NOP: The Rejects of Sillis (9)

I'm back to being fashionably late as usual. This chapter is longer than the others, hence the longer wait. As always, enjoy.

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The Nature of Predators Universe was originally created by u/SpacePaladin15.

Chapter Nine: Grounding and Pounding the Medic

Memory Transcription Subject: Raksim

Date [standardized human time]: October 29th, 2136

Humans are a fascinating species. At some point in their history, they found it practical and reasonable to affix edged weapons to their firearms and stab their enemies with them. Even more interestingly, this practice persisted into the era of easily reloaded automatic weapons. If the average Federation citizen had learned of these facts, they would have taken them as further evidence of humanity’s beastly and savage nature. On the contrary, I think bayonets are quite clever.

Guns have power, but pulling the trigger is the only way it becomes actualized. By putting a blade on the end of a firearm, one can visualize that power without putting a bullet in someone. Thus, I would prefer a gun with a blade at its end to one without, because it's better at instilling fear. And fear has many non-lethal applications.

Adding a bayonet to a flamethrower remained an unexplored concept, even for humans. I suspect it would be superior to all other weapons when it came to terrorizing arxur.

As Vil was currently demonstrating, all one needed to terrorize her was to place a weapon within her sight. She was shaking at the knees and staring at the blade on the end of her rifle, like it was going to lash out and sink its teeth into her.

She was one of the twenty or so soldiers we separated from the rest of the platoon for bayonet training. They were arranged in a column. The alien members of the platoon had a human on either side of them, allowing them to simply look to their right or left for guidance.

Each soldier had a thin piece of plywood in front of them, cut into the same shape as the torso targets we used on the gun range—a crude imitation of an actual opponent. Simple wooden stands held the bayonet targets upright, and stakes driven into the ground prevented them from moving easily when acted upon.

I drummed my talons on the back of Vil’s helmet as I stalked behind her, causing her to jump. “Be sure to pay attention while you’re panicking,” I whispered to her.

The black venlil’s tail lashed with annoyance, but she remained silent and brought her attention back to the drill sergeants, who were currently demonstrating the proper way to use a bayonet. In a reversal of our usual roles, Isaac and Nedelin were shadowing me, quietly watching and evaluating how I was treating their subordinates.

The Lieutenant leaned close to Vil’s helmet and spoke in a hushed tone. “Do you need to take a minute, Private?”

“No!” She said it a little too forcefully before correcting herself. “No, sir. I-I can do this.” There was a glimmer of determination in her eyes that I hadn’t ever seen before. Or she was trying not to cry. I certainly couldn’t tell.

Isaac nodded and carried on with his task of looming over me.

The drill sergeants’ lecture didn’t seem to be coming to an end anytime soon, so I began taking stock of the familiar faces in this part of the platoon, for no other reason than to ease my boredom.

The first person I recognized besides Vil was Kaero, one of our two yotul medics. The main object of Isaac’s attention when we reviewed her and Daego’s documents was the fact that they were denied entry to a medical school on Colia, despite their experience. What earned my scrutiny were the numerous reports of ‘aggression’ Kaero had on her record. Her younger sister’s papers mentioned the same thing, but it seemed to be much less of a problem for her. If I had to speculate, Kaero was the more hot-headed one, and Daego was the one that kept her in line.

The next soldier I took notice of was Sergeant Iosif Fyodorov. His nose was his most immediately obvious feature. Someone or something broke it several times, creating a crook in it. Next came his knuckles–heavily calloused from years of fighting. When he snarled, he revealed his most distinguishing trait. Silvery implants replaced several of his teeth. His file mentioned a human combative sport known as bare-knuckle boxing. Isaac explained it to me. It’s no wonder he had so many ghastly features from participating in it.

The final person I recognized was a head taller than the others in the platoon and twice as muscular. When Isaac first laid eyes upon the man, he dubbed him “the True Successor to Genghis Khan” and “the Mongolian Superman.” I had no idea what either of those things meant, but I was sure that they were comments on the man-in-question’s impressive physique. Temujin was the moniker he answered to, but whether that was his actual name remained unclear, primarily because he very suspiciously refused to speak a single word to anyone. All we were able to gather from his profile was that he was born in Mongolia and moved a thousand [kilometers] to Russia for some unexplained reason. Due to his extremely sparse documentation, both me and Isaac speculated that it had something to do with criminal activity.

