Crumbs

Detective Vim Lithesteel

(Art source unknown)

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Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Epilogue

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Chapter 13

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Vim opened fire on the move, sliding forth in a weaving dash, a habit from his childhood soldiering days. A specialist troop, which the Terran in him dared not call police, stood in his way. These had already murdered a number of youths by way of trained tactics, superior gear and weaponry. Yet, as soon as his gyro-jet gun unleashed a torrent of explosive projectiles, these otherwise oh-so-eager servant militants of the Taksian Directorate immediately pleaded to their boss for aid.

Every single breath, move, and thought now belonged to the children and the youth who defended them.

The assault rifle’s ancient, machined to perfection mechanism cycled through a full magazine, launching fifty miniature rocket propelled bombs at the enemy. Much alike the Terran version of that same weapon, some detonated upon impact, ripping armor and people to shreds. Others exploded a mere inch before contact with the target, a directional shockwave turning organs into mush. Then there were the armor piercing nano-thermite warheads which cooked soldiers alive inside their armor. Though Vim stacked six mags full of ammo, his favorite was the ME or mega explosive round. It was the same one which he shot a Taksian commando sniper dead with and, absolutely perfect against lightly armored opponents.

One of the specialists attempted to pull off something like these useless holo-flick gun combos. Snatching the snub beamgun of his blasted into gory chunks comrade, he leveled it and his own and proceeded to spray a literal wall of beams Vim’s way. Lithesteel did not even flinch. Instead, he kicked a mangled body up, and as it got fried to bits by the particle-beams, slammed another magazine in his assault rifle. Mags loaded with ME rounds were taped with a piece of orange space duct tape, nano-thermite had white, and shockwave ones, blue.

Hit by a burst of three rounds, the would-be action hero was reduced to a mangled mess, the two guns and the hands which wielded them nowhere to be found. Another habit of Vim’s soldiering days, his brain automatically cataloged ammunition expenditure and planned for which type of round should be loaded next. A disciplined, trained mind, one which suffered for every star-day of combat experience needed no flashy ammo counters or sultry VI voices echoing inside their helmet, reminding them about this and that.

From his cover behind half-molten by particle-beams wall, one of the DCPS goons attempted to fry Vim with a Jaern-made PPG. That these “Takers”, as most Taksians on the run called them, employed such deadly pulse plasma guns while on a mission to capture their former citizens, was not a mystery to Lithesteel. All their slogans and big talk about “reclaiming” people and then “redeeming” them for their own protection, was nothing but a shiny wrapping, underneath which lie rot, deceit, and vileness. Yet, as with all things, there was a solution to this... of the permanent, productive kind.

He rolled into cover, a crooked, lightning-shaped electro-plasma discharge ripping a long tear in his already riddled in tiny holes rad-coat. To defeat what thought itself a man was a matter as simple as switching his rifle’s firing selector.

As expected, even on full auto, recoil was nominal. Ammunition were fed into the firing tube by a gas operated mechanism which was simplicity made manifest by a nameless engineering genius. Projectiles and their ultra efficient chem propellant screeched from the barrel, shrouded in burning flame of dark red, cyan, and blue so saturated that it looked black. A chain of sonic booms announced to they soon-to-be-dead and those who were to be saved that, indeed, there was a “Masher” on the field.

Six of Directorate’s finest agonized on the floor and Vim dashed past their smoldering bodies with his sliding soldierly steps, the barrel of his rifle trained forward, barely noting the PPG operator’s final gargle – “Help... he is... killing us!”

The gyro-jet weapon system, especially one manufactured by the long gone Myrran Hegemony, championed rugged reliability. For them to have successfully forged a rifle that lasted in the field not months or even years, but star-centuries and with limited or no maintenance wasn’t a miracle, but the lunacy of necessity, the demand of a forever civil war. Though they were no more, as a Terran, Vim would gladly employ their weapon in the line of duty.

Wrapped in his mundane on first look rad-coat, Lithesteel walked through barrages of concentrated beamfire as if he strolled in the warm summer rain. Few people but the old soldiers and combat EVA suit workers knew that if you stacked a couple of rad-coats over and soaked these in radiation resistant foam, you’d have a makeshift particle-beam resistant cloak. Shiny, uniformed armor suits did these Taksian butchers wear. Streamlined, lightweight and shiny, their beamarms were supplied by a mega star state, all fitted with factory made mods.

