“All right, Amar… come at me.”

The medic groaned, giving his quarterstaff a forlorn look. “You know, a stick won’t do much good against someone with a real weapon,” he protested. Nevertheless, he took a fighting stance, planting both feet and holding the slender pole at the ready.

“There’s plenty of places where carrying a firearm will get you arrested, but they’ll ignore a walking stick,” Blye reminded him, slowly circling as she tested his defenses. He managed to parry her thrusts, though his efforts were slow and clumsy by her standards. The former Valkyrie was still new to the ancient weapon and had much to learn, though his military training stood him in good stead. His reflexes were more than adequate for the task, yet he dragged his feet during their practice sessions. Part of him was still having trouble accepting a length of wood as something to be feared.

It was time to address that misconception.

Their training session had drawn a small crowd, with a few dozen spectators in attendance, all watching the display with frank curiosity. Blye dropped into a low guard stance and lunged, driving the staff at his belly. He was barely able to bat the attack aside, but then she whirled and used that same momentum against him. Reversing direction, she whipped the other end around and slammed it against his wrist with a carefully measured strike. The medic yelped and jumped back, wincing in pain, while Prash grinned at his misfortunes from the sidelines.

“Gotta watch that follow-up,” he chuckled.

Amar shot the Cinquième a dirty look, before refocusing his attention on his opponent. Blye was circling him once more, like a shark sizing up her prey, before darting back in with a vicious slash aimed towards his head. His eyes went wide as dodged out of the way, but once more she’d had something else in mind. Slamming her staff down with all her might, she knocked his own weapon from his hands even as she changed direction yet again, slipping the butt end between his legs and upending him onto the hard-packed soil.

He landed with a thud, his staff clattering to the earth beside him, even as Blye delivered the coup de grâce. The end of her staff came down like a javelin, freezing a mere centimeter from his unprotected throat as she loomed over him, a wry smile playing at her features.

“If I hadn't pulled my attack, you’d be dead,” she told him, before graciously offering her hand. With a sigh he grabbed hold as she pulled him to his feet, pausing briefly to retrieve his weapon. His shoulders now slumped in defeat, he turned and faced his mentor.

“Okay, you made your point,” he said unhappily. The admission cost him, however, and it was obvious his defeat had left him feeling discouraged.

“I’ve trained with the quarterstaff for years,” she reminded him. “You can’t expect to become an expert after only a few months of practice.”

“I know,” he told her. “Still prefer my sidearm, though. Now if I’d had that instead of the staff…”

“Then you’d likely have beaten me,” Blye answered. “Then again, maybe not. There're no guarantees in a fight, and you’d still have to hit me. If I closed the distance and disarmed you, then I’d have the advantage.”

“Come on, a staff versus a gun? That fight only ends one way… with the gunman still standing,” Amar said with confidence.

Blye and Prash suddenly grew quiet, sharing a look. “Do you remember the day we first met, on Aya’Bhkhoz?” she asked him.

“Sure,” he nodded. “You, Maggie, and Diggs. You’d just been dumped onto the planet by the To’uuk.”

“That’s right,” she agreed. “There was a fourth member of our group, Joona Grec. He disarmed one of the bugs with just a staff. Would have finished him, too, if that damned To’uuk hadn’t stung him to death.” A dark look came over her as she relived that day. “We showed you his grave, remember?”

“I remember,” he said softly. “Only… that bug had gone rogue, hadn’t it? It wasn’t rational.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said tersely. “But my point still stands. Having the superior weapon does not guarantee victory… and a staff can kill you just as surely as a gun. Never forget that.” Checking her chronometer, she shook her head. “That’s it for practice. I’m not sure when we’ll be able to schedule the next session, as full as our hands currently are, but we’ll squeeze it in somehow.”

“Ma’am?” Prash interrupted. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Blye paused, and then slowly turned around. A trio of Yait’xaik had broken off from the crowd and were now approaching the Knights. “Seems your sparring match spurred some interest,” he continued.

