Broken no more

Guardians

Index:

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | 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.

---

Chapter 3

The shuttle pilot skillfully navigated this laden with supplies vessel through the atmo. Wings burning, engines bellowed hot streams of plasma, soon the spacecraft’s landing struts touched soil. Across the mega concrete landing pad ran Shimazu techs, and quickly, efficiently, they checked the ship’s hull for damage.

The wide, long transport shuttle’s loading ramp lowered, and two Terrans hastily strolled out of the cargo management team’s way. Joined they were by the craft’s pilot, who leapt out of the cockpit’s emergency hatch, duffel bag in hand.

Daughter of spacer clan Smelchak, this young woman was adamant she’d help Shimazu relief&reconstruction efforts. She waved at Einar and Holden, before dashing towards the main castle building. The girl hadn’t even started her first husband search...

“We are finally here!” – Einar stretched his long limbs, shouldered his shield using its vacfoam sling and picked up the now much smaller duffel bag.

“Lothoria, you are broken no more! Your degenerate overlords and their underlings crushed; your once tortured, disease stricken and dying of hunger people are now free.” – Half-cape fluttering in the hot Lothorian wind, face showered by scorching sun rays, Holden nevertheless smiled and after he elbowed Einar’s leg, added:

“It is our duty to teach the freed how to remain such.”

The Asgardian warrior checked if his sword was easily unsheathed and smiled in response. After he noticed the many marching, training Lothorian volunteers in the near distance, Einar stated:

“That and make sure that anyone not of Lothoria, alien filth who brazenly assume they can come here and do whatever, get their vile dreams utterly crushed.”

Both stood there, beside the landing pad and away from the cargo loaders, whose female pilots rapidly unloaded container after container. The brand new structure was built some months ago and already seen much use. Castle Mizuyama was named by Shimazu elders after what local Lothorians called this area – “Water Mountain.”

Indeed, there were many springs in the area, which soon attracted the attention of engineers; they easily built sturdy pipelines and brought clean water to many a distant village. People who were taxed for watering their fields or barely had any good drinking water, now understood what plenty was.

Back in the day, when debased “lords” and degenerate “priests” ruled over Lothoria, these springs were capped. Guarded by fanatical temple leht, these butchers murdered any peon, killed any serf, who dared sneak even a bucket of water.

Humans had no love for enslavers. Them and by that matter, any other type of authoritarian slime. Suffice to say, the Japanese engineers and their helpers sent plenty of angry links to certain people back on Earth. Many more Terrans, hundreds of thousands arrived on Lothoria. The industrious retainers of Clan Shimazu weren’t the only ones whose noble Human blood boiled. Their very soul burned with furious purpose and want, the iron determination to transform crushed peons and abused serfs into freedom-loving people.

Holden and Einar were to join this legion of trainers, teachers, and builders – lend their helping hand. Aid they would provide and aplenty, though not by way of medispray or crafting tool, but with sword and railgun. The presence of a morale officer meant that many more a life would be saved, and spirits emboldened.

Armaments failed, flesh faltered, breath was finite and blood eventually ran dry. People’s minds touched by the Terran Word, however, they became indomitable. One could no longer scare them, for Terrans learned them how to fear and even embrace terror.

Caressed gently, tucked deep within their very hearts, was an overwhelming horror of a future full of endless servitude. The fright which all Lothorian parents, now having experienced real freedom, they would never wish any form of slavery to visit their progeny.

Having seen enough, Einar and Holden walked across the courtyard, their goal to reach the castle’s commandant’s office. This was the place where all adventurous Terrans visited, shortly after they’d landed on Lothoria. Coordinating the relief efforts, there worked multiple staff officers, many of whom part of clan Shimazu’s reserves. These people had many decades of experience and knew well how to direct scant, combat capable resources where these would be most useful.

Freed from needless tax burden and molestation, locals had restored many a farm and, with plenty of water flowing from the pipes, things looked rather promising. With basic foodstuffs in steadily increasing quantities and enough drinking water, at least hunger or thirst weren’t immediate concerns.

