Never alone

Guardians

Index:

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | 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.

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Chapter 2

Einar spent one entire month practicing, training with his railgun pistol on the firing range. A number of skilled teachers instructed him in the proper battlefield application of various techniques. Though he knew how to properly handle his large Tokarev sidearm, the Office offered him advanced firearm training and he gladly accepted it.

The Sirius training facility was rumored to always house a lot of extra personnel; junior officers preparing for their final exams, veterans recuperating from dangerous missions, and many competent instructors. It was therefore a thoughtful choice on Einar’s part to hone his ability with the one weapon, he was probably least skilled with.

Not one to slip into a false sense of superiority, he ran his now usual physical training regimen. Advised by the space biker who sold him his Tokarev pistol, Einar adopted a new, daily exercise routine.

“Five mile run a day, five hundred push-ups, five dozen pull-ups, and a hundred squats for good measure.” – the bulky human said.

This type of training – it did work, he was beginning to see and feel the results.

Though the last part of the human’s advice, something about “bending the old megasteel bar” kind of sounded a tad bit outlandish to him. He did look for a piece of rebar steel and then twisted, bent it more than a couple of times. Einar quickly got bored of this peculiar exercise and could not decide if that adorable human was poking friendly fun at him or being serious.

After all, Asgardians were many, many times stronger than the average sentient of medium size.

After a long meeting with the commander of this facility, an elderly human by the name of Marten, Einar was informed that the junior officer he was to be paired with was delayed somewhere else. Chief training officer Marten Sole, offered sage, fatherly advice, and answered nearly all queries the young Asgardian had about the Office. Moreover, the veteran informed Einar that he was now part of a novel troop exchange program.

This promising initiative, like many similar life-saving ventures, was jump-started by prudent strategists and wise businesspeople. Terrans who, after witnessing what the state of newly-liberated planets like Lothoria and Avern’a was, expressed grave concerns. These experienced people feared that certain groups would attempt to prey upon the unarmed native populations, exploit security gaps and otherwise keep doing what the planets’ previous masters were doing. One could imagine the terrible worry, up until recently, that these people suffered from under the yoke of their oppressors.

What if some slimy Narco Boss or a band of Pirates attacked and enslaved them again?!

Einar discovered that as one of the many and promising youths, recruited into this “Phalanx” organization, he was to receive some form of field support. During every operation, if available, the junior morale officer and their guardian, would be given command of local forces. In this case, the untested in battle young warrior was to be deployed somewhere on Lothoria.

When, where and most importantly, who would be his companion, Einar knew not. Apparently, specialists from the Office had their hands full at the moment; virtually all of their resources had been stretched to the limit.

Not one to ponder too much over matters which he had absolutely no control over, Einar kept training. He aced all tests his instructors placed before him, and in the end of that star-month, was bestowed with the title “Melee marksman”. As soon as his training had ended, he recognized why were these teachers hailed as some of the very best in the entire Office.

Handgun and warrior became one; so familiar was Einar with his gun, that he could field strip his M5 blindfolded. Moreover, he could reload the Tokarev with lightning speed and his aim hadn’t merely improved. He learned how to effectively hit his mark while engaged in melee regardless of range. Einar would aim well and aim with prudence, as to not accidentally shoot an ally.

The time all consumed with constant, grueling training, Einar had no opportunity to stroll around. It would be boring if he’d simply walked, PDA map loaded, trying to visit one or another important site just by himself. Sirius was one of the largest Terran colonies and by far one of the oldest. The place had forged for itself a reputation most legendary; no matter what they attempted, the invading Clanners and their Taz’aran allies failed to conquer it.

Back on Midgaard, Einar was told tales about this colony, most of which sounded fanciful – more akin to ancient legends than living history. Aliens and Terrans said that Sirius’s very air choked the invader. The ground split beneath the enemy’s feet to swallow them whole and instead of water, acid rained down upon their heads. Sirius’s merciless clouds showered the invader; melting armor, and rendering most of his weapons useless...

As luck would have it, the very next star-day, after young Einar had completed his weapon training, a link from Commander Marten came. Summoned to the main barracks, he quickly, but carefully dashed there, overly-anxious to finally meet his companion. The link told him that the junior officer candidate had finally arrived and awaited him in the mess hall.

The usual prudent architecture of Terran barracks and by that matter, morale officer training centers, required one mess hall “type” of a room. The Office modified theirs, and instead of being used just for recreation activities or a place to eat, it often housed ceremonies. Hall of life they called it, and a grand arrangement of battle flags, holo-paintings of heroes adorned its walls.

