The following is the expanded account of the defense at the ridge and the subsequent confrontation regarding the nature of pheromones as a biological weapon.
The First Strike
The first stone didn't come from courage. It came from a shaking hand.
Alistair stood at the edge of the ridge, his boots shifting slightly on the loose topsoil, and saw the movement before he heard the impact. A young boy, barely old enough to be called a man, stood near the drop-off. His fingers were locked tight around a jagged piece of gray rock. His knuckles were pale, and his shoulders were stiff, braced for a retaliation that hadn't happened yet.
The boy threw.
The stone dropped short. It struck the slope twenty feet down, bounced once against a protruding root, and then vanished into the dense trees below with a dull, useless sound.
No one laughed. No one corrected his aim. The boy just stood there, staring at his empty, trembling hand as if it had failed him in the most fundamental way possible.
