Lings

Flashes of rapid-fire shots illuminated the Krath patrol like a meteoric extinction event.

Krill smelled Yumen. They were here. Now. Swarms of them.

He could feel their scent enter the pores of his slick black skin like a fine but dangerous treat. His insides screamed for Yumen flesh. This was what he was made for. What he was designed for. The Yumens would be his.

If they didn’t kill him first.

Krill was an underling, or ling, for short. The lowest and most expendable class of melee fighter in the Krath arsenal. His body was a vicious weapon—a partially reptilian, partially insectoid frame, with massive clawed feet, vicious venom-coated mandibles, a scorpion-like tail, and a spiked, armored carapace. He looked like the sum of all fears from the deepest, darkest corner of space.

Black, brooding, and out for blood.

Krill surged forward, targeting the rifle-carrying Yumen marines with a dead set trajectory. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, as though it were his final push for survival. His fellow lings joined him in a swarm attack. They had numbers on their side.

They always did.

As they rushed ahead, the Yumens pulled back, taking cover behind a small rock wall, opening fire. Sparks erupted against the backdrop of the dark night sky, contrasting the white dots with moving flames of yellow and orange.

Guns.

Krill hated guns. They seemed to be the Yumens’ weapon of choice. The cold, lifeless things projected tiny beads of death. Thankfully, the ling carapace was strong. Very strong. It would