Lost Numbers
Terran tales
(Art source unknown)
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 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
Chapter 3
Shadows and Dust
Avern’a musicians, poets, and painters kept olden cultural wisdom alive, so those who forged their future could build it upon the sound foundations of hallowed past.
Avern’a architects toiled day and night, double checking their every calculation when designing a safe heaven for their people.
Avern’a engineers and workers poured their heart and soul into every ton of bio-concrete and bar of nano-enhanced metal when they built this shelter.
Avern’a soldiers shed blood, lost limbs, and their minds were ripped to shreds defending it.
Avern’a souls, their bodies maimed and broken bones gnawed dry, they still lingered among these walls their will unrelenting.
“It was not enough,” Number 815165 thought to himself in the few seconds rest he gave his mind from combat cerebration.
There was only one inevitability in life. Everyone born, cloned and all the things manufactured, they had an end. None could evade their doom, no matter how much they wriggled, moaned, defied or bent the laws of the Universe. The uncreated, wretched beings which preyed upon those with life, even those Stygian creatures faced termination.
Number 815165 lay hidden among those who had long since been unalived. Nigh a corpse himself, not a single muscle twitching, limb moving, nor a loud breath escaped his gas mask. The child soldier looked deep into the bony eyes of a fallen brother and his soul smiled with calm abandon. For all Avern’a in this present day death world of theirs, the bunker was where they were born, their home, and their tomb.
Earlier, Number 815165 created all the chaos he needed to ensure his undetected movement. He could now approach the main entrance of Shelter 2021, following three hours of trap warfare. As planned, he did not touch any of the Unproven Jaern hunters, but left their corpses for their superiors to discover. The Avern’a made his way through a section of the bunker which no one dared traverse.
No, the fact there were more traps and mines than other areas was not the reason why, but the nanotech bioweapon and the gene-grafted gas which lurked here still. He had already gathered basic intel, yet to reach and reconnoiter the Jaern base camp without being detected, traversing this deathly corridor was his only logical choice. Otherwise, he would be forced to engage in combat before his mission was complete and Avern’a soldiers always place their task first.
Dust... glittering, moving on its own bunker dust, it now covered him like a shroud. Though the slaughtering nanites within fed only upon Jaern flesh to replicate his people’s ancient bioweapons, and the odorless, invisible to the naked eye and scanning rays nerve gas preyed upon the invader, nothing was set in concrete. The Jaern’s vile allies, the Vaugn Matriarchs, their scientists have developed a nano-enhanced biological agent of their own. In their forlorn attempt to unmake olden Avern’a Wartech, they have only made one of the invisible weapons also deadly to those who once crafted them – the gas.
He observed three Unproven probe this tunnel with their scanners. For a short time they were indecisive, as if arguing the possibility someone like him was still lurking here. In the end, it was their eagerness to prove themselves, look for the last Avern’a where no other Unproven hunter would, what sealed their doom. One by one, they made their way through the first line of broken traps and, following a dozen more slow minutes, approached his hiding place.
There was no point in trying to guess what reaped them, for in one moment they were still alive and lurking forward, and in the other, dead. Through the eyepieces of his mask, the child soldier observed tiny rills seeping unto the corpsified corridor. Still erect, the armored Jaern cadavers, their organs and blood would soon become one with the thick blanket of bunker.
No one lurking behind him, Number 815165 proceeded down the corridor. Just as he was about to navigate across a wider area, once a transport tube hub, the child soldier had an idea. He knelt and, following a few seconds of observation proceeded to bury his gloved hands in the dust. The soldier felt how his fingers disturbed the nanites and, through his eyepieces, witnessed them dance.
To change one corpse-rich environment for another, yet much less gaseous, he only need slink into much taller shadow. Since there were lingering gas clouds there still and the nerve agent could kill through the skin, he restrained himself from sudden movements for at least five star-minutes.
Time ticked differently down here.
One could enter a corridor and emerge from its other end, a second earlier or later than they should. That they may never exit said passage was also quite normal. Many centuries of active warfare, telepathic and otherwise, singed specific fabrics of reality and especially those responsible for expected mundaneness.
Unfortunate, Avern’a loresingers called those engulfed by anomalies.
They sometimes found them, their limbs scattered across the floors or sticking out from the walls and ceilings. The angle which they appeared to have folded back into matter revealed one or another type of abnormality. Often, none would see them until days, months, and even years in the future, where their mummified remains appeared out of thin air. In certain cases, said persons came back into this plane, a ghastly “friend” tagging along for the ride.
Yet the most disliked anomalies were the gravitational and magnetic ones since these interfered with Avern’a ability to successfully traverse their own bunker.
His first year on the line of combat contact, Number 815165 spent carrying supply bags. The contents of said baggies, ammo and bits of food, these were all taken from the Unfortunate. They who learned how to see, hear, and even feel the anomalies were named the fortunate boys. One of the token few six year olds who achieved this, he was bestowed with much greater responsibilities, like carrying the wounded back to safety or important combat missives.
“I fought here,” – remembered Number 815165 as he inspected one ruined by beamfire and vibroblade intersection – “sixty-five times.”
