Now General Bahn had to concede that sometimes a wrong turn could still lead to the right place. Because of King Xander’s unfounded and unprecedented decree, the general was in the exact place that he needed to be, sitting in his TRAUMA, facing down an invading force. His only regret was that he wasn’t close enough to see Commander Giza’s dumbfounded expression when he unleashed his next surprise.

As his birduns dotted the sky and the first sparkle of HEXes preceded the percussive explosions, he forced himself to wait even longer, mentally maximizing the destruction he was about to deliver. Bahn calmly keyed his communicator.

“TRAUMAs, volley incendiary grenades now.”

* * *

Commander Giza instantly registered the rattling blast of cannon fire followed shortly by the buzzing whistle of incoming incendiary grenades. As this latest barrage rocked his Marauder, he spun around with the most shock that had ever graced his face. The smoke still swirling before the immobile TRAUMAs left little doubt as to the origin of the projectiles, and Giza knew immediately that they had exceeded their expected range.

“Commander, I dare say that our intel was incomplete,” Colonel Canaan said.

“Obviously. The TRAUMAs have been retrofitted with greater firepower.” As if to punctuate the point, the TRAUMAs launched a second volley. The devastation was indiscriminate, obliterating Indirans and Manolith warmen alike.

Several of the transports took direct hits, suffering massive damage. The TRAUMAs finally advanced, moving forward at an alarming rate made more frightening by the array of weaponry that suddenly sprang from their metallic hulls: blades, buzz saws, drills.

“Javelins, detach and deter the TRAUMAs,” Giza ordered.

Several Javelins traced ellipticals in the sky and descended upon the approaching TRAUMAs. Their weapons were as ineffectual as rain on stone. The war machines continued to barrel toward the battle, their hardware glinting and gnashing like the teeth of ravenous beasts. In desperation, an Indiran rider leapt from his Javelin and onto a speeding TRAUMA, quickly stuffing an explosive into a gun turret. He was rewarded for his bravery by being blown up along with the vehicle.

“Commander—” Colonel Canaan began to say before being cut off by Giza.

“I know! Javelins, provide cover. Marauder commanders, fall back.”

The Javelins efficiently fell into formation, streaming into a staggered line before the oncoming TRAUMAs. They traced a screaming arc, and suddenly a massive wall of fire rose from the desert floor, its uppermost tendrils seeming to reach the planet’s dual suns. Undeterred and unscathed, the TRAUMAs burst through the flames.

Commander Giza suddenly felt as if he were speaking a foreign language, the words as distasteful as they were unfamiliar.

“Convoys, prepare to evacuate while we still can,” he muttered. “Infantry, retreat.”

* * *

It was the sound that would haunt him. The sights were horrific, to be sure, but Everson would only ever recall them as a frenetic blur punctuated by staccato tableaus of savagery. No, it was the sound that penetrated his psyche deep enough to leave scars.