An earsplitting battle cry turned him in time to see a warman rushing at him, his sword held high above his head and ready to strike. Everson crouched instinctively and thrust his sword toward the attacking Manolith. He was sickened at how easily the blade impaled the young man’s body.

The fair-skinned Manolith looked right at him. The ferocity drained out of his face. He was the first enemy combatant to make eye contact with him. The moment seemed to expand, and they stared at each other with an almost identical degree of surprise. The warman fell away from Everson’s sword, stricken and dying.