Although this could be a good opportunity to test your new Exosuit, sir, Omega suggested, directly into his mind. The close‑quarters combat sensors have not yet been calibrated in real‑world situations. It would be… instructive.
—Hmph.
Dorian paused, stopping behind a rock with sharp edges. He scanned the horizon, though his eyes didn't really need to rest; it was more of a gesture, a habit Omega always found fascinating.
—That… is true, Omega —he said finally, a wider smile forming on 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 carried 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 to 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 about mental communication—. No one except me can hear you, let alone see you.
Silence.
Oooh —Omega's voice stretched out, exaggerated—. That's true. I forgot. Seriously, I had forgotten. Because you hadn't reminded me.
—Forgot, my ass —Dorian grumbled, shaking his head—. That's clearly not the case.
…
Dorian waited. Omega always answered. The silence stretched just one second longer than usual.
Your fourteenth birthday is in a few days, Omega said, changing the subject with an elegance that betrayed thousands of hours of programming in social interaction. The voice was softer now, almost warm.
Dorian felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. The alien wind continued to blow, carrying that metallic, slightly sweet scent.
—Umm, I don't know —he replied, resuming his walk with a more relaxed step—. But I'm not worried about that. I'll have time to think about gifts when I get back 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 a formation of black roots that rose from the ground like petrified snakes. His older brother… he always knew what to give him. Last year it had been a set of training knives balanced specifically for his fighting style. The year before, a state‑of‑the‑art night‑vision visor that he still used on missions like this one.
—I don't know —he admitted—. But I hope it's something I'll like.
It's clear you're going to like this gift, Omega whispered, in a tone that suggested it knew something Dorian didn't. The past years you always liked his presents.
—…
Dorian stopped again. This time it wasn't for tactical caution. It was because something in Omega's tone had made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle—that instinct that told 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. That's my function.
—Don't play 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 deep answer for an artificial intelligence.
Unexpectedly disrespectful toward the listener.
—Well —he said finally, resuming his advance—, 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 toward the valley where the creatures awaited him. Each step was more deliberate, more calculated. The planet's gravity pulled at him, but his body—trained for as long as 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 the supernatural.
As he advanced deeper into the terrain, the landscape gradually opened up until it gave way to a clearing surrounded by rocks sharp as blades. Stone walls rose on both sides, forming a natural amphitheater. The ground here was softer, covered in a layer of flattened vegetation that suggested many creatures had passed through recently.
Dorian studied the rocks, calculating distances, angles, trajectories. If he threw the creatures against those cutting surfaces, he could finish them off faster, conserving energy and minimizing the risk of injury. A practical, efficient thought.
Do you have no shame, sir? Omega's voice broke into his thoughts with a hint of feigned 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—. That's strategy. Using the terrain to my advantage. Not wasting energy unnecessarily when the environment can do the work for me. —He paused, then 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 asked finally.
Stop talking so much —Omega answered, 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 had learned to control years ago—but from anticipation. His senses sharpened to their maximum. Peripheral vision expanded, ears focused on every sound, every vibration in the air.
There they were.
Emerging from the shadows between the rocks, from the gaps among the black trees, from the very earth that seemed to open to let them through.
The creatures materialized as if they had always been there, waiting. Bodies covered in scales that reflected light like distorting mirrors, casting warped 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 strike.
Dorian counted six. Then seven, as a shadow behind the rocks shifted. 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 switch being flipped. The world slowed down. His breathing became deep and measured. Every muscle prepared for movement.
The aerodynamic helmet reactivated.
The first enemy leaped 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 spin, feeling how the planet's gravity amplified the force of his movements—every shift required more effort, but also every blow, when it landed, would carry more power. His boots pivoted on the soft ground as his body traced a perfect arc, evading the attack by centimeters.
The Exosuit responded to every movement like a natural extension of his skin. The micro‑plates slid over one another without resistance, allowing total mobility. The acoustic dampeners eliminated any sound that might give away his position. It was like dancing with death in complete silence.
He struck back. His fist, reinforced by the ceramic plates of the gauntlet, slammed into the creature's side with a force that on Helion Astra would have split a rock. Here, with increased gravity, the blow resonated like metal against metal, a deep sound that vibrated in the air.
The creature reeled, stunned, but didn't fall. Its scales had absorbed part of the impact, dispersing the energy. Interesting.
Left, impact in 0.7 seconds —Omega's voice projected the warning directly into his consciousness, accompanied by a visual trajectory on his retina—. Evasion probability: 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 claw's passage graze the metal of his helmet; one centimeter closer and he wouldn't have made it.
He could feel the air displaced by the strike, hear the snap of the creature's tendons as they stretched to their limit.
He capitalized on his attacker's momentary 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 brutal, more final. The creature collapsed to the ground and did not rise.
But another was already emerging from the shadow, and another behind it.
The fight became a whirlwind of calculated movements. Dorian jumped, 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 linking him to Omega, analyzed and anticipated in fractions of a second.
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 fix his attention.
But Dorian was faster. More precise.
His fists struck again and again. Spinning kicks brought down two creatures at once. Leaps longer than should have been possible under this gravity carried him beyond the reach of claws, and he descended on his attackers from impossible angles.
Every breath was measured, controlled. Every movement calculated for maximum efficiency with minimal energy expenditure. His body seemed capable of the impossible—and perhaps it was. The training on Helion Astra was unlike anything in the known galaxy.
The battle stretched on for several minutes that felt like hours to Dorian. Time distorted in combat; seconds stretched like hot taffy, and the moments of respite between attacks lasted an eternity.
But finally, the last enemy fell.