The contrast between them and him in his scruffy-looking spacesuit, haggard rad-coat, and blocky rifle, which not so long ago lie in a museum’s viewing hall, was, as the wise soldiers said, deadly. During the war on Sirius, his people went beyond what was considered mere battlefield weapon adaptation and Jerry-rigged gear to survive. Anything that workers had access to, like vacplastic work suits soaked with chems and a layer of alloys stripped from derelict spaceships, was turned into makeshift armor. They would grind scrap metal down to powder and fired those from “coil pipes”. A cloud of melting iron flying at subsonic speeds would turn entire squads to minced meat.

“Noila, did you save the spotters?” – asked Vim, finding a few seconds behind cover as he reloaded the gyro-jet rifle with a fresh mag marked with blue duct tape.

“Got all dhem kiddos, but one.” – came the reply, though he could hear her quickened breathing in his helm, and the hiss of particle-beams.

The girl was shooting at somebody and from the sound of it, got shot back since she let loose a loud ouch. Immediately following her shout though, in their comms echoed the wail of said somebody paired with a sound which Lithesteel knew well. The fall of a dead body was unmistakable for one who’d witnessed the doom of thousands.

“I thought I told you to stay behind the controls, pick them up with our tractor beams?!” – he moved forward, shooting his entire magazine at Taksian cops, foamy gore puddling around their remains – “Mind you, you’re not dressed for a shootout!

Noila’s task was to hover the “Trashsmasher” out on the ruined street, and make sure that, even if more of these abominable Takers arrived, they would have a really, really bad day. Like tractor beams punching their cars and beam turrets frying them very, very dead. Definitely not running outside in her cute to behold driver’s suit, waving around a beamgun she barely had any training or experience with.

“Dhat Taker chief...” – she choked on her words, the panicked mumble and cries of children audible in the background – “he shot ‘im ded!”

Lithesteel drew the Warbler since two more DCPS specialists attacked him from around the corridor’s corner and he wasn’t about to stop his own advance. Left hand holding the Myrran rifle, he proceeded to rip them apart with a burst of beams, his damaged rad-coat soaking most of their weapons fire.

“I tell you, this is the end of the line, whoever he is.” – Vim’s hands moved with gracefulness earned on the battlefield as he reloaded both the gyro-jet rifle and Warbler beamgun, holstering the latter and aiming the former, as he peeked around the corner.

Noila’s reply came from within the modified dump barge, a small choir of children gasping at its many control panels – “Got me a bit of a beam in the shoulder. Is nahtien!”

“Stay inside, and keep those beautiful hands of yours on the controls.” – his hand scanner showed him that both what was left of the Taksian cops and the armed youths were a staircase away, yet since the DCPS butchers sported grav-belts, Vim needed an edge – “I need you to fly up close, stop the Takers from floating through the windows!”

He could almost hear Noila’s smile when she sat in the pilot seat – “Most prettiest, deadliest fly-bye-bye comien shoon!”

“Thish one,” – shouted one of the weeping kids, right as she maneuvered into position, her damaged grav-vehicle leaving molted bits of its Jerry-rigged armor-plating behind – “he shot my friend!”

Vim ran with his best speed, stopping only for token few moments and that was to stabilize the rifle before firing. With the youngsters so close, he could no longer spray entire mags willy-nilly. Short, three projectile bursts and from the “normal” munition type to evade either explosion, shockwave, or Universe forbid, nano-thermite collateral. Unstoppable, but not invulnerable, Vim finally lost his rad-coat when a barrage of particle-beams hit him head on. Magazine empty, the detective jumped at his equally as unable to continue firing opponent, crushing his helmet with a powerful straight kick.

Slamming another mag in the rifle, he shouldered it and drew the Warbler. Instead of running down the staircase he leapt between the stairs. Grabbing the guardrails only once, Lithesteel caught two mortally surprised Takers and mowed them down with the automatic pistol, landing on the second storey’s stair platform. The very star-second his magboots touched the floor, he reloaded the Warbler with is last pack and holstered it.

Before his eyes unfolded a scene very much like many of the urban battles he’d participated as a youngster. The DCPS policemen or their chief, they had arrived to the realization that there was only one single way for them to escape with their dirty lives. Pancaked between him and the floating armored barge, the servant militants need grab a hostage or two. Which is why they had thrown themselves at the armed youngsters with near suicidal vigor, and with their boss coming to their aid, the Takers reasonably assumed that victory was near.

