The Province Of Terrans
A Starshatter adventure
My Terrans, Sci-Friday dawned once more!
Again, you voted and commented in overwhelming numbers. In this chapter you will begin to understand the horrid nature of modern space age slavery. The terrifying veil of parasitic exploitation is slowly lifted, allowing you to see the foul mug underneath. Yet, the ex-slaves are now clad in Terran garbs, united under their own flag!
What will Vinson do?
Read and find out why those who once ravaged Fringe Space, raped, pillaged, and enslaved with impunity are getting cold feet.
Enjoy this chapter and keep voting, my friends. As you see I have written a number of Tanka for Terran-Tuesday. The more and longer your comments, the more ammunition I have for said poem.
For those of you new to VYOA, this is a story of interactive nature, where you, the reader, choose one of three paths standing before the main character. Your vote is the guiding force of this adventure!
With one week between the chapters, there is more than enough time for you to make your decision. Share the story with your friends on Substack, see if they support your choice or vote a different way. Voting cycle will end each Thursday so I may have enough time to complete the chapter.
Those who like can discuss the protagonist’s options and I promise to answer your questions concerting Terran culture, philosophy, and worldbuilding to the best of my ability!
If you like what you read, consider buying any of my published works.
Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15
Chapter 7
Pirates
For the entirety of next day and night the Morale Officer worked with conviction and feverish determination. When his final design was completed, the two engineers went to work and produced plenty of kits, enough for every militia member. They even found time to spray-paint the otherwise gray metallic fabric and threads. The standard cammo coloring would make it easier for militiamen to conceal themselves in this mountainous terrain.
Indeed, the end result looked quite like what commandos on old Earth would wear during the second world war. Patches, blobs, and sticks of gray were surrounded by black, dark-blue, green, and brown. Thus, even if they were not fully wrapped in their chameleo-cloaks, one would find it quite hard to notice them.
Vinson decided to go full old school when he designed the new uniforms. No modern amenities like portable mag-slots for holding gear or ammo... no, nothing like that. Those were great for fully fledged suits of armor, but not here, on a planetoid rife with magnetic anomalies. Imagine yourself stalking the enemy when, suddenly, your ammo pouch rattles on the ground.
At worst you and your entire element would get promptly shot and at best, you'll be running away leaving all of your ammo to your enemy.
Comfortable belts made from sturdy vacfoam sported all manner of pouches and pockets, perfect for holding a militiaman's light gear. Those people were light infantry and all of their hefty gear, like the bulky spare power packs for their shoulder-held heavy laser was spread between a couple of them. Thus, no one was overburdened with too much weight, enabling them to move swiftly as a unit.
The sleeves and pants were long and the neck sported extended collar, which offered extra protection. Everything that could be fitted with light-weight, flexible megasteel plates, was. This meant that they were offered good protection against grenade shrapnel and concussion blasts, including particle-beams.
Yet what made this easy on the legs armor truly a marvel of Terran-made battlefield uniforms was the energy absorbing underlay. Much akin to the gambeson of yore, it “cushioned” beam hits, spared the soldier from the worst of it. Of course, there were shoulder, elbow, and knee padding since it was expected of them to lie or crouch in ambush for hours on end, and in extremely uncomfortable positions.
Arranged into a still somewhat loose but orderly formation, the not so long ago civilians looked quite proper in their brand new uniforms. Boots, good on their feet, made a soft sound even when they stomped hard during their drill training. For two days they've been running, crawling, shooting at mock targets, and of course, marching. It was the end of the second day and Vinson assembled them to the garage, where he'd unveil their banner.
Those of them chosen to operate the stealthy Wire missiles took turns dry-shooting on a simple contraption crafted by Master Sergeant Blam. They've connected the missile's trigger control mechanism to one of the desktop computers, allowing for speedy basic training without munition wastage. The most athletic women, those who displayed an aptitude and had already healed wounds in the past, were designated field medics.
Those who knew how to read, spent all hours in between drills studying medical holo-files. As a test, Vinson made them carry light-weight stretchers loaded with spare gear, as they recited all they've learned from memory. Two of them could evacuate one wounded man from the battlefield and carry him to the nearest triage tent. They had to organize these, before people began dying from lack of medical care.
Vinson was well aware that they couldn't spare enough time to train every skill, therefore he focused on the basics. So far, they had been quick to follow his every command and perform each training task with notable enthusiasm. When the lingering memory of their old masters' obnoxious ordering followed by beatings and torture was replaced with hopeful instruction and inspirational leadership, any leftover weariness melted like spring snow.
“Militia, atteeention!” – Noln shouted.
