A mandate of sword and railgun

Guardians

Index:

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

This story is part of my first anthology book, A mandate of sword and railgun, and I intend to post all chapters on my Substack. If you like the story and want to support me, you can find the book here.

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Chapter 1

It was late evening and the city of Midgaard no longer slept, the rooftops of its many and quite tall buildings gently tucked under a thick blanket of brilliant white snow.

The young Asgardian threw one long look behind, trying to imprint another memory of his home, for he could never return. His breath lingered about in the cold for a few seconds, before the youth shouldered his full of equipment duffel bag and boarded the transport ship. Soon the city of Midgaard would be only a memory, a nice set of holo-slides or vids for him to watch on some distant planet, as he rested in between battles.

Reflected in the clean, polished metal of the airlock, looking at him was his own, still very much child-like face. Barely grown facial hair; youthful, yet somewhat wise beyond his years smile and a pair of curious green eyes. Einar’s well-pronounced forehead betrayed cerebral ability, his cheekbones and chiseled chin, more often than not, caught the looks of many a young maiden.

Jet black, his waist long hair was braided and ended with one simple, traditional Asgardian wooden ornament. Far from being a simple hair accessory, this intricate piece of woodcraft acted as a weight, kept the long braid away from tangling into things. Grinning, Einar winked at himself, casually flipped his hair back and, after the outer airlock doors slid shut, walked inside the ship.

He placed the heavy bag in the cargo area, then proceeded to take his seat. The big shuttle, just like most Terran spacecraft of its class, was designed with accommodating his race in mind.

Long, tall, and wide, the vessel sported two sets of folding wings, three powerful main engines and a rather spacious cargo compartment. Which is where he currently sat since the best and most comfortable seats on these ships were here. A number of large fold-down chairs which were inset into the bulkheads, full size Asgardian beds, tables... everything a traveler needed to ride in comfort. Not that Einar couldn’t go up, mingle with the rest of the passengers or visit the ship’s mess hall if he wanted to – he preferred solitude for the time being.

Four months had passed since his momentous, chance meeting.

The legendary morale officer trio arrived on Midgaard and it was him who ferried them to their destination. A gym, which no sooner a half-year passed since its construction, had acquired reputation most legendary. The great mecha champion Brynjar and his young wife, the sorceress Gudrun, built this facility in order to help those who suffered from cyber addiction.

These Human elders were not here on a simple visit or vacation, he quickly realized that. No, instead they were asked by the gym’s owners and their mighty companions, to further train their followers. Not in the way of the fist or blade, but the Terran Word.

The Asgardian youth looked at his recruitment ticket, signed not by one, but all three morale officers. Victor Krum, Irina Cerch, and Ulfric Wagner offered young Einar the opportunity of a lifetime. Not only he was to be employed under their Office, receive generous pay, good training, but earn battlefield experience and save lives. He only hoped that one day, his path would cross with that of the Golden Dawn cultists.

Vengeance!

He yearned for it since when these cyber ascension obsessed fanatics fell upon his city, Einar was weaponless. With impotent rage he hid and observed how the heavily-armed cultists butchered his people. Then they proceeded to soul-hack many others, turning these unfortunate Asgardians into giant zombies. Facing them was out of the question; no matter how much he raved, screamed, burned with want to leap into the thick of it, without sufficient armaments and allies, he’d die. No matter how glorious mayhap this doom of his be, nothing really changed the fact that ill-prepared warriors saved no one.

Though Einar himself attempted to aid his peers, warn them of the many dangers which unfettered access to G-Net carried with, he was mostly ignored. The boy had discovered a truth which most grownups never learned during their entire lives – it was pointless to show the truth to those who were willfully blind.

Restoring the hearing of idiots who covered their own ears was a fool’s errand; one could only save those who were willing to see, listen and think for themselves. It was these grateful few, who later gifted him with credits, combat equipment and traveler’s gear, for him to start his warrior’s journey.

He spent the first couple of hours in silent recollection; remembered his time working on the stardocks. Since early childhood he toiled there – first loading and unloading cargo, then riding a bicycle taxi. It was those many years he lived here which taught him a lot about aliens and best of all, the Terrans.

He’d spoken to many a traveler in his short career as a rickshaw driver; tourists coming from all over the Star Alliance paid for his services and as it happened – he found he was good at bargaining.

The place where Midgaard was built suffered from magnetic anomalies and oftentimes, one’s legs were the best mode of transportation. Capitalizing on his physical fitness, he sold his services as a luggage carrier or a rickshaw taxi.

During these years, he, like many other orphaned Asgardian youths, received basic combat training. This practice was old, maybe even as old as Asgard itself. Since he barely had any money to buy new clothes and quality food, he accepted what these volunteers offered, gratefully. Sometimes it was one of the elderly Matrons who taught how one should properly wield a dagger, whom he studied under. Then, a seasoned, white-bearded warrior, whose skill battling with his broad, thick shield was what garnered him glory on the field of battle. Finally, a dying master of swordsmanship gave the youths lesson after lesson, until he could walk upright no more, let alone pick up his blade.

While others forgot about this man, Einar went to his home, visited the elder every day. He helped him with the simplest of chores, things he could no longer achieve, and in the old warrior’s last days, even bathed him. In exchange, this well-traveled and experienced man, told him great stories – each more gripping than the other. He learned much from that man and not only how to hold his sword proper.

How angry was Einar when these idiots chose to hamstring their minds, threw away their youthful health and indeed, sold their very souls!

Why... why would these cyber junkies do this?! A momentary, fleeting pleasure and the specter of illusionary victories. Achieved not in the real world even, but amongst the ghastly shadows of cyberspace. This ultimately meant nothing since these fools had no other goals, but to keep “living” while jacked up to the system. Theirs was a miserable existence; lying somewhere in a decrepit junkie den, bodies soaked in their own excrement...