I-Sec did not tolerate cowards hiding behind innocent sentients. However, certain situations were best resolved, preferably when the hostages’ safety was ensured. Which is why Vim was so adamant that Snuul and Reen barricaded themselves at the former hostel. There were a hundred Taksian families there, and if the DCPS chief found it unprotected, he would’ve had a field day. How that authoritarian detective managed to pinpoint this residential in the first place and then, why exactly did he assault what was a predominantly Nara hideout, was a consideration for a later time.

“Block’em!” – Noila shouted in his comms and he allowed himself a smirk, noting that she achieved everything he asked and more.

Two of the six remaining DCPS coppers actually attempted to swoosh out of the windows. Perhaps their chief ordered them to board the Trashsmasher and disable or even take control of it? Noila slapped one with a tractor beam turning him into mush and crushed metal, while the second got zapped by two beam turrets at once, reducing him to a puddle.

Vim wasted no time and though his spacesuit suffered damage, managed to position himself among the youths. This he achieved by way of a particularly efficient engine charge, landing next to Jarro, yet not before the magazine he emptied eviscerated two more Takers. It was his last shockwave projectile mag and he only loaded it when clear line of fire was available to him via maneuvering.

Witnessing the state of his youngsters and counting how many of them fell to Directorate thugs, induced a violent face twitch. Lithesteel placed himself between them and the DCPS, slamming his last nano-thermite mag in the gyro-jet rifle. It came not to an exchange of words between him and the Nara teens, for they have already embraced the breath of the free, and gladly entered life-saving battle already dead. Even if the authoritarian goons managed to kill them, they’d ascend free, victorious in death.

Obnoxious, parasitic degenerates could not comprehend soul’s light, for they had none.

Vim sent Jarro and his few wounded youngsters back, guarding the door to the residential’s promenade with a nod. Duty among sentients who lived the Terran Way was unrelenting resistance and sacrifice, until a soldier arrived on the field. Humans and their allies did not order their progeny into battle, not unless everything was lost.

Facing a handful of shiny, yet desperate DCPS goons and without his trusty rad-coat, Lithesteel had to rely more on speed of reaction, and learned reflexes. Nostrils filled with the remembrance of Taz’aran rot gas, the stench of rotting bodies, and flesh fried by heavy particle-beam repeaters, the Terran cracked his neck, firing the Myrran rifle without pause. Only they who embraced their own doom in exchange for the future of others survived the Sirius War.

One he got in the neck and sent what was left of his head at they behind him. Another, Vim ripped the hands off with two consecutive bursts, yet not before this one blasted a number of holes in his chest plate. The last two he felled using a combination of what was left in his gyro-jet magazine and a burst from the Warbler heavy pistol. Finally, when the Chief Taker faced him, and landed an accurate hit with his overpowered sidearm, Lithesteel was down to a single ME mag for the Myrran rifle, and one pack loaded in his own pistol.

Sent reeling, his suit heavily damaged and another urban commandos charging at him swift beamgun firing, Vim allowed himself a tiny smirk. For someone like him, a Terran, a soldier, and an I-Sec operative, to have faced criminals of such caliber was rather fortunate. Them having found themselves into the reach of his weapons, hands included, meant that they would no longer have the opportunity to maim, kidnap, and molest the innocent.

Like a true leader, the Chief Taker joined his attacks with those of the specialist, whom Vim identified as a TISD urban commando. No one worth their salt lingered aback when their future was decided by way of deadly battle, and so, Vim did what all Terran soldiers would. By learned battlefield pain, he ignored everything and focused his mind. All senses aimed first at the armor clad commandos, he unleashed his every last gyro-jet projectile at him.

Yet another overpowered beam hit him straight in the chestplate, but Lithesteel ignored it, repeating a soldierly feat of accuracy. Each and every shot from his rifle not simply constrained the commandos’ movements, but ripped his energy protection, and the shield of his boss apart. When, finally, he delivered the last burst, his target was mid-leap, aiming at his helmet. Had the commando finish his maneuver, Vim would’ve ended up dead, venerable spacesuit or no.