There was not a shred of doubt or confusion in their eyes, when they stood at attention, right fists hitting their chest. All gazes were practically glued to their brand new standard. Covered by a weather-resistant casing, the banner was attached to a spear, one that could be easily wielded in battle, its vibroblade tip capable of slaying armored foes. Woven together from poly-plastic, energy resistant fibers, and megasteel threads, the standard's marvelous colors were drawn in high-quality space paint.
“At ease.” – Followed the Morale Officer when he returned their salute.
In good order they followed his command, hands crossed behind their backs.
“You are slaves no more.” – Vinson said, articulating each word with marvelous to listen to timbre.
His voice reverberated through them with such power that their hearts skipped a beat. It was as if most came to this realization just now, two full star-years after they revolted against their masters and came to establish their new lives here, guided by old George.
“Though you begin this fight without much training and experience, I assure you, it is you who will bring an end to it!” – continued he and their weary faces lightened when they saw his tranquil smile.
Vinson removed their banner's covering and unfurled it so they could see the flag in all its glory. Indeed, creating something like this for a group comprised of Lothorians and Taksians was not an easy task, and for anyone else but a Terran Morale Officer, nigh impossible. Yet following a round of short interviews, Vinson gathered enough information and achieved a marvelous feat.
During the terraformation of this planetoid, small animals and bugs were introduced to populate its new ecosystem, the humble raccoon among them. The ex-slaves witnessed one of these critters fight against a long snake. His newborn and their mother behind him, the father raccoon crushed the serpent with a rock and then promptly... ate it. To say that this scene made an impression was an understatement. They remembered and still talked about it two years after the fact, hopeful smiles on their worn-out faces when they recanted one or another detail.
Before their eyes was a square blue flag with green and silver fingers. At its center a gray raccoon with glowing red eyes held a bloodied rock raised above his head, the serpent's stoned body lying before his feet. “We are Prey no more!” Vinson inscribed in Fringe Speak with golden letters above the raccoon's head. The flag's green fingers were woven to resemble Lothoria's signature crop, the Nekhtu plant. The silver ones were in the shape of a spanner-like tool; one the forever-toiling in their factories Taksians were all too familiar with.
“Never forget what you once suffered,” – said Vinson and paused, pointing his gloved hand at them – “now clad in Terran garbs, unbowed, united under one banner.”
“Hear this and remember!” – shouted the Morale Officer – “Your children will sleep safe and sound, only when their would-be enslavers rot quietly in the ground.”
Following his words, heavy, thick silence conquered their ranks. Men with pregnant wives gnashed their teeth and many a young medic teared up. Emotions aside, they did not move from their spot in their formation. Many shot a look at the temporary babysitting area that Blam and Pews built from leftover containers and vacfoam strips. The two hamsters often entertained their children when they had some free time on their hands. A makeshift sound dampener device made sure that none of the shouting and boot stomping disturbed the little ones' slumber.
“Space pirates, vicious and skilled they may be, yet, compared with you, they have nothing to fight for!” – Vinson's demeanor was so calm, that when he spoke these words with such honest fervor, in their eyes his tall figure became shrouded in wholesome glow.
“Those who mar their blades with the blood of innocents for glittering trinkets or cling to some demented conqueror's honor are not in the habit of laying down their lives for each other.”
The Morale officer made a short pause, his electrifying gaze studying the men and women standing before him.
“I say, slaughter all your fears of the Slaver, the Pirate, and the Narco! If you should shake in fear, then let it be the terror of failure! The knowing that if your blade should miss, your aim falter, and your determination weaken, then there will be no free future for them!” – stated Vinson as he gesticulated at the babysitting area, where Pews had just ran a circle with one baby girl held above his fluffy head.
It was Noln's smiling daughter, Elle...
Vinson marched one step forward.
His gloved hands moved with ritual precision as he gently lowered the flag without it touching the floor.
“Repeat after me.” – said the Morale Officer with a smile and placed his hand on his chest.
“From this star-hour forth till my dying breath, I am a free soldier of the Terran Minarchy. I will fight not for conquest, but to protect what my neighbors and I earned by the sweat of our brow. I am ready and willing to pay the full price of freedom. Now and forevermore, I will live and die for others!”
Vinson waited after each sentence till all of them repeated it. Most swore their oaths, grim smiles adorning their faces, yet there was plenty of salty water in their eyes.
“Militia, march forward and kiss the flag!” – Noln bellowed and made one step towards the banner, kneeling before it.
“Remember,” – Vinson reminded them as Noln kissed the flag – “during their service, a Terran soldier may kneel only on three occasions! First before the flag, a hallow symbol of their life-saving, soldiery vocation. Second, to pick up another weapon and enable the doom of their enemy. Third and last, when they lay their fallen brothers and sisters in arms into the grave.”