My accounting of people came to an end at a perfect moment. The drill sergeants finally finished talking about bayonets and were moving on to actually using them. One of them shouted orders, while the other two kept a keen eye out for mistakes. “Assume a fighting stance! Just like we showed you!”

The men positioned themselves with their knees bent and the blades of their weapons pointed forward.

A sergeant immediately marched up to Kaero and shoved her, causing her to stumble backwards. “That’s why we keep our feet apart, Medic! Do it right this time!”

The yotul’s tail twitched with vexation. She complied nonetheless while shouting, “Yes, drill sergeant!”

He pushed her again without warning. She was able to maintain her footing this time.

The sergeant nodded with satisfaction and moved on. He skipped over the human who was next in line and went straight to Vil, grabbing the barrel of her rifle and jerking it upward so her bayonet was at an inclined angle instead of level. “What’re you gonna stab ‘em in the dick!? Point your weapon at your opponent’s torso!”

Vil’s face turned slightly orange with embarrassment. “Yes, drill sergeant!”

The second drill sergeant started his task at the other end of the line. He walked right past several humans before suddenly turning on his heel to face a gojid. The alien’s quills flared as he scrutinized him. “Where are your hands supposed to be, Private!?” The sergeant asked in a threatening tone.

The gojid looked down at his rifle and quickly moved one set of claws from the weapon's pistol grip to the stock. “On the foregrip and stock, drill sergeant!”

The sergeant sneered at him. “Good. Keep ‘em there, or I’ll break your wrist myself.”

The gojid’s eyes widened. “Yes, drill sergeant!”

Once the first two had finished with their duties, the third and final drill sergeant called the soldiers to attention. “When I give the signal, you are going to engage your enemy like they’re coming to kill you! Is that understood?!”

Everyone on the line replied with a simultaneous “Yes, drill sergeant!”

He drew in a breath. The men tensed and prepared to deliver a deadly blow to their simulated opponents.

“Engage!”

The humans let out a full-bodied warcry and lunged forward, driving their bayonets through the thin wood torsos before them. The nonhumans were startled by the sudden noise and didn’t even touch their enemy.

Their sergeants immediately enacted their standard contingency plan for when their orders weren’t followed: become irate and start yelling. One of them smelled Vil’s weakness and immediately honed in on her. “The fuck is wrong with you, Shortcake?! Are you too damn scared to defend yourself?!”

The venlil used a trembling paw to wipe tears out of her eyes. “I-I’m sorry, drill sergeant. I-”

“If you don’t kill that asshole,” he pointed at the plywood torso, “he’s going to kill you and all your adorable alien buddies! Are you going to let him do that, Private?!”

“What?! No! I-”

I rolled my eyes and moved in between them. “There is no need to explain yourself, Vil. Just listen to your instructors.” I turned an eye toward the sergeant. “And with all due respect to you, you’re not going to get through to this venlil by shouting at her. She’s much too timid for the time being. What you need is a more tactful approach.”

I turned to fully face Vil. “Are you afraid?”

Isaac stared daggers at me from behind the venlil. I winked at him to assuage his concerns. Nedelin, who was to the Lieutenant’s left, groaned contemptuously at his words coming out of my beak.

“H-how many times do I have to say I’m afraid?” Vil said it with surprising spitefulness in her voice.

I leaned closer to her and spoke with a low growl. “I’d like to hear it just one more time.”

“I-I’m afraid,” Vil shakily admitted, with hate and tears in her eyes.

“Why are you afraid?”

“I-I don’t want to hurt someone.”

“Then you’ve made a very poor career choice.” I glanced at Isaac. “But seeing as I can’t dispose of you, I tell you this: you should want to hurt your enemy to protect yourself and your friends. Or, at the very least, you should be indifferent to their suffering.”

“What about predator disease?” she meekly asked.

A small laugh emanated from within my chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on Earth. There are no exterminators, PD facilities, or meek and scared masses to judge you. Stabbing that piece of wood is consequence-free. Now, do it.”

Vil leveled her rifle and bayonet at the torso in front of her. Every part of her was shaking, but her legs stopped for just a moment as they tensed and prepared to lunge forward. An anxious silence settled on her fellow soldiers as they watched.