Suddenly, there was a barely noticeable glint and he froze mid-step. Five seconds later he was able to notice the cloaked outlines of a single Jaern hunter laying in ambush at the center of that brutalized intersection. One of the three who had a chat during the previous combat day, it was the rifleman who positioned himself there. A single misstep and the Jaern’s brand new beamgun could end him.
Number 845165 planned his route exactly with said intersection in mind.
The chaos he manifested via traps and IEDs, it did indeed force many a hunter to redeploy, though a sly one remained here. A tiny escape hatch hidden at the end of a nearly crumbled service tunnel was the exit which led topside. To reach it, the child soldier had to bypass the intersection and if he opened fire so close to the surface, the Jaern scanning array, the roving patrols, or both, would easily make his mission impossible to complete.
Jaern hunters loved their gadgets.
Integrated cloaking shields gave them an edge during the hunt, making them practically invisible to the naked eye and more often than not, scanning beams. Integrated scout goggles or hand scanners helped the Jaern locate their prey. Integrated armaments and exoskels made their armored suits a weapon in their own right. These conveniences bred overconfidence and dulled otherwise keen senses, stunting once swift reflexes and slowing sharp minds.
From as early as three years of age, Avern’a boys learned that it wasn’t the armored, armed to the faceplate suit that mattered, but the soldier who wore it.
Number 845165 was absolutely sure that this Jaern was not a holo-decoy since changing gusts of bunker air covered his cloaking field with dust. Clever the muncher thought himself and had programmed an algo, which automatically initiated minute recalibrations of his energy shield. Any cluster of dust particles which threatened to unmask the Jaern hunter fell when the field changed its geometry.
No, the obnoxious cannibal, who maybe believed himself a master hunter, he did not think that if a trained observer paid attention and for a longer period of time, they’d witness dust falling off of nothingness or vanishing into thin air. The fact one was invisible to the eye and scanning beam did not mean they were not there.
The Avern’a soldier swiftly constructed a number of combat scenarios in his mind. He invested a number of seconds to measure each, then pit the appropriate Jaern response to them and finally, picked one which had the greatest chance of success. With movements so slow and careful that few trained eyes could pick among the shadowy graveyard of a corridor, Number 845165 changed weapons, unsheathing his new vibroblade.
A piece of cord woven from threads which were once ancient clothing was expediently tied around his jerry-rigged sound trap. This one he made from the emptied hydration pack, which he filled with air and glued shut, a straw sticking from one end. By pulling the cord, as the air escaped it, the straw would unleash a single breath. The soldier moved about, dusting his gloves and by disturbing the bunker gust, made sure it would linger long enough.
Hand clutching onto the vibroblade, Number 845165 sprinkled what dust he still had on its edges, just in case. He hid under a broken mag-rail slab, the space barely wide enough for a child to crawl under and pulled the cord. As the raspy “breath” danced across broken corridor and walls, the soldier recovered his trigger cord. Many a Jaern hunter may be overconfident, but no Avern’a would dare underestimate them.
Sounds, his ears picked up the motion of one with heavy armor expertly sneaking in his direction. It took about two star-minutes till the cloaked hunter walked near, his shadow of a stance betraying alertness. Dust particles containing slaying nanites ate these shades as soon as the Jaern cloaking field recalibrated to compensate for their presence. Invisible boots left tracks in the debris-full bunker dust aplenty, therefore the child soldier knew exactly where his enemy stepped.
Ready for the kill, Number 845165 had already prepared his vibroblade. As soon as the armored hunter soaked nanite-rich dust aplenty through his cloaking field, the child soldier extended his hand. He did not cleave the Jaern’s thick limbs, nor engage the towering monstrosity in a melee which he’d most probably lose. If the enemy was to fire his augmented beamgun, from point-blank range even a grazing shot would be deadly.
What the boy needed was a but a scratch, a gentle cut even.
Cut near the heel by a vibroblade activated a split second before it hit, his reaction augmented by the exoskeleton, the Jaern swirled and leapt a couple of steps back, his barely visible arms aiming the rifle. To do more, like pushing its trigger button for example, the cannibal had no time. Blood swarming with vigorously replicating ancient Avern’a nanites, the Jaern was no longer capable of doing anything for he was dying. Indeed, had the dust Number 845165 sprinkled in the air was not still laden with nerve gas molecules, his enemy would’ve lived long enough to fire one singular, deadly particle-beam.
A few minutes passed.
Crawling under the slab, the Avern’a soldier sheathed his deactivated vibroblade. As he expediently left the area, pouring dust whenever he left any visible tracks, the collapsed maintenance duct came into his view. He moved the piece of debris which kept it hidden, entered, and closed it shut behind him. In a couple of minutes, the soldier had achieved the first part of his mission and, bathed by the crying chemical rain Avern’a sky, approached the Jaern base camp.
Towering, the cloaked Jaern corpse was still kept standing by his exoskeleton. The shield, its automation tirelessly shedding off dust particles, it still concealed him. There the once skilled and brutal hunter stood, clad in his armored shell of nigh unmatched technological supremacy, undone by a handful of dust and a single cut to the heel.
Fellow Terrans, if you are willing and able to support my work here on Substack, grab a book!
What a great chapter!
Killed by dust what a brilliant idea.