Their oath given and flag honored, the men and women returned to their positions. Vinson lifted the flag up, turned with a graceful step and again with ritualistic moves, offered the flag to Noln. He assumed lead of the unit and was ready to order a slow honor march around the underground's main habitat, when a shrill siren boomed in the air.
“Sir, a pirate ship just made a hyperjump and is entering orbit.” – Blam's report sounded from Vinson's PDA, adding a second after that – “Fleet raider class.”
“There is sumfin else.” – and the hamster chuckled when he spoke – “They be asking for our surrender, Sir.”
Vinson raised an eyebrow. He was not surprised by this turn of events, but the amount of star-days it took the enemy to arrive. They were given not two, but close to four days of time to prepare.
“Noln, come with me to the Ops center. The rest of you, get some chow and rest.” – the Morale Officer said as he saluted the newly minted soldiers – “Trust me, you are going to need it.”
The men said nothing as they ran down one of the corridors and entered a lift. It took a few minutes for the speedy carriage to get them where they needed to be. Sliding on mag-rails, this was to be their efficient way to move under the mountain. Up, down, or horizontally, the three carriages could fit a squad worth or the same weight in supplies and equipment.
Cargo doors slid open with a hiss and the two entered their underground command center. Fitted with all sorts of subsystems cannibalized from small starships, optic and plasma cables hung on the walls or the ceilings. At the center of it all was a server tower, which George's great-granddaughter gifted when he announced his intent to build this facility.
Blam sat behind the main Ops console; the holo of one alien man clad in a heavily-armored spacesuit glowing up in the air. George stood away from the holo-cams and twirled his mustache, sizing up the Clanner. Nearby, behind another computer terminal sat Noln's wife, Fan. She had been coming here, reading everything medical related she could, in preparation for triage duty. Her frightened eyes were locked at the towering hologram and she nearly leapt from the chair when Noln touched her shoulder.
Vinson saw her tremble like a leaf, when the pirate captain repeated his declaration:
“...Those are the terms of our magnanimous offer... In accordance with Galactic Assembly's laws of Eternal Servitude, all items of stolen property must be returned. Offspring, had the items in question produced such, again by the grace of my employer, is to be freed. All blame for your transgressions will fall on the Terr'aan who instigated you to rebel. Disarm yourselves and proceed towards these coordinates in an orderly, obedient fashion. For a limited time only, my employer offers you a generous bonus. If you should deliver the Terr'aan into our hands, you will all be spared the whip and supplied one star-month worth of provisions. You have twelve star-hours to comply.”
The Clanner's facial emote was practically non existent. This was just yet another simple, easy job to him. In this instance, he and his force of star warriors were bodyguards and not conquering starships. The surrender demand was worded in such a manner, that Vinson wondered if they even expected serious resistance. The pirates must have realized that someone here had taken permanent care of their scout shuttle and her crew.
“Reply.” – Ordered the pirate captain – “We know you are receiving our comms.”
George stepped into the holo-cam view when Blam motioned with his paw that their reply link is coded. The emergency loudspeakers made it possible for everyone to listen to this conversation and those near integrated terminals, watch.
“Listen here you-” – the oldster paused, looking for the appropriate word to address the Clanner – “you leech. If you dream that those people will forfeit their future for some crumbs, you are sorely mistaken.”
Witnessing the Terran's face, the pirate displayed some emotion.
“They'll suffer and then... die.” – said he with a heartless, vicious smile, as if hoping that the people would resist so he could slaughter them.
“What is life but wholesome days, interrupted by suffering and untimely death all caused by the likes of you?” – retorted the grandpa.
Deliberately, the Clanner moved rather close to his holo-cam. Everyone could witness the battle scars dotting his armorplating, and the vicious-looking weapons mag-locked on his belt. A super heavy particle-beam pistol was paired with a vibro sword of masterful construction. More, these items appeared in perfect condition despite their apparent frequent use.
The pirate unleashed a chortle, revealing two rows of filed, razor-sharp metal teeth:
“They know their master is deciding their doom, yes?”
“They can hear every word, even see your ogleh mog in hig-def and no, them lads and lasses are their own masters now.” – and the oldster twirled his mustache – “Now, about that obedient disarming of guns. Ye haff to pry them from me dead fingers, but onleh after I used up all me ammo. An' lemme tell ya, I haff lots and lots of em.”
There followed a long uncomfortable silence since the pirate captain's intimidation attempt was utterly wasted on the old Brit. People from George's generation survived years of suffering and languished in chains in the concentration camps. The grizzled oldster could care less for some alien bully's oh-so-scary grin or his vile declaration.
“One man, even a scary Terr'aan, would make no difference.” – a woman's voice broke the silence as she joined the conversation.