She lowered her bayonet suddenly. It pointed at the ground–a useless position that barred her from attacking or defending. “I can’t,” she whispered tearfully.

“Even in this land of opportunity, you can’t rise to the occasion.” I brought my beak close to her ear. “Because you're a coward, Vil, and a disappointment.”

The venlil’s gaze slowly met mine as I leaned back. She wanted to kill me at that moment–skewer me with the blade at the end of her weapon–and I could see it in the fiery orange globes she used to see the world. But she did nothing as I walked away, as a coward is apt to do. If she tried, it wouldn’t be hard to pierce the soft flesh of her neck and sever the veins within.

Isaac gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “You need to take a minute.”

The venlil descended into an argument with her Lieutenant and Platoon Sergeant, but I paid no attention to them and let them fade into the background. If Isaac and Nedelin wanted to continue wasting time and resources on her, that was their choice, and I had no say in it. I could only hope that they would eventually realize that she didn’t belong here.

I skipped over the next person in line and went straight to Kaero. “Please show me you’re more competent than her.”

The yotul looked down at me contemptuously before shrugging with her tail and lazily stabbing the target in front of her. The blade only went part way through.

“I expect a primitive to handle a spear better than that. Do it again, with more effort!”

The yotul gritted her teeth and gripped her weapon so tight that the plastic furniture on it creaked. She plunged her weapon through the torso and then some, cracking the entire thing down the middle.

“Good.”

As I moved on to the next alien in line, Vil’s dispute with her superiors became more heated.

“No!” the venlil shouted. “I don’t want to sit this out! I can do this!”

“It is not sitting out,” Nedelin reassured. “It is just small break.”

“No!”

The Lieutenant spoke firmly and slowly. “Vil, you’re taking a break. Now.”

“No!”

“Are you a fucking child?” Isaac asked. “I’m not asking. Take a break or–”

Crack!

I quickly turned to the source of the noise, expecting to find that Vil had done something very foolish. Instead, I found her in a lunge with her bayonet halfway through her plywood opponent.

“So, you can do it?” I asked while marching toward her.

The venlil stuttered dumbly. “Y-yes, sir. I–”

“Shut up and listen for once in your life,” I snapped, finally bringing her to silence. “You’re smaller than others, so you’ll have to put more of your weight into it. Again!”

After a moment of hesitation, Vil extracted her bayonet and attacked a second time. The blade penetrated all the way to the hilt.

“Well done. That’s all I was asking of you.”

Vil looked down at the weapon in her paws. “That’s it?”

“All that drama seems childish now, doesn’t it?”

The venlil looked down. Her face took on an orange hue as she did.

“Remember what Nedelin taught you; do what you’re told, and your time here will be much less difficult.”

With that, I turned and passed over Kaero to the next alien in line, a gojid. Having learned from those before him, he performed a nearly perfect bayonet lunge on his first try. The one after him did the same, and so on until I reached the last alien in line.

One of the drill sergeants cleared his throat. I turned one of my eyes toward them. All three were looking at me like they wanted to pluck my feathers and turn me into a new pillow. They clearly didn’t appreciate their training regiment being interrupted. I bowed, yielding control back to them, and I rejoined Isaac and Nedelin.

“That's your definition of tact!?” The Lieutenant asked.

“My method may not have been as kind or gentle as our Platoon Sergeant’s, but it delivered results, didn’t it?”

He stared at me for a moment. “I guess it did,” he eventually admitted with a twitch in his eye.

A quiet came over the three of us as the sergeants continued their work. They drilled the soldiers until they fell into rhythm–stabbing their bayonet deep into the torso in front of them, extracting their blade, and repeating. Vil lagged slightly behind her comrades, but, now that she was willing to actually try, she was slowly getting better.

Nedelin broke the silence between us by lighting a cigarette and asking a question. “Do they have bayonets in Federation? They would be useful for fighting arxur.”

I laughed. “No, anyone who came up with such an idea would be thrown into a PD facility.”

“It seems like you guys put people in there just for looking at someone wrong,” Isaac commented while waving the Platoon Sergeant's smoke away from his face.

“You joke, but we can and do. They’re called snout-pointers.”