Holden and Einar saluted the guard, showed their Phalanx recruitment holo-tickets and then the young morale officer attempted to enter. So full with people was the building, that even his athletic companion experienced great trouble. Justly, he was given right of passage; to delay any Office mandated operation meant losing precious lives. Terrans and Star Alliance, everyone let Holden move ahead – many of them had either seen morale officers on the field or had the incredible luck of fighting beside one.

The Asgardian warrior threw one long look inside and decided not to follow. He wasn’t a fully grown man, yet him being thirteen feet tall, avoiding unfortunate accidents inside this overcrowded building would be a virtual impossibility. Therefore, Einar stood before the office building and, due to his tall stature, his gaze easily noticed one group of newly-arrived Lothorians.

They were dressed in raggedy clothing, wore torn sandals or none at all, yet seemed to be in high spirits. Echoing in the distance, he could hear the voices of four Shimazu drill sergeants addressing the crowd. In understandable local dialect of Fringe Speak, the instructors explained what was about to happen and what was expected of the volunteers. The men would receive new clothing, uniforms, and boots. They were to bathe; get medical attention, eat, receive training schedule for the next day and then, sleep.

Confused silence followed immediately after all drill instructors finished speaking. For a moment Einar assumed that the Japanese accent and pronunciation made the sergeants’ words hard to understand. That was not the case, however. One young Lothorian raised his hand, stepped forwards and after perfectly replicating the Terran soldier salute, asked:

“Can we start... can we train... today?”

The master sergeant attempted to explain; indeed he did try and as best he could, but his well articulated words were met with stubborn, determined gazes. After his statement, that this was what all trainees were supposed to do in their first day, that this was military regulations, another Lothorian raised his hand.

This one’s feet were bare; covered with crusted blood and sand, nevertheless this man still marched forward and stated:

“We quick ran through desert... for many days and without... rest. Hurry lots and came here to... to learn Terr’aan soldier. Did we do... some... a thing... wrong?”

Einar could see how the face of that Japanese drill instructor twitched, how the man’s body shook and his fists clenched. The Asgardian lost his breath for a short time after that resolute declaration. He could only imagine how hard it was for that Human; after all, he had to face hundreds of looks, gaze at so many and unflinching faces. Even from this distance, Einar could physically feel the volunteers’ iron determination.

The sergeant inhaled slowly and answered, somehow still able to keep his professional composure:

“No, you did nothing wrong!”

The other three drill instructors shared looks and then, after a couple of short words, all spoken in Japanese, their commander conceded.

“You will do what we command, learn what we teach and that means rest too! However, since you are so eager to start training, we will begin immediately after every single one of you had been outfitted. Then, there will be a looong rest! Company, ateeention! Face right! Left foot, forward march!”

Holden joined him just in time to see the still raggedy-looking Lothorian volunteers marching semi-successfully across the courtyard, towards the huge barracks. The long, well wrapped item which his companion held made an immediate impression. Moreover, when the morale officer looked at said item, reverence shone in his eyes. Einar was positive that this could only be a battle flag, given to Holden either as part of their mission gear allotment or... He could imagine only one other purpose behind giving a banner to morale officers.

“From the look on your face and gleam in your eye, I could reasonably assume that this is a flag?” – Einar now knew that his companion valued the direct approach and instead of deliberating in his head, asked.

“Yes, this is one of their newly-created banners! They have entrusted it to us, together with one full platoon of Lothorians. Look Einar, they should be marching out of the barracks now!”

Holden shouldered the banner and pointed at the barracks. Waiting to see any properly outfitted soldiers marching towards them in good order, Einar gave the banner another look.

Still in its waterproof, vacfoam cover, no details were visible, except the fact it was attached to a spear. Long, with a wide, forged from megasteel tip, the weapon’s shaft was made from local wood, encased in industrial grade lacquer. While he pondered how would this banner look fluttering in the wind, the stomp of boots garnered his attention.

