Lost Numbers
Terran tales
(Art By Argentics)
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.
Enjoy and do not forget to join us on our stream!
Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5
Chapter 6
They who breathe justice
The autopilot completed its programming and, reaching the last nav-point, proceeded to land the shuttle. Though it was not the most graceful of landings, the child soldier had never flown on anything except a rackety ancient grav-car and found the subroutines coded by Terr’aans quite efficient.
During the last click of his travel, it became painfully obvious that, for his allies to rely on the autopilot’s predictable algos, they had to have achieved air superiority. There was no other reason why anyone would risk becoming a flying target. The child soldier knew that even the greenest of Jaern starfighter pilots could force his transport to land. More, via electronic warfare, they could regain control of the mainframe and fly their ship wherever they wanted. Which meant that either the Terr’aan forces and their allies had his homeworld’s Orbital space in their control or at the very least, it was heavily contested.
With a groan Number 815165 moved form the pilot seat to the copilot’s, his beamgun still trained at the cockpit’s door. With his peripheral vision he peeked through the transparent viewing port and winced. Though the fact that these landing coordinates were a ruined base would’ve startled some, Avern’a soldiers only saw possible ambush spots, good or bad cover, and places to hide.
He was ordered to wait, but that did not mean he would loiter around or sit on his hands.
The child soldier linked his PDA to the ship’s sensor array and reconfigured it to work on a continuous loop in passive scan mode. He uploaded new friend&foe protocols which excluded the Jaern, Taz’arans, and just in case, the filthy Vaugn. Of course, he made sure to input Avern’a and all Terr’aan bio-signatures, placing these in the friend list. To be extra sure that no one but him or the Terr’aans could operate the ship, Number 815165 locked its control panels with a unique Avern’a sec-code. This was then linked to Sirius three along with a confirmation that the stolen transport reached its destination.
There was a reactor overload command inbuilt in all Vaugn craft and Number 815165 linked it for remote initiation in his PDA, just in case the Terr’aans lost.
Tweaking with the turret controls to improve their auto-targeting was the best he could do since the Blain GHK was not equipped with a shield generator. For defense, the vessel fully relied upon its thicker than usual, imported Taz’aran armor-plating made from nano-forged Arnium alloy. If there were Jaern out here and they did not carry heavy beam arms, plasma bombs, or anti-matériel weapons, they’d have no chance breaching the ship.
Since Blain GHK was a starship made by the Vaugn Matriarchy, it lacked basic features which other galactic denizens took for granted. For example, the craft had no escape pods, safety fields, or redundant subsystems. Inner doors were never even included in its design since these bulky transports were crewed by expendable, slave-chipped Vaugn male soldiers.
Avern’a did not wonder how or why their Jaern foes allied themselves with the Vaugn Matriarchy. His bunker’s oldest Loresingers once told him that “All degenerates smell alike”. If the Jaern were his people’s most hated enemy, the disgusting Vaugn Matriarchs took the second place, for they had performed experiments upon countless millions, in order to advance their so called “science”. Most of what the Jaern were supplied with, be it cybertech or gene-grafts, all came from the labs of the Matriarchs. Everything else, including light arms, tanks, and combat grav-vehicles, it was provided by the slithering Taz’aran “merchants”, who often demanded payment in flesh.
Number 815165 read rows of data coming from the sensor array, noting one or another feature of these long abandoned ruins. Once, this was a hidden base built by some merc company so they could repair and rearm their mech lances. Though they were no more, the broken buildings slagged by plasma bombs and mangled hulk of their mechs remained.
A once towering battle machine he saw with the holo-cams, now a slagged skeleton, still stood upright in its mecha bay. Scan-data said that though immobile, its pilot kept fighting while being constantly pummeled with particle-beams and Jaern-made PPGs. The soldier took another muffled breath, uttering a prayer for the mech’s noble pilot. Aliens gave his homeworld many a nickname, but the most well known one was “Tomb of Heroes.”
Scanning beams eventually pierced the first cultural layer, compiling a list of casualties which reached over two hundred thousand. The Jaern, as it was their custom, they had recovered all of their dead therefore the child soldier could only guess how many hunters and machines did they lose here.