He shook his head. “What the fuck is wrong with the Federation?”

I couldn’t resist laughing again. “You don’t even know half of it.”

Isaac, Nedelin, and I continued observing our soldiers’ training. Vil fell into perfect synchronization with the others, stabbing, extracting, and repeating until the form and technique became second nature to her. After a few more [minutes], Isaac spoke to his Platoon Sergeant. “Unload the pugil sticks and gear. They’re ready for the real training now.”

Nedelin replied with a simple “Yes, sir,” before setting off on his task. He pulled two humans off the line for assistance and brought them to the primitive combustion-powered trucks that carried most of our equipment here.

“I’m glad your instruction doesn’t end with stabbing pieces of wood,” I commented.

Isaac snarled. “Don’t get too excited; the next part is just beating each other with sticks.”

I looked toward Nedelin and his helpers. They were already coming back from the trucks, arms laden with equipment. I recognized padded gloves and helmets in what they carried, but what piqued my curiosity was what I presumed to be the ‘pugil sticks’ the Lieutenant spoke of. They were simple, but robust, plastic rods with bulbous cushioning on either end. One of their ends was colored red, and the other end was colored black. Two gaps in the cushioning made it possible to wield it like a spear.

“Not as sophisticated as I hoped, but this will certainly be entertaining,” I chuckled.

“Somehow, I knew you would say that.”

Nedelin and his assistants dropped what they carried not far from me and Isaac. When the drill sergeants noticed the new equipment, they called the men to attention and gave orders. “Put down your weapons and wait for further instruction from your Lieutenant!”

They complied by leaning their rifles against the wooden torsos in front of them and lining up in front of Isaac.

“In a real bayonet fight, your opponent isn’t going to stand still like those targets.” Isaac propelled one of the pugil sticks into the air with his foot and caught it with his hands. “These will help you simulate a more true-to-life scenario where your enemy fights back.”

The fear and apprehension that played over the alien platoon members’ faces brought me immense joy.

Isaac continued, “It’s as simple as you think. The red side represents the blade at the end of your weapon; the black end is your weapon’s stock. Swing them at each other, touch your opponent with the red end, and the match ends. Would any of you aliens like to go first?”

They all made various gestures and noises in the negative.

“Maybe some of the Russians would like to put on a demonstration?”

Sergeant Fyodorov raised his hand and flashed his silver teeth. “I will go first.”

“Who wants to be his sparring partner?” Isaac asked.

Temujin, the enormous Mongolian, volunteered by stepping forward.

Fyodorov muttered “Fuck” under his breath, eliciting laughter from the other Russians.

Both of them came forward and geared up–exchanging their ballistic helmets for ones with more padding, putting on the gloves, and taking up the pugil sticks. The drill sergeants picked out a particularly grassy patch of ground at the edge of the forest that surrounded us for their bout, presumably to reduce the chance of injuries. The other soldiers formed a half-circle around the two participants, defining the boundaries of their arena.

The sparring match began with a sharp whistle from Isaac–a noise I didn’t know humans were capable of. Temujin surged forward and used his pugil stick as a battering ram, throwing Fyodorov to his back. Then he delivered a killing blow with the crimson end of his weapon.

“You want us to do that?!” Vil asked with alarm.

Sergeant Nedelin stepped into the ring and helped the defeated soldier to his feet. “There is no need to be afraid of this exercise. As you can see, this man is completely unharmed.”

Fyodorov spat on the ground and displayed his middle digit.

Nedelin ignored the gesture and took the pugil stick from him. “And even if you are fighting against large opponent like Temujin, you can still win. But you must use muscle and brain to do it.” He placed himself across the ring from the Mongolian and nodded toward Isaac.

The Lieutenant nodded back and whistled, signaling the beginning of a skirmish.

Temujin charged forward again in an attempt to bowl over Nedelin. The Platoon Sergeant quickly and skillfully stepped to the side and plunged his imaginary bayonet into the Mongolian’s ribs. A simple but effective maneuver.

Isaac spoke next. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He turned to the nonhuman section of the crowd. “Would any of you like to challenge Fyodorov?”

“Why me?!” The Russian protested.

“Because you are easier opponent,” Nedelin said.

