Free Apex by Aer-ki Jyr

head slightly. “You won’t have a spotter.”
    â€œI don’t need one,” she said confidently.
    Ivara cracked a rare smile. “Of course.”
    Jalia slipped her headset on so she could keep in contact with the spaceport and headed down to the cargo hold.
    T HE MERCENARY SCOUT watched from afar through an optical scope as the Resolute ’s crew unloaded dozens of large shipping crates onto the tarmac. The best the Presca could make out was three crewers operating cargo walkers, but he doubted that was the entirety of the crew. From his position atop a distant control tower he couldn’t see up into the bay of the ship, but he could make out the bottom half of the boarding ramp and the cubical piles of crates being arrayed on the port side.
    Adjusting the scope further, he targeted one of the walkers as it lumbered down the ramp carrying a long rectangular crate more than twice its width. The head of the pilot was visible, and appeared to be a Junta . . . the captain of the ship, according to his files. Her walker passed another heading back up into the ship, and from a side angle the scout saw its pilot was encased in a thin envirosuit.
    That was curious.
    The reptilian Presca clicked its jaw mandibles in interest as it waited for the third walker to exit the ship. A few moments later its large black padded feet came into view and as soon as it cleared the underside of the ship he confirmed that its pilot also wore an envirosuit.
    The Death Head scout flicked its tongue once then backed off from the edge of the tower’s roof, retracting and packing the surveillance scope into a small carrying case. It was time for a closer look at that ship.
    E ACH O F THE landing platforms was separated by wide trenches that doubled as roads. There were access ramps for wheeled transports, walkers, and pedestrian travel while the airborne antigrav trucks and transports simply adjusted their altitude controls and drove up and over the edges of the trenches when need be.
    Encased in an optical camouflage suit, the Death Head scout walked in the shadows along the wall of one of the connective trenches. His suit mimicked the dark shadows cast by a bright white overhead sun adequately, making him invisible to all but the most discerning eye. He walked slowly and purposefully, observing all around him and acting little. The art of skulking was more about patience than guile.
    Eventually the scout got as close to the Junta’s ship as he could within the trench network, so he stopped and waited until the sparse traffic cleared. A few trucks were rumbling by, but once they’d passed his position the Presca gripped the high side wall with special adhesive gloves and began to climb.
    When he approached the edge he reduced his movements to a bare minimum. As his hand crossed from shadow into sunlight, his suit altered accordingly to match the light grey color of the landing platform. A line of color-­change passed over his body as he slid up and on top of the platform, coming fully out of the trench.
    With arms and legs spread wide, the reptilian crawled an inch above the surface. His suit made him indistinguishable from above and only his silhouette would give him away against the skyline, which was minimized by his low profile.
    Sudden movement would also create an increased chance of visibility, so he kept his movements very slow and crawled a few meters in from the edge of the trench. He stopped there, settled on his chest and reached back to the case attached to the small of his back beneath a layer of the optical camouflage material. He pulled out his scope again and set it up on the ground in front of him.
    The walkers were still working, having assembled twenty six stacks of crates and busy with the twenty seventh. If he adjusted his approach line, the nearest of the crates would shield him from view.
    Mentally plotting out his path, he repacked his scope and lifted himself up off the ground