He chased away the memories of yesterday and focused on what tomorrow would bring. Einar stood up, and, minutes after the transport ship had entered hyperspace, went to the mess hall. During this particular two-way voyage he was told, most of the vessel’s passengers were alien tourists. The people who came from many a Star Alliance planet and visited Terran space, he knew well how to interact with.

Apart from his own and quite complex, Asgardian language, Einar also spoke fluent Coin – the calculus-based lingo of traders all around the galaxy. Since he had a natural affinity for bargaining, the youth thought it logical he learned this lingo. Working as a rickshaw certainly helped him further improve not only Coin, but his Galactic Common. Einar even picked up and could boast being quite fluent in Fringe speak, which, in hindsight, would come rather handy in the part of space he was going to travel across.

The mess hall was barely occupied; out of thirty chairs, only five sentients sat around its elaborately, efficiently designed long table. After exchanging pleasantries with these people and eating his included in the passenger fare lunch, Einar returned to his seat.

There was much time till their ship reached Sirius and he intended to use this for training. Of course, he negotiated all of this beforehand with the vessel’s captain, who was rather happy to have an actual Asgardian warrior at hand, if danger stroke.

Unpacking some of his unassumingly looking equipment from the duffel bag, Einar carefully moved around the cargo hold, practicing with sheathed sword and shield in hand. Quick on his feet, he would rather rely on a light field suit of armor, made by an Asgardian youth – one of those wise enough to heed Einar’s grim warnings.

The conical helmet was void of any decorative horns and other useless trinkets since those could spell his doom if hit. Nevertheless, his headgear came with sturdy faceplate, fitted with holo-screen, which offered excellent optical magnification. He wasn’t a marksman yet; it was far better to see the enemy from afar, than be surprised and ambushed.

The armor plating was angled well and though not as thick as what most Asgardians would like, it offered plenty of protection. Moreover, it had a thin coating made of space paint mixed with granulated Zimir – an alloy, highly resistant to particle-beam fire. Indeed that would offer him only a modicum of extra defense, but little was better than none and Einar did not plan on taking barrages of beams head on.

His broad and rather thick shield, however, was what he intended on placing between him and deathly attacks. The thing was of the proper, traditional shape, and forged from pure Terran megasteel. Him being an Asgardian and twelve foot tall, meant that a shield made for a being of his stature was even thicker. Painted in blue on it, the (ᚱ) rune symbolized that young Einar was a on a warrior’s journey.

His broadsword, crafted by the armor smith’s father, was neither heavy, nor particularly long. Indeed, fighting with a shield, he needed a blade equally capable of stabbing, slashing and lightweight, so he can strike quickly. The sword had a Terran vibro cell in its pommel, which, just like the entirety of this weapon was fashioned in the olden ways.

Not from Human megasteel, but Asgardian one, which many would pay most handsomely these days since it was rather rare – Cloudsteel. Dark blue, this metal could once be dug only from deep mines, dangerously far away from the walls of Asgard. Supremely grateful to Einar for saving his son, the smith made this sword as a Life-gift, a treasure fit for a King, not some lonely orphan.

Someone like him, a youth who grew up on the stardocks, had seen plenty of alien and Terran projectile weaponry. Einar decided it wise to invest some of the extra money he had saved up and acquired a handgun. The beastly Tokarev M5 pistol was produced for Power Armor mecha, and the perfect size for Asgardian hand. He was told by the Human space biker who instructed him how to handle the weapon, that it “normally” fired 4.5mm projectiles. Since this was an enlarged version, the caliber slightly jumped up and this M5L variant could spew 9mm pellets.

Otherwise, the weapon sported no mods or upgrades – a stock gun, whose shots would most probably blow human sized opponents to gory bits. Two spare power packs on the holster, one loaded in the weapon itself and four extra, stashed in their conveniently well-hidden pockets on the back of Einar’s shield.

After he ended his short, but exhausting training regimen, the young warrior unsheathed his weapon. He marveled at the exquisite craftsmanship and then read the runes, with which his friend’s father had inscribed the sword’s name – “Lifesaver.” On the other side of its blade, the blacksmith left his own runic mark – “Forged by Sigmarr.”

Einar sighed and then sheathed his weapon; no matter many times he asked why they gifted him with this blade and not something more mundane, he got the same answer:

“A gift must be equal to the deed... always!”

The week-long trek was uneventful.

Upon disembarking the starship, Einar was greeted with the scorching Sirius air. The summer sun blasted him with heat and he found himself fighting for a breath. Instead of worry, the young warrior steeled himself; it would take time to acclimate to this heat, but acclimate he would.

Hand prudently shielding his eyes, the young warrior picked up the bulky duffel bag – he’d noticed a towering building in the near distance. Adorned with the flag of the Imperial Minarchy, painted in blue, white and gold, this was undoubtedly the local Morale Officer training facility.

Casually walking beside the colorful crowd of Alien and Human visitors, he made his way through the starport. Easy since he’d grown up on one and blessed by the Universe itself, most Terran starports were constructed all efficient-like.

Booming in the distance and carried by the hot wind, his ears picked up the junior morale officers practicing their chants. Einar felt charged by their words and soon, he felt the weight of his troubles lifted off his chest. Not even the scorching heat bothered him now. The powerful echo sounded like the most beautiful battle choir he’d ever heard:

“We will bend, but not break – stand your ground! Not one step back; think of those whose lives depend on your bravery, Terrans! Your eye shall be that of a hawk, hands steady as ancient rock, your aim peerless. Fell the invader, kill the oppressor, rend the slaver limb from limb! Then, upon this carpet of bodies, charge forward and finish whomever is still left standing!”

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