The word hung in the humid air between them, heavy and sharp. Echo.
It wasn't Coalition Standard, not Separatist cant, not any language Roric knew, yet the man – Silas – had spoken it with such deliberate emphasis, his gaze fixed unerringly on Roric, that the meaning felt terrifyingly close to the surface. An echo of what? Of someone else? Of something lost? Of… himself?
Roric remained still, muscles coiled, mind racing. Echo. Was it a name? A classification? A threat? His training screamed caution. This man, Silas, despite his primitive appearance – worn leather, metal plates that looked hammered into shape, a simple longsword – radiated competence. The way he moved, the way his eyes missed nothing, spoke of countless hours navigating this lethal environment. He was a survivor, hardened and wary. And he recognized something in Roric.
Silas shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, his hand never leaving the sword pommel. His cynical eyes flicked from Roric's torn CRRF fatigues, pausing on the remnants of webbing and the thigh rig holster (now empty), lingered on the crude bandage Roric had fashioned, then returned to meet Roric's gaze. A flicker of… something… crossed his weathered features. Not sympathy, perhaps grim understanding.
Roric risked another gesture, pointing again to himself. "Roric," he repeated, articulating clearly. He then pointed towards Silas. "Silas?"
Silas grunted, a noncommittal sound deep in his chest. He didn't confirm or deny, but the slight narrowing of his eyes suggested he understood the attempt at exchange. He took a half-step closer, his gaze dropping briefly to the Aegis wreckage Roric stood beside. He muttered something low and guttural, gesturing dismissively at the fused metal and sparking conduit. Then he looked back at Roric, pointed again, and repeated the word, more insistent this time.
"Echo."
He held Roric's gaze, waiting. It wasn't just a question; it felt like a statement demanding confirmation. Roric felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This man knew what he was, even if Roric himself didn't fully grasp it. Knew he wasn't native. Knew he'd… arrived. Like the wreckage. Like the dead pilot of the interceptor.
How many others? How did Silas know?
Communication was critical. Roric held up his hands, palms out, trying to convey non-aggression. He shook his head slightly, feigning incomprehension of the term 'Echo', while simultaneously trying to signal understanding of the man's identity. "Silas," he said again, pointing.
Silas watched him, his expression unreadable. He seemed to weigh Roric's response, his silence stretching Roric's nerves taut. Was he deciding whether Roric was worth the trouble? A potential threat? Or perhaps, prey?
Then, the man surprised him. He relaxed his stance fractionally, though his hand stayed near his sword. He gestured with his chin towards Roric's wounded arm. He spoke again, a short, clipped phrase in his rough language. The tone wasn't hostile; it sounded almost like a clinical assessment.
Roric glanced down at the bandage, now showing fresh seepage from his exploration of the wreckage. It throbbed dully. He looked back at Silas, meeting his gaze, trying to project competence despite the injury. "Hurts," he said, tapping his arm, then shrugging slightly. Manageable.
Silas made another sound, a low rumble that might have been cynical amusement. He scanned the surrounding jungle again, his attention suddenly sharpening. He sniffed the air, head tilted, like an animal sensing a change in the wind. His eyes narrowed, focusing on something downstream, beyond Roric's line of sight.
He spat a single, harsh word, urgency tightening his voice. He jerked his head, indicating the direction away from the stream, deeper into the dense undergrowth. He took a step back, beckoning Roric with a quick, imperative gesture. Move. Now.
Roric hesitated for only a fraction of a second. The sudden shift in Silas's demeanor, the genuine urgency replacing the cautious assessment, was alarming. This survivor sensed danger, and Roric's instincts screamed to trust that sense, even if the man himself remained an unknown quantity. Staying exposed by the stream, near the potentially attracting wreckage, felt increasingly foolish.
He gave a short, sharp nod of understanding. Keeping his knife visible but low, he moved away from the wreckage, matching Silas's direction into the jungle, deliberately positioning himself slightly offset, maintaining a safe distance while keeping the older man in his peripheral vision.
Silas moved quickly, with a surprising lack of noise for a man his size wearing makeshift armor. He didn't crash through the foliage but flowed around it, choosing paths Roric wouldn't have spotted, his splayed leather boots finding purchase on the slick ground. Roric followed, his own movements less fluid, hampered by his injuries and unfamiliarity with the terrain.
They climbed away from the stream bed, the air growing thicker, the light dimming further as the canopy closed overhead. The sounds of the stream faded, replaced by the closer, more intimate rustles and clicks of the deep jungle. Silas didn't speak, didn't look back, but Roric could feel the man's awareness of him, a constant, low-level assessment.
After perhaps ten minutes of rapid, silent travel, Silas slowed, raising a hand for Roric to halt. He crouched behind the massive, buttress-like root of one of the obsidian-barked trees, peering back the way they had come, listening intently.
Roric sank into cover nearby, mimicking Silas's posture, straining his own senses. What had Silas detected? More Stalkers? Other natives like the Sifter? Or perhaps the operators of those Corsair skiffs, drawn by the crash?
He heard nothing beyond the usual jungle symphony. But Silas remained tensed, his scarred brow furrowed in concentration. He drew his sword fractionally from its scabbard, the scrape of steel unnervingly loud in the stillness.
Then, Roric caught it. A faint, rhythmic chittering sound, unlike the natural insect noises. It was accompanied by a low, guttural clicking, disturbingly similar to the sounds the Stalker had made, but multiplied. And overlaid on that, the faint, almost subsonic thrumming vibration Roric had noticed earlier, now noticeably closer, resonating through the soles of his boots.
Silas glanced back at Roric, his eyes grim. He pointed towards the sound, then made a low, guttural noise himself, mimicking the clicking, before drawing a finger across his throat in the universal sign for death.
Stalkers, Roric realized with a fresh wave of cold dread. Plural. And possibly something else, something big, responsible for the thrumming. Had they been drawn by the crash? Or perhaps by the scent of Roric's blood, or the kill he'd made earlier?
Silas gestured again, emphatic. Deeper into the jungle. Away from the approaching threat. He sheathed his sword fully, apparently deciding stealth was better than confrontation, and set off again, moving even more cautiously now, weaving through the densest patches of bioluminescent fungi and scaled vines.
Roric followed without hesitation. Whatever Silas was, whatever his motives, their immediate objective was aligned: survival. He was wounded, under-equipped, and utterly lost. Silas, for all his primitive gear and harsh demeanor, knew this place. He knew the dangers. And he had just confirmed Roric's status with a single, loaded word.
Echo.
Roric pushed the questions aside, focusing on placing his feet silently, watching Silas's back, listening to the receding, menacing sounds behind them. He was an Echo, adrift in a shattered world, following a cynical stranger away from unseen predators. Point one was turning into a crash course in hostile environment survival, guided by the slimmest hope of finding answers, or at least, living long enough to ask the right questions.