Banners from all over this part of Fringe space, even some belonging to members of the Star Alliance, gently fluttered, when people’s movements stirred the air. They hung from the ceiling and Einar had to bow his head many a time, lest he disturb the sanctity of these imposing trappings.

The eternal flame, burning in honor of the fallen, shone from its metallic, circular pedestal positioned in the hall’s center. Flanked on two sides by a lion and an eagle; these small, yet intricately crafted statues, gently bowed their heads, eyes fixated at the flame.

Near this time of day, the Hall of life was mostly empty since the bulk of the trainees had dined and, well rested, joined their friends out on the training grounds.

Kneeling before the flame, Einar’s eyes spotted a young human man with a tall, athletic build. Perhaps no older than seventeen, the junior officer wore near spartan-like armored uniform, complete with a half-cape and a peaked cap. Cut short to follow morale officer dress code, nevertheless bright red in color, the man’s hair struck out from under the blue cap.

Slung on a vacfoam strap and on his back, there was a sturdy-looking submachine gun. A sure sign of veterancy, spare power packs could be seen on the weapon’s strap, locked on a jury-rigged maglock plate. On the left side, sheath maglocked to the human’s belt, Einar glimpsed the sight of the iconic, stormtrooper vibrodagger.

Over his armored uniform he wore reinforced beam proof vest, megasteel plated boots and gloves. Placed on the back slot of his belt, there was a portable medical pouch, which medics or trained in first aid troopers carried their backup medisprays in.

This youth’s posture virtually screamed preparedness!

“Grateful I am to you, oh Ascended Elders of Peace. Blessed be all who sacrificed your lives to save another! I will uphold my Oath of Office and follow your example, Heroes of the Minarchy.”

Finally, the junior officer stood up, turned around and, after witnessing the towering figure of Einar, saluted him by hitting his chest with his gloved fist. A pair of dark blue eyes met Einar’s and the youth smiled, before bellowing out his greeting:

“I am junior officer candidate Holden, glad to finally meet you, Asgardian!”

Smirking after returning his salute, Einar offered a finger, which the human enthusiastically shook.

“Einar is my name and I belong to no family or clan, for I am an orphan.”

“No Terran is truly alone!” – The human blurted out assuringly, and after studying Einar’s somewhat confused expression for a few seconds, said:

“We are to receive our first orders as a team tomorrow. Tell me, Einar, have you visited any of this colony’s places of importance? It is a great opportunity to chat, learn more about one another, before they send us who knows where.”

“This is a great idea! Let me grab my backpack and gear.”

Holden raised an eyebrow, thumbs resting on his belt and Einar elaborated:

“In is not polite to visit places where other warriors fell in honorable combat, unarmed. Tis olden Asgardian tradition, you see...”

Both young men soon exited the barracks; Holden waited for his new companion until he was fully armed. Then they boarded one of Sirius’s many transport tubes – this particular tube would ferry them to the “Last Line Monument.” It took less than half star-hour for the efficient and quite comfortable Maglev transport to reach its destination.

The duo spent their short travel exchanging pleasantries and talking about casual issues. Einar shared some details of his childhood, told Holden a couple of short tales, described his daily toils on the starport. The junior moral officer in his stead spoke about training, duty, and explained who gave him his signature weapons.

Einar discovered that the dagger was truly of stormtrooper design. The Human received it as a graduation gift, after passing basic vibro weapon training with honors. His snub railgun was also a present; Holden successfully fought off four Push’va pirates, during what was supposed to be a routine survival training.

It was a small mining camp built on some barely terraformed planetoid.

The pirates assumed it an easy target and its few dozen colonists, theirs to enslave. Holden noticed that the colony was under attack and, after a remarkable feat of athleticism, attacked the clanners’ rear. During the battle his laser pistol was destroyed, hit by a stray particle beam. Impressed by his quick thinking, fleet of foot, and aim, the local miners gave him their best, most august weapon.

Its folded stock covered with kill notches; this venerable Bulgarian Eagle SZ-50 has seen much use on the battlefield. Einar was not surprised when his companion stated that he spent more than one month on the firing range. Union between warrior and weapon of peace was the best way to ensure the safety of oneself and others, Holden calmly stated. At this point, having lived among morale officers for one month, the young warrior accepted everything they said, as if it came from the mouth of a learned Asgardian elder.

