Trident's Forge by Patrick S Tomlinson

how.”
    â€œYou would know if you’d turn your damned translator on.”
    If Benson’s hands hadn’t been busy being held at arm’s length looking nonthreatening, he would have slapped himself on the forehead. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten to activate the translation matrix that had been uploaded to his plant as part of the expedition preparations. He dug through his plant’s internal menu tabs and flipped it on, then paused.
    â€œWait. Why am I talking to them? You said you should be the one to talk.”
    Valmassoi gave him an incredulous glare. “Are you serious?”
    â€œI’m just the director of recreation and athletic preparedness, remember?”
    â€œIs it really the time for this?” Atwood asked.
    â€œI’m just trying to follow my orders,” Benson said.
    â€œI’ve never had to talk with a weapon pointed at me before. You have.”
    â€œAw, you haven’t lived,” Benson said. “Last time it happened to me, it was a nuke.”
    â€œI am living,” Valmassoi squeaked, “And I’d like to keep on living. So if you wouldn’t mind, Mr Benson?”
    The Atlantian holding the spear to Benson’s navel barked something at him with a deep, wet voice. The matrix in his plant lagged for a moment while it digested the sounds. Then, in a calm, monotone female voice utterly divorced from the reality of the two meter-tall, spear-wielding alien shouting in Benson’s face, the matrix said “Submit to/Follow us.”
    â€œWell that’s not very helpful, is it?”
    â€œKeep him talking,” Atwood said. “Give the matrix more to work with.”
    Benson nodded and thought, Hello, my name is Bryan. A moment later, the matrix spoke the translation in his head as a best-approximation phonetic spelling of the words floated on the left side of his field of vision.
    â€œAh… Kulay. Bryan, see coe.”
    The alien’s smooth skin rippled with rapidly shifting contrasting bands of light and dark. Its face also changed, going darker, while the frilly layers of crests on the top of its head rose. Benson didn’t need a translator to tell him it was a threat display. The Atlantian repeated its order, more loudly, and punctuated the order by poking Benson in the stomach hard enough to rip a small hole through his shirt and break the skin beneath.
    â€œHey!” Benson shouted back at him.
     came Korolev’s voice through the security detail’s com. Benson glanced over to see Korolev tighten his grip on his rifle.
     Benson thought.
     Atwood’s commanding voice burst in.
    Bang!
    The spear shaft in the alien warrior’s hands exploded as the five point seven millimeter bullet from Korolev’s rifle struck it at over a thousand meters per second. The wood was reduced to an expanding cloud of splinters as the outer layers of the bullet casing peeled off and dumped the majority of its kinetic energy. The Atlantian shouted something short and loud even before the obsidian spearhead had hit the road at Benson’s feet.
    â€œExcrement,” said the calm, feminine voice of the translator matrix, missing some important context. Benson didn’t need to speak a language to recognize a curse word when he heard one.
    The alien’s strange, wavy pupils grew until they nearly filled their oval eyes, while its skin, so dark just a moment before, went white as a sheet.
    Korolev yelled something off to Benson’s left. His translator quickly added, “Drop it.” Much to Benson’s surprise, the warrior in front of him glanced down at its decapitated spear and threw it at the ground.
    â€œNow the rest of you,” Korolev shouted. The apparent leader of the warriors stood tall and defiant, but fluttered its head crests. All around him, Benson heard the immensely