Although this could be a good opportunity to test your new Exosuit, sir, Omega suggested, directly in his mind. The close-combat sensors haven't been calibrated in real situations yet. It would be... instructive.
—Hmph.
Dorian paused, stopping behind a sharp-edged rock. He observed the horizon, though his eyes didn't really need to rest; it was more of a gesture, a human habit that Omega always found fascinating.
—That... is true, Omega —he finally said, as a wider smile spread across his lips—. It'll be good practice. —He paused dramatically, savoring the words—. I just hope I don't get hurt anywhere.
If you didn't want to get hurt, why did you come to this planet in the first place? Omega's voice had that particular tone Dorian had learned to identify as "sarcasm mode activated." We could have chosen a world classified as "tourist" or "low-risk." But no. You chose "probability of death: moderate-high."
—You're very cruel, Omega —Dorian protested, almost laughing—. Why are you like this with me? I don't understand it.
Sir, don't talk like that. People might think it's true.
—What are you talking about? —Dorian murmured, this time out loud, momentarily forgetting the mental communication—. No one besides me can hear you, or even see you.
Silence.
Oooh —Omega's voice drew out, exaggeratedly—. That's true. I forgot. Seriously, I had forgotten. Because you hadn't reminded me.
—You forgot, my ass —Dorian complained, shaking his head—. It's clearly not like that.
...
Dorian waited. Omega always responded. The silence stretched just a second longer than normal.
Your fourteenth birthday is in a few days, Omega said, changing the subject with an elegance that betrayed thousands of hours of social interaction programming. The voice was now softer, almost warm.
Dorian felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. The alien wind continued to blow, carrying with it that metallic-sweet smell.
—Umm, I don't know —he replied, resuming his walk with a more relaxed step—. But I'm not worried about it. I'll have time to think about gifts when I get home.
What do you think your older brother will give you? Omega insisted, ignoring his attempt to change the subject.
Dorian considered the question as he navigated around a formation of black roots emerging from the ground like petrified snakes. His older brother... always knew what to give him. Last year it had been a set of training knives with weight balanced specifically for his combat style. The year before, a next-generation night vision visor that he still used on missions like this.
—I don't know —he admitted—. But I hope it's something to my liking.
It's clear you're going to like this gift, Omega whispered, with a tone suggesting it knew something Dorian didn't. Since you've always liked his gifts in previous years.
—...
Dorian stopped again. This time it wasn't for tactical caution. It was because something in Omega's tone had tickled the back of his neck, that instinct telling him the AI was hiding information.
—Omega —he said slowly—. Do you know something I don't?
I always know things you don't, sir. It's my function.
—Don't be clever. I mean about the gift.
Sir, if I told you, it would stop being a surprise. And surprises are... —the AI hesitated, searching for the word—. Surprises. And you, more than anyone, need surprises in your life.
Dorian blinked. That... was an unexpectedly profound response for an artificial intelligence.
Unexpectedly, a sign of disrespect. Towards the listener.
—Well —he finally said, resuming his walk—, let's stop talking about that. Now let's focus on what's in front of us. Since we can't keep these guys waiting any longer.
... You're right, sir.
And so, Dorian began his descent into the valley where the creatures awaited him. Each step was more conscious, more calculated. The planet's gravity pulled at him, but his body, trained since he could remember, compensated automatically. The muscles in his legs tensed and relaxed in perfect sequences, absorbing impact, propelling him forward with an efficiency bordering on supernatural.
As he ventured further into the terrain, the landscape gradually opened up into a clearing surrounded by rocks sharp as blades. The stone walls rose on both sides, creating a natural amphitheater. The ground here was softer, covered by a layer of crushed vegetation suggesting many creatures had passed through this place recently.
Dorian observed the rocks, calculating distances, angles, trajectories. If he drove the creatures against those cutting surfaces, he could finish them off faster, saving energy and minimizing the risk of injury. It was a practical, efficient thought.
Do you have no shame, sir? Omega's voice interrupted his thoughts with a hint of simulated indignation.
—And why is that? —Dorian asked, pausing mid-step.
You are a trained warrior. You've spent thousands of hours in combat simulations, hundreds of hours in real combat. And you're thinking of using dirty tricks?
Dorian smiled. Omega sometimes acted like an old-school instructor, the kind who believed honor in combat was more important than survival.