The scanners suddenly gave out a bleep, showing a dozen hazy sensor shadows creeping outside and Number 815165 took a muffled breath. He need not wonder why were the remnants of the hunting pack coming for him; their entire food supply was stolen, after all. Of course since he could not have all the luck in the Universe, they sported heavy beam arms and carried plasma grenades. However, their rushed movements made him think there was something else than the Terr’aan attack. More, there was chatter which his sensors picked up and the vessel still sporting accurate sec-codes, decoded it.
An order from their overlord, the Mother Superior herself, commanded all Jaern hunters to immediately capture every single Avern’a in sight. That they would commit to what his soldierly teachers called “the last hunt” meant the invader was retreating. Number 815165 couldn’t believe his eyes, but there were the orders, directives, and all.
The child soldier proceeded to send another link, a short text only:
“Number 815165 reporting. Enemy is approaching. Commencing defense action. I will hold my position until relieved.”
He proceeded to operate the turrets manually since accuracy was better. The first targets were those who carried the plasma bombs and their hunting section’s heavy beamgun operator. Number 815165 managed to hit him first and blasted the Jaern to bits with concentrated beamfire from all turrets. Yet the hunters split and, using their integrated engines, flew around the transport, taking potshots at its guns.
Throwing plasma grenades from above, they managed to melt two of the four turrets, but he shot four of them dead in the process. Just as he was aiming at one of their more accurate grenadiers, the child soldier felt that there was someone behind him.
That there was a hiding Jaern hunter inside the cargo bay surprised him, yet he was a soldier of the Avern’a. All possible combat options were already weighed in, and though his beamgun had only three shots left, he did not panic.
If this was the ravaged tomb-like battlefield of a bunker and no one to take care of but himself, the child soldier would’ve retreated. This was not an option since there were a lot of people counting on him doing his soldierly duty. He did not consider having a protracted shootout in the cargo compartment, no matter how accurate he was. If hit by particle-beam fire, the collapsing stasis field would kill the pod’s occupant for sure.
Realistically, Number 815165 had one viable choice – draw the enemy and fight outside. The Jaern were always greedy for more Avern’a flesh and their debased priestesses, yet another soul for their altars. No matter how prudent, hunters often risked a lot for even a single man and he was a child soldier, a delicacy. Once outside, hopefully the transport’s turrets would make short work of this and the remaining five Jaern hunters.
Number 815165 ignored the hellish pain and, gun in hand, leapt up from the seat.
He was not fast enough. The armored boot of a Jaern hunter found his side mid jump and floored him in an instant. There was another loud snap and, what the medication regenerated was no longer intact. Looming over his hazy sight there was the pack’s Huntmaster, and he seemed quite determined to capture him alive.
A brutal kick nearly knocked him unconscious but he used his beamgun to partially block it. Nevertheless, he suffered a painful roll across the cockpit’s floor, a couple of his fingers bent at unnatural angle. Perhaps the only thing which prevented further injury and him getting knocked out were the armor plates he took from the fallen Terr’aan. Broken and once more bleeding internally, Number 815165 could still move and most importantly, shoot.
Without a second thought he fired one of his three shots from prone position, straight at the Jaern’s belly. This one was crafty and experienced and though the cannibal hoped his target would succumb to pain, had his guard up. The Jaern received a glancing hit since he was successful at leaping back, however, that evasive maneuver temporarily lost him his advantage. This was a feint and the child soldier scrambled across the floor-plating on all fours, his broken bones ripping him from the inside.
He ignored the pain and semi-ran or limped across the cargo hold, not risking another shot until his broken body rolled outside. The Huntsmaster pursued him with a leaping zig-zag, weary of incoming fire and ducked when Number 815165 missed, hitting the transport’s ceiling-plating. No longer able to breathe well since broken bones had perforated one of his lungs, the child soldier could still move and albeit slow, he limped to the transport’s port side.
To increase his chances, Number 815165 injected himself with the other half of the Jaern medication. On the move, the regenerative drug was barely able to slow down the internal bleeding, not fix his once badly healed bones. Gnashing with his teeth under the gas mask, the child soldier kept moving for he knew that even a dozen star-seconds time won could mean the salvation of this transport’s entire living cargo.
The surviving hunters were licking their wounds and since the ship’s turrets had stopped firing at them, they assumed themselves victorious. Their Huntsmaster slyly approached and, weary of tricks, produced a stun baton from his weapon belt. One of the hunters, probably a recently proven one, hastily ran at the child soldier and before his leader could stop him, was beheaded by an accurate beam.
