Humanity Endures

Part 9 - Infiltration | Chapter 1

"Never make everything rely upon a single battle: war is not gambling."

— Military Strategy and Tactics for the Modern Era, 32nd Edition

***

The Present

Velan's back strained under the weight of his rancid armor, made putrid after hours of bloody, sweaty combat, though his conscience and the memory of the fallen managed to weigh on him more. The dining chamber of the newly-christened INS Placeholder lay sprawled out before him, though, like the rest of the station-ship, like his crew, and like himself, it was in tatters. Velan's blood-stained, armored boots blended in perfectly with the gory table beneath him; his eyes, no longer obscured by the visor of his helmet — which now lay at his side — darted among the faces of his crew members, both Nemesis and Kalithiharian, yet they met nought but blank stares, shattered hearts, and impenetrable visors. It took every ounce of Velan's weakened willpower to not join his broken compatriots in awaiting death, but for the sake of those few who had survived this long, Velan persevered. Forcing himself to swallow his own blood despite the disgusting iron-taste lingering in his throat, Velan started to speak, his voice remaining clear despite having been ravaged by battle.

"We've all lost comrades, we've all lost friends, and some of us have lost family," Velan began, his simple words smashing the barely-holding emotional breakwaters of many; more than a few tears were shed, particularly by Kalmah, the girl who had been rescued from the station, as well as, surprisingly, Yelazar.

"All of these noble people died trying to join us on this ship," Velan went on "and you might feel tempted to relax and wait until we arrive at Ihndrastar, but despite great sacrifices made by everyone who is here, and everyone who is not, you must make no mistake and harbor no doubt: we are not safe yet. And until we find the aliens that are lurking amongst us, wearing the faces and personalities of our fellows as foul masks, neither we, nor any who take us in, will have escaped the threat of death. You all came armed; I know that there is safety in numbers, and I know that if I let you all wander the halls that we'll succumb to the aliens' vile corruption one-by-one, so as of now this order stands: unless so ordered by me, no one may leave this room. This is for our own good — if we stay together, the aliens cannot hope to take away our ship and our lives. In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable."

Murmurs of discontent spread throughout the room, though most of those present, pleased with the measure, either remained silent or voiced their support; there were those who suspected Velan as being alien, but they were scarcely brave or numerous enough to openly give voice to their opinions in a crowd of Velan's loyalists. The Placeholder, being flown by autopilot and occasionally a remotely-piloting Terxah, was in good hands, but this did not mean that many people were discontented with being nowhere near the command center of the ship. Guarding each exit of the room the humans were in was a pair of marines, some of whom were equipped with what few heavy weapons remained useable — if Velan's words did not keep his crew in check, a machine gun would. "This is for the better," Velan told himself, "nothing short of an iron fist is strong enough to beat back the aliens."

In the wake of Velan's words, the mob plotted amongst itself, forming alliances, spreading — or deflecting — suspicion, and simply lamenting the dire situation. After a bout of introspection, Velan considered the idea that his crew members were uneasy because they were uninformed, and he further understood that ignorance in the minds of people with guns could quickly lead to utter chaos. As nightmarish thoughts of mob-killings and murder out of ill-informed suspicion tore through his increasingly-unsettled mind, Velan, taking a revitalizing sip of water to clear his throat, sought to cure this disease of misinformation.