—That's not using dirty tricks —he replied—. It's strategy. It's using the terrain to my advantage. It's not wasting energy unnecessarily when the environment can do the work for me. —He paused, and added in a lighter tone—. Besides, it's not like anyone's monitoring me.
...
Dorian waited. Omega's silence was more eloquent than any response.
—Aren't you going to say anything? —he finally asked.
Stop talking so much —Omega replied, and this time its voice had lost all trace of sarcasm—. They're already here.
Dorian's heart skipped a beat. Not from fear—fear was an emotion he'd learned to control years ago—but from anticipation. His senses sharpened to the maximum. Peripheral vision expanded, ears focused on every sound, every vibration in the air.
There they were.
Emerging from the shadows of the rocks, from the gaps between the black trees, from the very earth that seemed to open to give them passage. The creatures materialized as if they had always been there, waiting. Bodies covered in scales that reflected light like distorting mirrors, creating distorted reflections of the landscape. Multiple eyes, arranged in rows along triangular heads, each eye moving independently, scanning, focusing. Long, curved claws, with edges that looked sharp as surgical blades, capable of tearing metal with a single blow.
Dorian counted six. Then seven, when a shadow behind the rocks moved. Then eight.
Eight alien predators, and him alone.
Dorian's combat instinct, honed on Helion Astra for as long as he could remember, kicked in like a flipped switch. The world slowed down. His breathing became deep and measured. Every muscle prepared for movement.
The aerodynamic helmet activated again.
The first enemy lunged at him without warning, covering the distance in the blink of an eye. Its claws sliced through the air where Dorian had been an instant before.
Dorian dodged with an agile twist, feeling how the planet's gravity amplified the force of his movements—each shift required more effort, but each blow, when it connected, would have more power. His boots pivoted on the soft ground as his body traced a perfect arc, avoiding the attack by centimeters.
The Exosuit responded to every movement like a natural extension of his skin. The micro-plates slid over each other without resistance, allowing total mobility. The acoustic dampeners eliminated any sound that might betray his position. It was like dancing with death in complete silence.
He counterattacked. His fist, reinforced by the glove's ceramic plates, struck the creature's side with a force that on Helion Astra would have split a rock. Here, with the increased gravity, the blow resonated like metal against metal, a deep sound that vibrated in the air.
The creature staggered back, stunned, but didn't fall. Its scales had absorbed part of the impact, dispersing the energy. Interesting.
Left side, impact in 0.7 seconds —Omega's voice projected the warning directly into his consciousness, accompanied by a visual trajectory on his retina—. Probability of evasion: 89%.
Dorian didn't hesitate. His body was already moving before Omega finished the phrase. He took a step back, pivoted on his right foot, and the claw aimed at his neck whistled past centimeters from his face. He felt the whoosh of the claw grazing the metal of his helmet; one more centimeter and it would've been over.
He could feel the wind displaced by the strike, hear the snap of the creature's tendons stretching to their limit.
He seized the moment of his attacker's imbalance. His left leg rose in a roundhouse kick that connected with the base of the creature's skull. This time the impact was different—more solid, more definitive. The creature fell to the ground and didn't get up.
But another was already emerging from the shadows, and another behind it.
The fight became a whirlwind of calculated movements. Dorian leaped, spun, dodged, struck. Every action was a response to the creatures' attack patterns, patterns that his brain—enhanced by years of training and the neural implants connecting him to Omega—analyzed and anticipated in split seconds.
The creatures attacked in waves, coordinated, as if sharing a hive mind. When one retreated, another took its place. When one tried to flank him, two more attacked from the front to pin his attention.
But Dorian was faster. More precise.
His fists struck again and again. Spinning kicks took down two creatures at once. Leaps longer than should have been possible in that gravity carried him out of claw range, and he would land on his attackers from impossible angles.
Every breath was measured, controlled. Every movement, calculated for maximum efficiency with minimum energy expenditure. His body seemed capable of the impossible—and perhaps it was. Training on Helion Astra was unlike anything in the known galaxy.
The fight stretched on for several minutes that felt like hours to Dorian. Time distorted in battle; seconds stretched like hot caramel, and the moments of respite between attacks lasted an eternity.
But finally, the last enemy fell.