Number 815165 dropped his beamgun and with another labored breath, drew the vibroblade, activating it. The three surrounded him, but made no attempts to attack, their leader giving them hand signs to back off. He had successfully stalked the Avern’a. He had nearly broken him. He had the honor of the catch.
Avern’a did not know about action holo-flicks and special effects. To survive they studied tried and true combat techniques, furtive tactics, and honed their iron will. The child soldier knew that if he was lucky, he could maybe attack once. Throwing the blade or swinging it sideways would be beyond stupid. He placed it before himself, and braving the pain, maintained balance with his broken arm.
The Huntsmaster said nothing as he approached, his stun baton hissing and cracking with electrical current. His stalking posture and predation tactics, immaculate. His otherwise older gear used beyond adeptly.
The child soldier would not have exchanged words with his mortal enemies even if his breathing was clear. Instead, he was prepared to run two commands from his PDA. The first, to activate the auto-targeting of the captured transport’s turrets. If he was lucky, the two remaining cannons would fry his enemy. If not... well, he’d run the reactor overload and ensure the doom of the Jaern, make sure the captives did not end up eaten alive. Before he did so, however, the Avern’a made real sure to examine his surroundings.
Eyesight hazy, nevertheless, Number 815165 saw not-so-distant flying dots. These did not look like anything the Jaern or their allies employed, therefore he assumed it was Terr’aan reinforcements. His assumption was confirmed when the PDA flickered to life with an incoming message.
“Sirius Three actual. Survive. The star marines are coming. ETA 55 star-seconds and counting...”
Avern’a women and girls rarely if ever smiled, and their menfolk would never do so. To succeed in his soldierly duty, Number 815165 had to only survive till these Terr’aan marines arrived. Adorned with the tiniest of smirks under his gas mask, the child soldier focused all of his remaining strength. Ignoring the snicker of the three hunters, uncaring of what their leader thought, he ran the first command on his PDA, just as the Huntmaster charged him.
Particle-beams of the size designed to shoot down incoming missiles and small starfighters blasted at his Jaern opponents. Surprised, the cheering three were blasted to smoldering chunks and their leader was forced to dart away. He was singed but alive and safe from the guns since he rolled under the transport’s nearest wing. However, luck once more switched sides as a Jaern shuttle decloaked up in the air, her guns aiming to disable the transport’s remaining turrets.
While this vessel navigated away from the auto-targeting’s best attempts at shooting it down, the Huntmaster attacked. Wasting no time, the skilled hunter leapt at his Avern’a quarry and exactly from his most vulnerable side. Arm broken and internal bleeding filling the child soldier’s lung with blood, Number 815165 had perhaps a few moments before he fell unconscious or zapped asleep by the Jaern-made stun baton.
Whatever happened next, the mission was a success.
The ghosts of this age long war of survival and extermination wailed from the shadows of spectral reality. Neither of them would ever give up. Number 815165 would strike fueled by cold anger and with all of his remaining strength, hoping he could at least would his enemy. Ensuring the doom of as many Jaern as possible would prevent them from preying upon other sentients. After all, one only won when one’s genocidal enemy was rotting in the ground.
The Huntmaster, though he was aware that the Terr’aans were coming, could not just jump on the shuttle and run away. Before doing that, to retain his Jaern honor, he absolutely had to snatch that Avern’a boy!
Number 815165 did not jump or roll away from the vicious swing, for he could no longer move his legs. That he was still standing was a miracle of the soul, his holy will to end the degenerate. Bashed and zapped he was yet, his gas mask’s eyepieces shining with otherworldly glow, the boy attacked. Unconscious, his vibroblade hand nevertheless stabbed at the enemy with the speed and might of the dead who fought. Though the Huntmaster was prudent and indeed, he was skilled, such a thing the Jaern hunter did not expect for he never thought it possible.
There, when the Terr’aan star marines arrived, shot down the enemy shuttle and landed their dropships, they found the two dead. One fell, terror painted over his scarred face, unable to wrestle himself away from the vibroblade which turned his insides into minced meat. And the other? When his last commander, callsign Sirius Three, held the child soldier in his armored hands and removed the gas mask, he saw Number 815165 smiling, happy grin from ear to bloody ear.
The star marines did not cry, nor lament the fall of another noble warrior. They bowed their heads honoring his sacrifice and valor, for they knew full well that the free won even in death.
What a brave boy. Yes there is a wonderful place for the fallen. I am sure that was hard to write. But it could not end any other way.