The scorched remains of long dead machines littered the barren wastes of the Arenas Desert. Sergeant Ricard Silva of the Cordaean 203rd Tank Battalion, surveyed the battlefield with morbid curiosity. Had any old friends or forgotten acquaintances lost their lives in this field of rock and blackened steel. Ever since his people had come face to face with Munica’s latest weapon, he tormented himself far more over the people closest to him. Time and again, pure luck had been the deciding factor in who lived and who died. After what he had walked away from, Ricard feared his own supply of that precious ethereal armor was nearly spent. He faced numerous artillery bombardments by the Municans for days and came out of it unscathed. He fought against a drake and its rider on foot, and avoided capture. He was attacked by Munica’s new weapon, the Cordoba colossus, and while injured, still managed to escape with his life. How much longer could he keep this up? So much–too much–depended on luck these days.

Were Command’s strategies just that dangerous?

The newly designated Intrepid 21, along with the rest of the light tanks and six wheelers made tracks deep into the western expanse while pondering that very question. They were kicking up a storm in their wakes and closing in on an objective Ricard could scarcely believe. They were called ‘crimson veins,’ enormous tunnels that webbed the Arenas underground. The 203rd had been ordered to head toward a known entrance into these underground tunnels and use them to slip right by Munican defenses in the area. All the while, other units would work with the Air Force to maintain the battlefront and prevent any massive redeployments. This had been the strategy for some time, and it proved quite effective in the beginning: The Cordaeans would send armored units underground beneath enemy lines and hit targets ordinarily beyond their reach. Even heavily fortified installations like Fort Baldi had been completely devastated by the bold new strategy. These types of operations were nearing the end of their usefulness, however. Things were getting too predictable, and now they were having to take more and more precautions just to make these forays into enemy territory feasible.

Ricard glanced over at the six wheeled vehicle driving alongside his new light tank. Alice was driving, and for the third time that day, she caught Ricard’s gaze. Or perhaps he caught hers. She smiled at him like always, but quickly gave the imaginary road they were on some due attention. Ricard’s tank, an automaton named Chaser, pulled slightly to the left in time with Alice, who peeled gently in the other direction to let the blackened remains of a heavy Cordaean tank through. A moment later, they slowly came back together in the formation. Ricard watched the wreck fade by, seeing no way to identify it. It could have been anyone’s tank. It could have belonged to any group for all he knew. The story would be the same deep underground, where others’ had exhausted their own luck and met a fiery end.

The Municans weren’t so complacent as to wait for the Cordaeans to attack them. The crimson veins gave the Cordaeans only two problems in the past, corrupted mana crystal outgrowths, and the expected instability of a massive tunnel dug too close to the surface. Now, hoping to keep their defenses as up to date as possible, the Municans introduced high explosives into the equation. Any tunnels they found that didn’t fit into their own plans were promptly buried, while all the known approaches were at least partially mined. Some reports even suggested there were gun emplacements in some of the tunnels, waiting day and night for any sign of their eastward nemesis.

The Cordaeans adapted like always. Some of the armored vehicles of the 203rd could contend well with mines, and they would scout the tunnels much faster than their tracked counterparts. Even so, no vehicle could maneuver easily underground; whomever was spotted first would be a victim in a shooting gallery. A likely reason there were no reported sightings of Munican armor in the tunnels, even after nearly twenty of these expeditions. Ricard asked himself again: Were Command’s strategies just that dangerous? Still unsure of the answer, he lowered himself down through the commander’s hatch and back into Chaser’s turret.

Private Nicholas Thompson was the only other crew member inside, and he was dutifully keeping them on course. As for the automaton they were both riding inside of, Chaser was little more than a runic brain and a few recording instruments housed inside an armored box. That box was plugged into a socket just behind the driver seat and held in place with four latches for good measure. Being modular allowed any surviving runic brains to be placed into new tanks in mere minutes. Provided the new tank was identical, or at the very least similar, little else needed to be done to make the unit mission capable. It was a nice system for Cordaean crews to have in their back pocket, but having already lost a tank recently, Ricard didn’t plan on abandoning this one so quickly.

“Don’t worry. No artillery strikes this time,” Nicholas said, giving the runic brain casing behind him a few reassuring pats before noticing the amused look on Ricard’s face. “We’ll be fine. Right?”

As if Ricard knew how this mission was going to play out. He did know one thing. “That’s right. No artillery today. Today we get mines. Fun fun.”

“Don’t say that,” Nicholas protested.

At least, Ricard mused, the mines weren’t being aimed at them. As long as the sweepers cleared them out quickly enough, they should be fine. A slightly more pressing concern were the crystal outgrowths in some of the older tunnels. The reports on those were disturbing. Even just touching one with an ungloved hand was enough to land a man in the infirmary. He would be lucky if he was only out of action for a week. Those cursed blood-hued crystals were the inspiration for the name, crimson vein. No one knew where the crystals came from, but they were a good way to judge the age of any given tunnel, and a pain to clear out of the way of their advancing armor.

“Hey Rick!”

Ricard glanced at the radio unit inside the tank. That sounded like Casey’s voice. He was energetic as usual, and Ricard immediately guessed that he was bored and looking for ways to pass the time. Being the gunner for Alice’s scouting vehicle, he spent the better part of the day roasting in the sun. He couldn’t be faulted for wanting a little more from the road trip.

“Yeah, what is it?” Ricard responded.

“We’re seeing red a bit too early here. Take a look.”

‘Seeing red’? Ricard’s brow furrowed at the choice of words. It wasn’t a code or anything like that–none Ricard was familiar with, at least. “Give me a second,” he said to Nicholas, putting their own discussion on hold.

Opening the hatch and looking up through the turret’s cupola, Ricard first saw Alice’s vehicle at their 2 O’clock, about ten meters ahead of them now. Casey was standing as high up as he could and pointing his whole arm toward a rocky mound in the distance. Ricard’s eye searched for anything that could shed light on Casey’s message, and it wasn’t long before he saw tiny bits of red jutting out from the ground at the base of the mound. “What is–” Ricard turned his personal radio on, “What is that? Are those crystals? On the surface?” Even normal mana crystals wouldn’t form on the surface like this.

“Mission Control to Intrepid: Be advised, there are several surface level crystal formations along your route. The mission proceeds as planned. Mind the terrain and navigate around any formations you see.”

Command wasn’t in a panic over the strange phenomenon, so that was good news. That or everyone’s ignorance on the crystals was a prelude to disaster. The odds were fairly even.

“I don’t know, I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Rick.”

Ricard was on the same wavelength as Casey, but there was nothing for it. “We just have to be careful. Keep your eyes on the ground. Wouldn’t want to run over any hidden crystals.” They wouldn’t harm the vehicles, but the crews would all do well to avoid smashing the crystals and sending fragments and dust into the air.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah …” Ricard murmured to himself. His mind puzzled over the possible cause of the crimson protrusions showing up on the surface, a trait now uniquely theirs. His only guess was that something about the land was changing, and not for the better. The Arenas Desert was already an inhospitable wasteland from centuries of brutal armored warfare, and so Ricard was impressed. Impressed and apprehensive. The crimson veins were dangerous, and now one of their key features was showing up on the surface. He desperately wanted to heed whatever warning he was being gifted, but how could he, and if things were changing this drastically, what was waiting for them underground?

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