Walking uphill, towards the monument, Holden adopted a grimmer, more serious facial expression. Well versed in Terran history, moreover, there was a white blue, megasteel patch, in the shape of Sirius’s main star on his shoulder. Einar now knew this signified that the person who wore it was a survivor of the Sirius War. Indeed, the young man was no older than seventeen, he’d confirmed that himself, during their travel.

A few long minutes rolled by, while they examined the monument’s towering composition of statues and murals. Each built from sturdy concrete, reinforced with metal taken from derelict Terran peace machines. Blown up laser or railgun cannons, tanks, shuttles – every little piece was reused. Cold metal now shaped warm, lively-looking faces, wearing calm, even happy smiles. Einar read somewhere that became one of Sirius’s most cherished traditions – people went to their deaths smiling.

“I was a baby when Sirius was invaded.” – Holden’s finger pointed at the nearest statue.

“Because the fighting was so vicious and people had so few foodstuffs left, most parents placed their babes in portable stasis chambers.”

The Human turned around, and Einar immediately noticed that Holden’s gaze changed. It has become weighed with sorrow, layered sadness and much pain. Only once had the Asgardian witnessed such a thing and that was when he looked after the dying of old age sword master. Eyes which carried in it the reflections of those who were long gone, the gaze of the honored dead.

“I remember all-engulfing, constant terror. My mind is still overflowing with their pain-filled wallows and the sound of my father’s helpless crying...”

He made a short pause, eyeing another statue; it was a young boy, portrayed sitting behind the controls of a starfighter. Damaged the machine looked, and that youth pilot was mortally wounded, his blood-soaked spacesuit patched up with odd wire and pieces of scrap. Einar couldn’t tear his eyes from the face of this long-dead pilot – he had the very same gaze which Holden sported now.

“Dead, they went into the thickest of battle to protect us, already dead. Whomever was still alive; any wounded who could walk, they all carried one stasis chamber each. When ammunition was basically non-existent, many a soldier gave their last power packs and charged into battle with empty rifles, daggers or... barehanded. One pack per chamber kept a baby safe in stasis for many, many days. When possible, people scavenged for weapons and not to use in combat, defend themselves, but for their power packs. Survivors oftentimes hid in caves or ruined bunkers, where the air was permeated with Taz’aran bio-weapons or poisonous gas. Writhe in agony, lying on the freezing cold floors, they breathed what little air was left, while toxic clouds lingered above them. People had no food, no clean water, and most were forced to drink their poorly filtered piss. Those who carried us were dying of hunger, but persevered, always one bloody crawl away from the invader.”

Einar attempted to imagine, but stopped himself... Indeed, perhaps the only thing even remotely close to what had occurred here on Sirius, was when the Golden Dawn ravaged his hometown. Yet that was a rather short, and even though a most painful, disturbing occurrence, not nearly as horrid as what Humans here had to have suffered through.

“When I say that a Terran is never alone, this is what I mean.”

Holden’s gently shaking armored hand touched the statue of a one-handed girl; depicted dragging with her a number of stasis chambers.

“Those who carried us while they were dying themselves... now it is our turn! We will carry their sparks, until our time comes.”

The sculptor who depicted that girl was truly skilled! Einar could see her hunger-ravaged face, eyes sunken, and skin near-transparent. She looked as if still there, crawling to safety, a gang of Clanners and Taz’arans chasing behind her.

It cost Einar much to keep his composure after his eyes finally noticed the smile adorning her parched lips. Profoundly affected and shaken to his very core, the young Asgardian vowed to his ascended ancestors that when his last hour came, he would face his doom with the same deathly determination. The smile he was sure would be near impossible to replicate...

“There!” – Holden’s finger pointed at each statue in quick succession – “There do I see my fathers, and my mothers!”

His hand aimed at a newly-arrived group of children, the junior morale officer stated:

“There do I see my brothers and my sisters!” – Both fists then hit his chest at the same time with a loud thump and sporting the eternal smile of Sirius’s fallen, Holden spoke:

“I am one of the ‘Carried’ – now, forever, and until my hour comes, a morale officer. Saving lives is my duty! Though I can never repay those who carried me, their last breath upon their lips, I WILL make sure that,” – and he nodded at the monument – “never happens again.”

“Never alone... we are never... alone.” – Einar barely uttered and then knelt before the girl’s statue.

Proud Asgardian warriors never groveled, they rarely even knelt and only before their noble liege. Sacrifice of such magnitude deserved eternal reverence, moreover, it was an example for him most powerful. The trail of pain, blood, and sorrow, which these people left behind was one to be admired and... followed.

To the last torturous step!

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