Fyodorov resentfully took the pugil stick back, grumbling to himself as he did.

Kaero stood and cracked her knuckles. “I’ll go. He can't be that tough if it’s that easy to put him on the ground.”

The other aliens looked at her like she had proudly and confidently announced that she would like to die that day. Many would explain her boldness by pointing out that she was from a recently uplifted species–primitive was the word people used for them–and was therefore more aggressive. The truth was that yotul did not have fear instilled in them from the moment of their birth. Thus, they were braver than the average Federation citizen, which is why I considered them some of my favorite students. There were also fewer religious freaks among them, meaning they could hold a conversation without bringing up Inatala, the Great Protector, Solgalick, or some other superstitious nonsense.

Temujin handed his protective gear over to Kaero and joined the surrounding crowd. The yotul promptly dressed, armed herself with a pugil stick, and stood across the arena from Fyodorov. She bounced from one foot to the other as she waited for the match to start. The Russian was still and collected, with his eyes firmly trained on his opponent.

The moment Isaac whistled, Kaero sprang forward with the deadly end of her weapon pointed forward. Fyodorov didn't accept defeat this time. He contorted himself out of the way and swung his pugil stick as hard as he could, aiming for his enemy’s head. Kaero ducked at the last possible second and bounced backwards to put distance between herself and her opponent.

The Russian displayed his silver implants. “Slippery little shit.”

Kaero prowled around the edge of the arena. “I win fights by not getting hit. That's why I still have all of these.” She bared her teeth at him in a mocking gesture. It was uncanny to see a prey species smile.

Fyodorov’s face fell, and his glare hardened. Apparently, the yotul had just made this fight a whole lot more personal.

As Kaero circled her opponent, she feinted several times by stepping forward and making it look like she was about to strike, but instead of doing so, she would retreat and twirl in a random direction of her choice. There was an odd rhythm to these movements, like she was dancing to an unheard song. In addition to this pattern, my keen eyes recognized cleverly disguised footwork–small movements that allowed her to exploit openings if they arose, take evasive maneuvers, and control her body weight.

It was a fascinating performance to watch, but Fyodorov remained on guard and focused. He maintained eye contact as the yotul moved around him and occasionally shifted his feet so his weapon was still in a defensive position.

After more prancing about, Kaero suddenly lunged with her fake bayonet, poised to skewer Fyodorov’s gut. The Russian leapt aside and smacked the yotul in the face with the black side of his stick, producing a meaty whack! The yotul’s lower half kept its momentum, and her feet ended up above her head before she fell flat on her back. Kaero tried to recover from her mistake, but Fyodorov ended the match by placing a boot on her chest and putting the deadly end of his pugil stick on her gut.

“Well done, Fyodorov,” Isaac said. “Kaero, 20 push-ups.”

The marsupial sat up and shook her head to alleviate the punch-drunkenness she was no doubt feeling. “Haven’t I taken enough punishment?”

“No, because you’re doing 40 now.”

She let out an exaggerated groan, threw off her padded gear, and started exercising.

The Lieutenant ignored her childish display. “Would anybody else like to volunteer before I start calling people up?”

A black paw slowly rose from among the crowd, accompanied by a small, trembling voice. “I-I would like to go next.”

Isaac’s eyes flicked between Vil and her possible opponents, clearly displaying the debate that was going on inside his head. Eventually, he acquiesced. “Alright, Private, you're up.”

The venlil shakily pointed at Temujin. “I want to go against him… please.”

I had to stifle a laugh.

Isaac shook his head. “Not happening; I’ll pick someone for you.”

Vil meekly lowered her eyes to the ground as her Lieutenant surveyed the possible options. I expected that to be the end of their disagreement, but her tail slowly became more agitated, until it was lashing back and forth with fury. “I thought you wanted me to be brave!” She shouted at Nedelin and Isaac. “But when I try to do that, now you're trying to stop me! What do you want?!”

“There’s a difference between bravery and stupidity, I warned. “Addressing your superiors as you are is very stupid.”.

Vil’s orange eyes flashed with fiery anger. “I’m not stupid! I-I have a plan.”

“You have a plan to beat Temujin?” Isaac asked with incredulity in his voice. “The man who could easily bench press you?”

“Y-yes.”