The aliens came to a halt a couple of meters away, as one of the amphibian Yait’xaik stepped forward while the other two hung back. They were part of the workforce they’d brought in to assist with the camp’s day-to-day management. “What are those called?” he asked, pointing at Blye’s staff.

The three Knights chuckled. “They’re called quarterstaffs,” she explained. “They’re an ancient weapon, used by Terrans long ago.”

“So why do you use them?” he queried, obviously confused. “Would not a beam weapon be more effective?”

“That’s what I keep asking,” Amar agreed, “though if memory serves, she gave you all a personal demonstration on just how effective they are the day you arrived.”

The Knights chuckled at the memory before Blye turned her attention back to the worker. “Well, there are several reasons we use them,” she explained. “Sure, they might not have the reach or power of a modern weapon, but they can still be effective in the right hands, as you’ve seen,” she told him. “Besides, as Knights we’re healers first, and warriors a distant second. Using the staff helps to remind us of that, and unlike more modern firearms, we can use them in a non-lethal manner.”

“Plus, they’re traditional,” Prash added, “and we Knights are big on tradition.”

The Yait’xaik nodded, taking that in. “Is it a difficult skill to pick up?” he asked.

Blye smiled. “‘An hour to learn, a lifetime to master’, as the saying goes,” she chuckled. “The basics are pretty simple, but it takes years to become truly proficient.” She cocked her head, regarding him. “Why do you ask?”

The alien took a deep breath. “Could I learn to use one?” he blurted out. “I and some of the others wondered, because…” His words trailed off into silence, as he suddenly became subdued.

Eyebrows went up all around as Blye stepped forward. “If you want to join our training session, I’d be happy to show you a few things,” she told him. “You’d need a staff, of course. Some of the lumber we’re taking out of the jungle might work. You’d want a hardwood that’s straight, without knots or defects,” she continued, “something you could whittle down. Curing it might be an issue; it takes months to do it properly. You can do it over a fire, I suppose, but it can warp the wood,” she explained.

He listened intently, taking all of that in. “We are on the timber-cutting crew,” he told her, indicating his silent companions, “and I am certain we can find something suitable.”

“Then you’re welcome to join us,” she told him, as she and the others grinned. “I’ll post a schedule outside the clinic. Just be prepared to earn a few bruises if you’re serious,” Blye chuckled.

He bobbed his head. “We will be there,” he vowed, before turning and all but racing off with his companions, the three talking excitedly amongst themselves.

“Hey, somebody you might actually beat,” Prash said to Amar, ribbing him while earning a surly glare in return. “Where did you learn woodworking aboard a ship?” he continued, shifting his attention back to Blye and ignoring the angry look. “Not a lot of trees to be found in hydroponics.”

“My mentor had a wooden staff,” Blye explained, “and she told me about the process.” Checking her chronometer, she grabbed a towel and mopped off the worst of the sweat she’d worked up. “Anyway, I need to check in with Akuum. I want to see if he’s discovered anything about that bunker.”

“I think we would have heard something if he had,” Amar suggested.

“Probably, but I still want to check in and see where we stand,” she replied, before tossing her staff to Prash. He caught it easily, resting it on his shoulder. “I believe it’s lunchtime for our patients. Get back to the clinic and get started, and I’ll join you shortly.” The two men nodded and began retracing their steps while she turned and headed for the jungle clearing. Several refugees waved or shouted a greeting as she passed through the camp, and while she was happy to respond in kind, she couldn’t help but feel dismayed about the conditions so many of them were still living under.

Most of their charges still lived under tarps, or open sky, despite the best efforts of the logging and construction crews. They’d been playing catch up since the day the ships had dumped them in their laps, but progress was slow and often frustrating. Workers she could draft from within the camp, but few had any training in manual labor. They were also critically short in tools and construction materials, and more often than not she had to choose between that and food when deliveries came in.

Food won nine times out of ten.

They needed more of everything, and she dreaded the day when another fleet of ships would arrive in orbit and ship down even more desperate civilians. Blye knew she was running the Red Queen’s Race, and there wasn’t a finish line in sight.

