Lost Numbers

Terran tales

(Art by Cai Phillips)

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Terran-Tuesday is here, my fellow Terrans!

Most of you already know that James Esparza R. H. Snow and my black armored self are having our inspirational indie stream today Tuesday evenings. You can find the previous episodes here,on James’s youtube page.

Today I will present another story from my new Terran tales series. This one is different from the previous entry,

Hamster Kin, which you can find here. Lost Numbers will feature a different character, who, some of you will note after reading chapter 1, is not immediately shown to go guns blazing (or paws swinging), like our Hamsternator Bloop did.

Enjoy and do not forget to join us on our stream!

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Index: Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

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Chapter 1

The Dead who fight

In the olden dusty gloom, stale air heavy with filth gently touched dangling cables, bits of ragged clothing pranced across corridors full of ancient death. Filtration systems long since beyond any point of repair, cancerous rills of dust drizzled down from cracked air ducts. Booby traps of many kinds littered the cratered, battle-scorn floors, their forever alert triggers hungry for a kill.

The bunker once kept safe those who lived within his sturdy corridors and spacious halls, until... he could not. For many centuries, the descendants of his creators fought tooth and nail, yet their cannibalistic foe had finally prevailed. Millions fell, their mummified remains now lay under the thick bunker dust. Eyes hollow and their bony mouths wide open, they screamed one last desperate yell before their torturous demise.

Many of them were once the bunker’s defenders; Avern’a child soldiers and youths who gave their lives in battle. The women and babies they failed to protect, whose gnawed, broken bones now piled up to the ceiling. Mangled, oftentimes beyond recognition, the bodies of their Jaern enemies were far and in between since their leaders recovered precious combat gear and supplies. Not of some respect for their own dead, no. Their Avern’a foe would soon proceed to slay them with their own beamguns, vibroblades, and grenades.

However zealous these Jaern hunters were and the debased priestesses who commanded them, many a time they fell in clever ambush or suffered the deathly bite of a trap. Their cloaking shields and nifty gadgets failing to protect them from the killing blow. Nor were their greater numbers, cybertech and gene-grafts giving them an edge definitive, for they were soulless, their minds rotten, and those who led them, rotten still.

Only the spirits of the dead, had one dared enquire, could say how numerous were their ranks.

Yet despite the deadly, solitary gloom raining supreme, there was someone very much alive down here. One of Avern’a, who quietly breathed barely filtered air as his calloused hands aimed a decrepit beamgun down the corridor. This armament, which belonged in a museum, was held together with bits of wire, space duct tape, and vacfoam glue.

None among the child soldiers knew when was this venerable weapon even looted, let alone who procured it. Repaired and modified countless times, somehow it still hissed its deadly song, dark-red particle-beams ripping through Jaern-made armor, blasting flesh, and shattering bone. One token fact was known to the person who now wielded it—though alien, this weapon was not manufactured by the Jaern, nor any other enemy for that matter.

The soldier squeezed it gently, a silent prayer on his lips since his last power pack had only three shots left.

Wiped clean, his ancient gas mask’s round eyepieces actually helped him see better in the corridor’s dusty dark. Even if there was a scanning gadget in his possession, which was highly unlikely considering his situation, he wouldn’t dare activate it now. The Jaern hunting pack who stalked this bunker, they had deployed a powerful array which scoured for scan beams, be they passive or active. At least his venerable cammo-cloak, patched a thousand times over, gave him a low scanning profile.

The bunker dust itself, as long as he did not move a muscle, made him appear as if part of the corridor on their devices. Lay among the corpses he did and eyes unblinking, every breath rationed, the last Avern’a soldier waited. There were no idle thoughts, nor empty questions lingering inside his disciplined mind. He knew exactly why it had to be this corridor in particular and not one of the ruined halls or bone-filled rooms.

Behind the intersection, at the end of said corridor, there was a hidden cavernous hole. Inside, the soldier was told, there fell one of the many alien adventurers who lay down their lives helping his people. Benevolent, brave beyond measure, tens of thousands of them had somehow slipped through the Jaern space blockade, landed here, and found their way inside his home bunker or others. Though their valiant sacrifice ensured that many a life was saved and precious time purchased, eventually they all died together with his brothers.

Because this area was hard to hold, no Avern’a could reach the alien and take what combat supplies he once had. Looting every item of the deceased, including their clothing, was necessary to ensure survival and continuous combat operations. At the back of his head there was that tiny hope the man carried his Terr’aan-made laser gun, but the soldier hoped for a spare power pack or two. He asked not why his people could no longer produce their own gear or had little to no supplies, for he had realized long ago that the war was lost.

The child soldier did not even twitch when a big piece of trash hit him in the leg.

Dusty corpses lay motionless... not unless the vile Unlife wraiths abused them to assail the living. Had one of these was near, he knew that nothing could save him from an end most terrifying. Without an energy field to protect him from the apparition’s ghastly touch, the child soldier would end up not just dead. His very soul devoured, denied ascension, there would be no afterlife for him, but endless emptiness instead.

The handful of crumbs leftover from an ancient food ration and a cup of filtered piss he had two days ago, had long since been turned into calories and, utilized by his body. He was well aware the Jaern carried no rations on them since it was his kin, the Avern’a, and other sentient aliens, whom the cannibals considered food. The child soldier had to disobey the last shot protocol since he did have a barely working vibroblade. With a single stab to the heart, this otherwise chipped, olden dagger could easily end him.

Then it would be hallowed ascension, for the Eaters feasted upon dead food, not.