Swift beyond measure, he drew the Warbler and found enough star-seconds to deliver a number of accurate hits on his Taksian enemy. Energy shield drained, a number of beams nicked and tore this one’s otherwise immaculate armored uniform. Cap blasted to shreds, gloves and face burned, the bureaucrat militant no longer sported his oh-so-confident visage. However, though he was singed, Vim’s opponent acted like no real soldier would. Standing in full view, as if belief in his own ideological supremacy would shield him from strife, the uniformed man shot like he was on a firing range.

Two of the devastating beams actually found its target...

Rolling on the ravaged floor and behind a corner, gyro-jet rifle empty, nevertheless he witnessed the Taksian DCPS detective utter rage. Handgun hissing from near overheat, hitting Vim five times and not ending him, this otherwise calm and worst of all, confident in his authoritarian delusion bureaucrat militant, appeared flustered.

Nevertheless, when the Taksian finally addressed Vim, there was barely a speck of audible emote in his voice – “Chief Detective Naym. Though I would be otherwise pleased to meet you, I am afraid that all Terr’aans are considered enemies of the Taksian state and to be executed on sight.”

“Vim Lithesteel, I am the I-Sec system investigator for this sector of Fringe space.” – Taking a raspy breath, Lithesteel drew his own sidearm and, memory stirred by its sight, addressed his foe – “If I wished you good, I’d warn you—death sentences mean nothing to a Terran, especially one born on Sirius.”

A beam blasted one huge chunk of nano-enhanced concrete, showering Vim with molten shrapnel, but most of it was ameliorated by his suit.

“CorpoSec are soon to arrive.” – though he made a near perfect attempt at sounding intimidating and at the same time, convincing, Lithesteel discerned something was rather off.

“They are, really?” – Vim bested his pain and rolled over the floor, firing two shots at Naym, hitting him once in the left leg and found himself once more behind the corner.

“Indeed, they are. Probably surrounding this run down, miserable residential as you resist the inevitable.” – Naym lied through his teeth, flipping some control on his monstrous pistol, unleashing a torrent of steam, which singed his arm and he barely contained a painful yelp.

Lithesteel, instead of rolling on the floor, peeked his head and pistol arm, landing another glancing shot on the Taksian. This one hurriedly returned fire, yet missed by a wide shot.

“Us Terrans are masters at resisting, yet this is not our only racial proficiency.” – Vim explained with near casual calmness, having counted the three shots remaining in his trophy beam pistol.

Naym, himself using a pile of his own policemen as cover, pistol near melting point, attempted to win more time – “Am I correct to assume said proficiency is something pitiably melodramatic and utterly useless, like the regressive drivel written in your War Liar handbooks?”

“Your delusion,” – Lithesteel rose to his feet, and blood in his mouth, hands gripping the beam pistol, prepared for the next attack – “it is acquired by way of indoctrination or adopted by choice?”

“Truth and objective reality suffers no scrutiny, nor is our Directorate’s sciencecrat line in any way, shape or form, a delusion.” – the Taksian bureaucrat militant answered with a tad bit more emotion for someone in full control of his self and Vim raised an eyebrow.

“What you hypocritical regime calls recovery is actually kidnapping. The so labeled normalization is noting but vile torture, and redemption?! It is the death of their hearts and souls. Your kind breaks the innocence of children, turning them into dead husks or worse.” – the Terran spoke with such dread calm, that the difference between his and Naym’s tone became beyond obvious.

Lithesteel, beam pistol aimed and firing, walked from his cover with such speed and aim so precise, that Naym could only manage a haphazard shot. One beam found the Taksian chest, while the other two, his hands. Though both were gravely wounded, only one remained upright. Looming over the dirty, uniformed bureaucrat, Vim managed a feat of endurance and strength, as he grabbed his foe, picking him up by the head.

“I am a father and a lawman.” – whispered Lithesteel, hands locked around Naym’s neck, while the latter helplessly flailed his charred stumps, boundless hate pouring from his eyes – “My singular duty is to find and deny the likes of you air.”

There was a voice, quite eloquent and polished in some corporate hall of lies, which sounded from Naym’s charred uniform cap, as the latter – “This is CEO Lomm, replying to your link for assistance. Chief Detective Naym, Gahen Inc, and its subsidiary, CorpoSec, are unable to provide aid of any kind. Mind I remind you, that, as per your own request, all DCPS and TISD personnel, including your illustrious persona, are not here. In fact, as far as our digi-records are concerned, you were never here. On behalf of our family here at Gahen Inc. I bid you a most profitable, and efficiently productive day!”

(╭ರ_•́)

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