Rapidly forming, out of the massive castle barracks came running in full gear the aforementioned platoon. Dressed in the now signature for all Lothorian infantrymen gray and blue uniforms, these soldiers had brand new Arisaka Type 300 rifles, slung over their shoulders. Belts made from sturdy epes leather, everyone had plenty of spare power packs, and a couple of hand grenades. The sheath of their rifle’s long vibro bayonet was on their left and a folded shovel on their right thigh. Backpacks, manufactured from vacfoam and not on this planet, stuck a bit over their broad shoulders.

“The commandant had a mission for us, my friend.” – Holden still clutched the flag; his eyes trailed the quickly assembling troopers and then he looked at Einar’s face.

“We are to march across the mountain pass. Reach the other side, where a small village of strategic importance has been beset by all sorts of attacks. Bandit leht, debased ‘priests’ of Rot, and Cartel remnants had all joined forces to prey upon these distant, oftentimes completely helpless villages. We are to reinforce the defenses of said village and make sure that none of its tortured residents suffer any harm. Then, after reinforcements arrive, locate the armed camp of those Rot loyalists and their alien helpers and proceed to utterly annihilate them!”

A vicious smile blossomed upon Einar’s face. Hand on his holster, he imagined himself mowing down scores of debased narcos, then slaughtering the leht. He’d never dirty the blade of his sword by cutting down a “priest” of Rot, however. By way of fist, boot or simply lobbing big rocks from afar should these vermin be dealt with!

Lothorian feet marched towards them, wearing incredibly sturdy, crafted from vacfoam and reinforced with megasteel tall boots. This rifle platoon had one heavy weapon team; the corporal in command strode next to his laden with spare ammo four soldiers, who carried their Browning auto-railgun together. Kepis worn slightly fixed to the right, Lothorian soldiers marched quickly, until they were halted by their sergeant.

Standing at attention before them, all troopers looked perfectly healthy, well-fed and their feet steady. They held the slings of their rifles as one should expect of any trained Japanese regular. Everything on their belt was arranged as it should be, spare munitions and grenades easy to reach, bayonet safety latch on.

Holden, as written in the Morale Officer’s Handbook stood at attention, then removed the flag’s cover. A helpful gust of hot wind fully extended the beautiful banner and it fluttered mightily, for all eyes to marvel upon its exquisite craftsmanship.

Blue in color, the national flag of the Lothorian Minarchy had a golden ankh in its center. The mighty, sharp claws of an Egyptian Hawk rested upon this ankh and the bird’s wings were spread, ready for flight. This central composition was surrounded by a blood red semi-circle, in which eleven white stars were embroidered. Each signified one of the original crewmates of IMS Starshatter – the Terrans who first led freed Lothorians into life-saving battle. Under the ankh, everyone could see the crossed khopesh sword and Eagle rifle. The flag’s long fingers were dark green and moved like young nekhtu stems, stirred by the spring wind.

“Soldiers, your training is complete! Armed and outfitted, well-supplied, now you are the protectors of your friends and families.” – his Sirius born companion made a short, very morale officer pause, before continuing:

“Together we will march,” – Holden’s free hand pointed at the mountain’s snowy peak – “over the mountain and far away!”

His megasteel plated, Office issued, hobnailed boot stomped the courtyard hard, before Holden shouted:

“There the leftovers of your degenerate overlords linger still, and suckle Lothoria’s lifeblood! Together we will fight them and together,” – the morale officer’s glove now pointed at Einar – “we will undoubtedly crush these parasites!”

One powerful, earsplitting shout left fifty throats; this was the rebel yell which Einar had much read about!

Only now did the Asgardian notice that the platoon’s commander was not a full lieutenant, but a veteran sergeant from the 1^st Lothorian rifles. The man’s neck was scarred and his face stern, yet there was a hopeful gleam in his eyes. Right hand held the vacfoam sling of a heavy, older model Arisaka rifle, the Type R10. This was a beastly weapon, cumbersome and designed for trench warfare, yet this veteran carried it with a confident smirk.

Einar’s brow twitched – he noticed that not only that sergeant, but his entire platoon wore upon their faces the now rather familiar to him, Sirius smile...

__***__