Dressed in an opulent business attire, her impossibly voluptuous figure stood beside the captain's hulking, armored shapes. Definitely the product of one rather skilled gene-graft surgeon, her body appeared to be cybernetically augmented. Eyes, skin, and Universe knew what else underneath, this Taz'aran female looked like the typical Corpo exec. She even wore a brooch on her suit's lapel, signifying who she worked for.
“Now listen to me you geezer and listen good!” – waggling her finger, the woman spoke with authoritarian tone polished on many office floors and conference rooms – “Either you return the property of Gahen Inc. or... I'll be forced to ask my dear Captain Zhur to take a stroll down there.”
When she addressed Zhur her tone changed a wee bit, yet that was only for a few seconds.
Fan covered her mouth as she sobbed, tears running down her face. Her muffled, quiet moans were unsettling to behold, and stirred the mind of even one as iron willed as Vinson. As an experienced morale officer, it was easy to notice the source of Fan's inner pain. Especially when Noln threw looks full of despite at the female corpo, as he gently caressed his wife's scarred arms in an attempt to calm her down.
No, Vinson didn't have to imagine it; slavers, no matter their clothing, their business was pain.
The Morale Officer cracked his neck, fixed his immaculate gloves, and took a deep breath. Ready to don his most vicious of Terran smiles, one reserved for the most degenerate slaving filth, he prepared to step into the holo-camera's focus.
“True,” – agreed the aforementioned captain, his facial expression back to the heartless mask he started the conversation with – “what can a star warrior do but obey, especially when asked by such a lovely employer as Director Berul.”
“I assure you dear captain, it'll be a stroll to remember.” – Said Vinson as he made his way behind George's chair, cape still twirling after his long, powerful step.
For a few moments, pirate and corpo exec looked at him, utter confusion plastered on their faces.
The Taz'aran woman exclaimed – “Wait... there are two of them? No matter! Terr'aans bleed too.”
Captain Zhur's otherwise brutal demeanor had abruptly changed. It wasn't uncontrollable rage nor fear, yet Vinson's extensive knowledge of sentient nature revealed wariness and even a little bit of panic.
“No, this Terr'aan is different!” – Zhur spat through his metal teeth – “He wears the trappings of a war liar. One who mind-whips runaway slaves, turning them into bloodthirsty zealots.”
They all had to be careful! This Clanner was no fool even though the source of his information was clearly some anti-Terran propaganda outlet.
“Interesting choice of words coming from someone who venerates the dark between the stars and demands new recruits to fight to the death.” – retorted smiling Vinson, as he casually fixed his tall cap.
The Clanner's eyes widened a bit and he spoke with a slightly elevated tone – “Unproven men always mock us, yet our star warriors have dominated Fringe Space for countless centuries. We are ruling it still!”
Now, Vinson could handily employ his vast knowledge of the Terran Word to achieve a different set of goals. However, he had to be careful since his enemies weren't some gaggle of daft underlings. Fleet of mind, the Morale Officer had three distinct choices and each was viable in the long run.
(One) Zhur's reply showed him that vicious as he was, this man had a hole in his armor. Vinson was well aware of Clanner ways, their Hierarchy, hypocritical honor, demented religion, and ritualistic ways of warfare. He could further stab and twist a word dagger, make sure that Zhur became mentally unbalanced. Ensuring that Clan star warriors would be led by raging emotion instead of a cold, logical mind. Mistakes caused by impulsive decisions lost wars. Even if this advantage lasted a few days and Captain Zhur wizened up, it was still worth the try.
(Two) Sly as she was, that obnoxious Corpo bitch could also be manipulated. It did require a different approach, yet the Terran Word provided an option even in cases like this. The Morale Officers would suffer great pain and die in order to ensure the survival and future of the free. Greedy, delusional Corpos only cared for their fat, short term profits, people be damned. Director Berul probably had a tight deadline and her otherwise considerable funds weren't limitless. She held Captain Zhur's contract and he, obliged to comply. Therefore, if she suddenly demanded hasty solutions, the militia could exploit those and inflict a lot of damage.
(Three) Vinson didn't have to look back to know that Fan and probably many others relived their torturous memories. A “war liar” the Clanner called him... Degenerates, just you wait! He would use this golden opportunity and significantly embolden the ex-slaves' will. Those tortured people wouldn't object watching their vile old mistress and her hired goon getting a proper mental demolishing. Indeed, the Morale Officer Handbook had quite the elaborate choice words in print for parasites like the slavers; be they Corpos or Clanners. Oftentimes the Word was just as mighty as the Rifle or the Vibroblade. In this instance, perhaps even mightier...
(*_*_*)
Dear reader, please do not forget to post your pick in the comments below, and elaborate upon why you think our protagonist should do so.
One for sure. Word dagger!
Definitely three, bro.