I leaned closer to him and whispered. “It seems like she’s gaining confidence, Lieutenant. Let’s not squander it by impeding her.”

Isaac sighed. “Alright, get geared up.”

Nedelin’s eyes went wide. “Is that good idea, sir?”

“No, but it’ll teach her to know her limits faster than I ever could.”

The Platoon Sergeant shook his head disapprovingly. “Medic, you will be needed soon.”

“I’ll be ready, sir,” Kaero said through gritted teeth as she did push-ups.

Once Temujin had all the padded gear on, Isaac beckoned him over, speaking low and authoritatively to him. “Don’t hold back, but don’t fucking kill her either, understood?”

The Mongolian’s only response was a quick nod and an affirmative grunt. After that, he moved to his side of the impromptu arena. He looked down at the venlil across from him apologetically.

Vil was shaking uncontrollably. She had to look down at her feet to get her stance right and only pointed her pugil stick at her opponent’s chest once a drill sergeant reminded her.

Once again, the fight began with a whistle, and Temujin rushed forward like a stampeding mazic. As if she were trying to prove her stupidity, Vil stood her ground and made no effort to evade. Just as I was expecting her to be trampled, she lowered herself and aimed her pugil stick right at Temujin’s crotch. By the time the Mongolian realized his error, his entire body weight was hurtling toward the inevitable. All the male spectators cringed in sympathy as the weapon made contact.

Temijun’s sheer momentum threw Vil to the ground. After a second of trying to fight the pain, he fell to his knees and tried not to vomit. The venlil hurriedly picked herself up and drove the red side of her pugil stick into Temujin’s face, knocking the padded helmet off his head and putting him on his side.

Isaac whistled as Vil prepared to deliver another strike. “The match is over, Private!”

She paused mid-action, dropped her pugil stick, and covered her mouth with her padded gloves. “Temujin! I’m so sorry!”

Isaac shouted, “Medic!” but Kaero was already at the Mongolian’s side as he rolled on the ground in pain.

The Lieutenant turned his gaze to Vil. The venlil stared back at him with terror in her eyes. When she was gripped by strong emotions, she looked with both eyes, not just one–a detail I found quite interesting.

“Come here,” Isaac ordered.

She approached, wringing her tail in her paws and shaking. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me–”

“Good job.”

The venlil froze for a moment. “W-what? What do you mean? I hurt someone!”

“He’s not hurt that bad. Right, Medic?”

Kaero tilted her head away from her Lieutenant and spoke curtly to him, “He’ll live.”

“See?” Isaac said. “In all seriousness, no more testical shots. It's unsportsmanlike.”

Vil wasn’t paying attention to him. She was looking down at her gloved paws. “I was too aggressive… I hurt someone.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Vil, aggression, and initiative are what will keep you alive on deployment. As long as you don’t go crazy, you’ll be fine.”

“You did well, Private,” I added. “Perhaps I was wrong. You have some courage in you after all.”

“I don’t feel like I did well.”

“In this line of work, you often don’t,” Isaac said in a way that was meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t have that effect at all. Instead, it caused Vil to stare into the middle distance. In all likelihood, the true gravity of her poor career choice was dawning on her, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

The Lieutenant turned his gaze to the other nonhumans that were present. “All of you need to learn from her example and emulate it.”

Their only response was to share wary looks with each other.

The venlil’s moment of cunning and courage was certainly impressive. But if she was only able to summon it once, she would be of no use to us. “Champion Vil, is there anyone else you would like to challenge, perhaps someone you have a grievance with?”

I could see the venlil’s ears twisting with confusion, even under the padded helmet. Then understanding dawned on her. “I want to challenge you.”

“No, not happening,” Isaac interjected. “She’ll break your fucking hip or something.”

I turned to him with an indignant squawk. “I am not that old!”

“I don’t care; you’re not worth the paperwork if you get hurt.”

I hissed at him but accepted his decision nonetheless. Arguing wasn’t going to be fruitful. It just increased the chances of my skull being smashed against a wooden beam–or a tree, given our current surroundings.

“Can I challenge you then?” Vil asked the Lieutenant.

I already had my suspicions about Isaac being less than impartial towards her, but the way he stiffened and panicked slightly at that question confirmed my theories.

(Continued in comments.)