Page 9 of Accidentally Fearless

The human arrived at the observation platform wearing clothing that did not fit properly. She had rolled the sleeves of the tactical jacket three times, and the boots, though correctly sized, gave her a stride that suggested she was still adjusting to their weight, and carrying a primitive Earth data recording device she called a "spiral notebook."

Zenir took one look at her, and she made a sound that, in our language, roughly translates to a polite assessment that one's situation has become irretrievably dire.

I did not disagree. But I had run out of options that did not include Rory Sullivan, and so here we were—standing on the elevated command platform overlooking the eastern engagement zone, watching my forces prepare for the thirty-seventh scheduled battle of a war that had produced thirty-six identical outcomes.

The platform itself was a structure I had stood on so many times I no longer noticed it—a ridge-mounted shelf of reinforced stone and dark metal, fitted with tactical displays, communication arrays, and a railing designed to prevent officers from leaning too far forward in moments of tactical enthusiasm. The morning air was cool, carrying the mineral scent of the valley's rock formations mixed with the faint ozone tang of the shield emitters that marked the engagement boundaries. Below us, the eastern approach stretched across three kilometers of broken terrain—ravines, rocky outcroppings, sparse scrub vegetation with a metallic blue tint, and a basin that had been designated as today's primary combat zone.

Three engagement officials from the Observer Corps stood at the far end of the platform, their pale gray cloaks marking them as neutral parties. Their recording devices were already active. They had witnessed thirty-six engagements from this platform. Their expressions suggested they expected the thirty-seventh to be identical to all the others.

Rory climbed the observation stairs, her shorter legs requiring two steps for every one of ours. She was slightly winded when she reached the top, but she did not pause to catch her breath. She walked directly to the railing, opened her notebook, and began sketching.

Not the view. Not the mountains or the valley or the alien landscape spread before her in shades of amber and dark stone. She drew the troop formations. Quick, efficient strokes—circles for unit positions, arrows for facing, hash marks for the terrain features. She had studied the deployment roster I had provided. I had not expected her to memorize it. She had apparently memorized it.

"Talk me through what I'm seeing," she said without looking up.

"Our forces will advance from the northern position in standard formation. Krenix's forces hold the southern ridge. The engagement zone is the basin between them—approximately two kilometers of mixed terrain, with the ravines providing the primary tactical features. Combat begins at the sounding of the horn and continues for a maximum of four standard hours, or until one side withdraws."

"What usually happens at the four-hour mark?"

I did not want to answer this. "Both sides withdraw. Positions reset."

"So neither side actually holds what they gain."

"Territory only transfers permanently when a position is held at the withdrawal signal. In three years, neither side has achieved sufficient penetration to hold positions at the conclusion of an engagement."

Rory wrote something in her notebook. Her handwriting was small and dense. "When was the last time you gained ground you kept?"

"Fourteen months ago. Zone Seven. We held a ridge position at the withdrawal signal. It was recaptured by Krenix in the following engagement cycle."

"And the last time he gained ground he kept?"

"Eleven months ago. This zone. The eastern approach."

She looked up from her notebook. Her expression was clinical—the look of someone cataloging a system failure. "So in the last fourteen months, the map has changed by one position, back and forth. And both sides keep showing up."

"The honor code requires—"

"I know what the honor code requires. I'm asking why nobody's questioned the strategy." She turned back to the field. "Where are your scouts?"

"Forward positions along the ridgeline. Three hundred meters ahead of the main force."

"And his?"

"We have not been able to reliably—"

"They're in the ravines."

I stopped speaking. She was still sketching, her eyes moving between the field and the page, her pen marking positions with a confidence that did not match the uncertainty of our intelligence reports.

"His front line has gaps," she said. "Third position from the left, seventh from the left. Those aren't undermanned—look at the spacing. The soldiers on either side are stretched to cover the gaps, which means the units that should be in those positions are somewhere else." She traced a line on her sketch from the third-position gap to the ravine opening on our left flank. "The ravines provide cover all the way around to your rear. If I were running a flanking maneuver, that's where I'd stage it."

I looked at the field. I had looked at this field hundreds of times. I had studied it with seven trained strategists, each of whom had produced detailed analyses of Krenix's deployment patterns. None of them had drawn the line Rory had just drawn in her spiral notebook.

"You're certain."

"Eighty percent. Check the ravine opening—see the shadow there? It's wrong. Shadows don't fall at that angle at this time of day unless something's breaking the light. Something like, say, fifty soldiers crouched in a ravine."

I adjusted the platform's magnification display. The ravine mouth resolved into sharper detail, and there—at the edge of shadow, a glint of light on scaled armor. Soldiers. Waiting.