A gust of bunker wind, manifested due to differences in pressure and air temperature, danced across his gloomy corridor. For a few seconds everything became gray and in the darkness before him, the child soldier clearly saw a hunched figure. Its outlines waved as the bunker dust flew, tiny dust devils swirling around it. Unmistakably Jaern, this hunter was all alone and, had been lurking there for quite a long time.

Prolly, the soldier’s tired beyond mind had slipped into a few blissful minutes of sleep. This failure of his was his own, for there was nobody else this lapse in endurance could endanger.

First, he made sure to hasten his otherwise few and rather slow breaths. With great care, one tiny inch after the other, he child soldier corrected his aim. The decrepit beamgun’s barrel moved so masterfully that not even the tiniest rill of dust betrayed him. Once the child soldier was beyond sure that his beam would blast straight through his enemy’s faceplate, he took a longer breath and held it. He’d nearly pushed the trigger button, when two armored, armed from head to toe Jaern hunters suddenly came into full view!

Their gear appeared clean, as if they reinforced this hunting pack or were recently re-equipped. One of them carried a brand new armament; a rifle the likes of which the Avern’a soldier had never seen. The second hunter was clad in heavier armor, his defense further augmented by a towering shield made of metal and there was a curved vibroblade in his hand ready to strike. Though they would clearly be the death of him, the child soldier did not attempt to run for he was the last one and this, his home.

His target decloaked and, in the corridor’s deathly gloom the three invaders engaged in a short conversation.

“Our Pack leader claims there is no more food to be found here.” – said the rifleman as he casually pointed his weapon the way they came from.

Thanks to his gas mask’s eyepieces, the Avern’a was able to notice that this new rifle had advanced firing controls capable of finely tuning its beam coherence and intensity. A luxurious weapon to say the least, it also carried one rather unique logo stamped on its beam chamber. Indeed, try as he must, the soldier was unable to pick this minute detail, for his body was worn.

“Tell him, I disagree.” – hissed the Jaern who until now lay cloaked as he manipulated the parameters of his cloaking shield so he would clean the bunker dust particles – “When I stalk these corridors, the tips of my teeth still tingle...”

“Huntmaster Godja, respectfully, you have just arrived here. We have hunted these corridors for many a month, performed over twelve meticulous scans of this entire shelter. Trust me, there is nothing left alive here, lest you burn with desire to chase after the Fallen...” – grumbled the swordsman, carelessly resting his shield in the dust, an act which induced a hand sign from said Godja, one which the child soldier knew displayed annoyance.

“Then you will scan everything for a thirteenth time.” – commanded the Huntmaster as he lifted the vibroblade armed Jaern’s shield and wiped the indentation it left in the dust – “Order our unproven to arm themselves, split in three Jaern hunt teams, and search this part of the bunker, at the double!”

“But... they are busy offloading all of our new equipment, supplies, and foodstuffs. Huntmaster, this will significantly slow down our task!” – the rifleman avowed some form of protest, yet he did send the order via his suit’s integrated PDA.

This Jaern, who had replaced the old Huntmaster, ambushed and killed with an IED, appeared to wear old-ish, but perfectly maintained gear. Armed with Taz’aran-made rapid beam gun, this RBG of his appeared to have been extensively modified. The child soldier noticed a special kind of coating applied to the weapon’s advanced heatsink, which prevented bunker dust from clogging it.

“Since you two have been fighting here the longest, you should know better than me that underestimating our Avern’a food is a luxury we cannot afford. No matter how haggard, even a single soldier is still a deadly threat.” – warned the new Huntmaster and his words were followed by a short, intense silence, ending with the two warriors bowing to him.

The Huntmaster operated his own PDA, which was fitted with a stealth upgrade so that only he could see its holo-screen and keyboard through his faceplate. Even in the darkest of tunnels, he could maintain nigh perfect cloak and employ whatever electronic warfare action he wanted, without shining like a target on a holo-shooting range.

“It would seem that the data-pack with our new orders is incoming. To receive a clean link from orbit I need to be on the surface, away from this... tomb.” – said Godja and began moving towards the intersection waving his warriors to follow – “Make sure and instruct our unproven to search this corridor, well. Ideal an opportunity this is, for them to prove themselves, bring back fresh food or boast of their first kill.”

“Your intent is our command, Huntmaster!” – said the two and, followed by their leader, cloaked.

In the bunker’s dusty silence, the Avern’a child soldier remained completely still. There he lay stalking for a full star-hour, his breath once more rationed, finger ready to push the trigger button of his venerable beamgun, yet all remained quiet. Indeed, these new opponents outclassed him manyfold by numbers, armaments, and gear. Dying of hunger and thirst, severely lacking sleep, the last soldier of this bunker would not relent until he still drew measured breath through his ancient gas mask.

Ever so slowly he inched forward, crawling around the mummified corpses, until, finally, he reached his target. Behind, in the far distance, the child soldier heard what he discerned to be three pairs of feet stumbling in the bunker dust. The unproven hunters, unskilled as they were, they could still overpower, kill, or worse yet, capture him. With great care he made sure to cover what minute tracks he made, before slinking into the jagged, cavernous hole.

Down, down into the unknown he climbed; limbs tired, fingers bleeding, and breath raspy. ‘Twas a gamble, this last expedition of his and he clearly knew there was no other choice. For if the venerated adventurer had nothing of use left, soon there’d be yet another Avern’a corpse gathering dust on the bunker’s much suffered floor.

With no sustenance or ammo left, Number 815165 would die either by the enemy’s beam or his own hand...

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Fellow Terrans, if you are willing and able to support my work here on Substack, grab a book!