The Price of Being Too Clever

A dozen or so hours later.

The Stars' light gradually sank below the horizon, turning the entire sky a sickly purplish red.

The planet's rotation took roughly thirty-six standard hours, which meant its nights were equally long and grueling.

The temperature began to plummet. Bitter winds howled across the wasteland, sweeping up flurries of snow laced with corrosive dust.

Hercules's squad chose to camp beneath a rocky hill sheltered from the wind, stopping for a brief four-hour rest.

It was necessary. Marching through difficult terrain for over a dozen hours while remaining constantly alert placed an enormous strain even on bodies hardened by years of training.

The squad split into two shifts without prompting, taking turns standing watch and sleeping, switching every two hours.

Simple defensive traps were set around the camp's perimeter. No one expected them to stop a real threat, but they could at least provide some warning.

Hercules took the first watch. He leaned against a cold boulder, surrounded by a deathly silence that seeped into his bones.

Frank and several other squad members slept a few paces away, but even in sleep, they kept their Daggers in hand, ready to fight at any moment.

Hercules felt no urge to sleep. He looked up through the thin Atmosphere at the occasional glimmer of starlight, and the more conspicuous artificial specks, tiny as dust, that might have been reflections from orbital stations or warships.

He remembered the training officer's words. Eyes in orbit might be watching their every move.

As his thoughts drifted, an impossibly sharp shriek came from far away, tearing through the silent night sky.

Hercules instantly straightened, his gaze snapping toward the source of the sound.

Then, on the distant horizon, somewhere around the mountains, he saw a brilliant red flare struggle through the deepening