Ten minutes later she arrived at the edge of the clearing, after checking in with the Ixian guard posted at the trailhead who waved her through. Coming up on the bunker, she spotted Akuum Wuzah making notes, while Spata Zhai stood nearby, glowering. The engineer looked up as she approached, shaking his head in chagrin.

“I’m afraid I have very little for you,” the Glevack informed her. “So far, I have been unable to gain entrance, or even discover what materials they used in its construction.”

“Perhaps now you will reconsider my proposal, and bury the structure once more,” the Spata recommended.

“Let’s not be hasty,” she told the Ixian. “We’ve only just begun our investigation.” Turning back to the engineer, she asked, “What tests have you performed?”

“I’m afraid that without better equipment, I am limited in how I may proceed,” he explained. “I attempted to chisel off a small sample with no luck, nor have my attempts with both acidic and caustic agents borne any fruit. I even asked one of the Ixians,” he continued, nodding at the Spata, “to fire their pulse rifle at the wall. It had no effect.”

“None?” Blye said in surprise.

“None whatsoever,” he confirmed. “It did not leave so much as a scorch mark.”

She looked back over at Zhai. “How powerful are your rifles? I’m not an expert in that area.”

The blue-skinned alien grimaced. “A standard rifle can bore a three-centimeter hole through thirty centimeters of hardened battle steel, on a maximum setting,” he recited from memory, “though we rarely fire a weapon at that level. It can overload the power supply.”

Blye blinked in surprise. “And it didn’t even mar the surface?” she said in shock.

“We did not fire the weapon at full power,” Akuum pointed out, “due to safety concerns. Still, even at a lower setting, it should have had some impact.”

“It seems the Precursors knew how to build,” she remarked, as she reached out to touch the bunker. They had cleared off more of the exterior, revealing in greater detail the intricate patterns that covered its surface. They seemed to use some sort of fractal geometry that was unknown to her, looping and swirling in ways that drew you in, almost hypnotic in their complexity.

She could only wonder at the minds who had created such an impressive structure.

Sighing, Blye turned back towards the others. “So, any suggestions on how we move forward?” she asked.

“I need better equipment,” the engineer informed her, “something that will penetrate the alloy. Without that, I am at a loss.”

“I’m still fighting to feed these people,” Blye said bitterly. “X-Ray scanners and the like are unlikely to arrive on our doorstep anytime soon.”

“I was afraid of that,” Akuum sighed. “I did, however, have better luck determining its age… or should I say, the age of the surrounding rock strata.”

“Really?” she said excitedly. “How old is it?”

The alien took a deep breath. “Based on the geology, the weathering of the metamorphic bedrock, as well as the layers my excavations have revealed, I would estimate the structure to be from one to one and a half billion years old, well within the known timeframe of the Precursors,” he informed them.

“Well, I’d say that clinches it,” she agreed. “It has to be theirs.”

“Which is all the more reason to entomb this cursed place once more,” the Spata argued. “You cannot decipher its secrets, nor can you break its seal. There is no point in further examination.”

“What is it you’re so afraid of?” Blye demanded, growing increasingly indignant. “It’s been sitting here for a billion years, so it's doubtful anything inside... assuming there is anything inside... is still operational. But if it is… Spata Zhai, what if what’s in there could defeat the Yīqún? Isn’t that worth the risk?”

“And what if whatever is inside that crypt is something far, far worse?” he countered. “Optimism may serve you well as a physician, or for tending to those in need, but any warrior will tell you it has no place on the battlefield.”

“You're speaking to a Terran,” she reminded him with a growl, “so I can’t imagine anything worse than what murdered my homeworld. Can you?” she challenged him.

“Even if you are correct,” the Ixian grumbled, clearly unwilling to concede that point, “have you forgotten about the Troika? Should they learn of this artifact, they will come to this world and ravish those you are attempting to save. Would you have their deaths on your conscience, Chevalier?” he asked her point-blank.

“I refuse to live in fear,” she told him. “And if the Troika come? Then we will fight with everything we have.” Blye stood with her hands on her hips, refusing to budge.

Spata Juzheing Zhai silently regarded the diminutive human.

“If they come,” he said at last, “all your courage will not save you. Or them.”