Index: Planetfall | Doom denied
Light.
Out of the burning, saturated with arching electricity cloud, overcharged shields glistening, gracefully floated a Terran dropship. Kneeling under the protective dome was the shadow of death, the one who made this slave enclosure a mass-grave for the Taz’aran “heroes.”
The small child he hid in a wall crevice earlier was safe in his arms, and, as soon as the burning cloud evaporated, he stood up. The few surviving Avern’a slaves, terrified by massacre and writhing flame, all huddled around him. Their bodies tormented and minds broken, nevertheless they were now safe and most importantly, free.
His rage satiated, the dusty gale finally abandoned these ruins. It ran across the bleak Avern’a skies, in endless search for other morbid places to howl and sandblast all over. Dragging behind him was a huge swarm of orange, light bending clouds, who immediately unleashed a downpour of chemical rain. Tiny, invisible to the naked eye droplets splashed everywhere, vanishing with a thousand hisses when they collided with the energy shield.
The dropship almost touched ground, hovering about one foot up, its grav-drives dead silent. The ship’s side doors opened, revealing a roomy interior, dimly lit by blueish lights. Two of the vessel’s six woman crew awaited there, medical scanners and other gear in hand. Aided by their fully visible savior, the Avern’a embarked this craft with silent gratitude. Their homeland was visited many a time by benevolent off-worlders, who risked life and limb to help them.
“Where is the last one?” – Asked one of the medics General Gareth, and handed her over the skeleton of a girl.
“Our EWS shuttle tracked him loading into a Jaern grav vehicle. It was one of the munchers’ scout tanks, used primarily for forced reconnaissance and arty plotting. They were flying eastward, before the target cloaked and we finally lost its sensor shadow thanks to that wind.” – Reported the woman, while she scanned her barely alive patient.
“We are free Terran people and came here to help. You and every other Avern’a rescued by us will be given medical attention, food, and then safely evacuated to our starship. It is not our Way to leave the people we’ve just saved to fend on their own.” – The General addressed his guests in Fringe Speak, noticing that they fully understood his words.
“Do any of you know if these slaving scum have a hidden base nearby?” – Gareth tried his luck asking the ex-slaves for information.
“Thank you for giving us back our Life, Terr’aan.” – Spoke up the one handed man, while the medic sanitized his gory wound.
“Before my capture, I was among those who fight, and I know much of the surrounding lands. There is an underground Jaern fire-base, very close, deep in the ‘Silver hand’ hills. Built only a dozen star-years ago, and according to our sources, doubles as barracks for alien guests of the Jaern.”
“Show me.” – Asked Gareth, after he ordered his VI to project a holo-map of the area.
The man lifted up his severed hand first and his eye twitched, before he marked the aforementioned Silver hand hills on the map.
“We no longer have enough warriors to mount an attack... any attacks. I assure you, the base is there, full of all kinds of vile foreign ‘helpers,’ and very much operational.” – Said the man with the utmost expression of pain on his face.
Coughing blood he fainted in the medic’s exoskeleton assisted arms, his battered body succumbed to blood loss, and trauma.
“It seems to be in my combat area.” – With terrible calm whispered Gareth, watching how she placed the unconscious Avern’a into one of their medical stasis chambers.
He placed his hand on the chamber’s lid and promised:
“Rest assured, the Jaern and their ‘helpers’ shan’t be operational for much longer.”
* * *
The noble woke up on a medibed surrounded by medical staff.
At first he assumed they’d just operated and fitted him with cyber-tech, but after fidgeting for a few star-seconds, he felt no pain from his back. The shape of a bulky Jaern, one of their evolved hunters, loomed over him. Noticing that the techs did their jobs, he politely retired them with a wave of his muscular, clawed hand. Quite unusual seeing a bunch of Taz’aran doctors and nurses taking orders from a Jaern, but that was a strange planet.
“My commander would like to present you with his sincerest apologies, Lord Count.” – Stated with passable Taz’aran his host and gently snapped once with his lower jaws.
“I am sure that neither I, nor your commander, could’ve predicted such an unfortunate turn of events. Our vacation was cut short and in a most deadly manner nonetheless.” – Feeling surprisingly refreshed said the Count and asked:
“By the way, how long was I... ?”
“The medical techs used nanobots to fix your cracked vertebrae and then injected you with our best quality medigel. They did everything by the books, and it only took them three star-hours to fully regenerate your wounds, Excellency.” – Answered his unfinished question the Jaern.
The Count then slowly rose from his bed and moved faster, when it became clear that he was not experiencing any of the usual post-medigel dizziness.
“As per our agreement, the techs have finished repairs on your armored suit, your Lordship. Of course, no one has touched the memory crystals of its computer.”
The Count winced and then unleashed a sad sigh. Pity not for the lost hunting companions, but all that awesome combat holo-footage, which he now had to delete. No matter how much he edited it, there was no denying the fact that he lost and some alien brutalized everyone else, but him.
“A Terran or someone using their gear killed my mates. Most probably, yet another altruistic alien on a mad quest to save the worthless locals. Truly, a blow most devastating to your tourist industry was dealt this day, if I may say so myself!” – Continued the Count, who, after making a couple of cautious steps, expected to feel the ill effects of medical nanobots hitting him any second.
Instead there was a peculiar tingling, a momentary uneasiness in his gut, which vanished almost as soon as it came.
“My commander arranged for you to stay at our best resort. One star-month in Tron city, hunting expeditions to Windblades canyon, every expense covered. A cozy, filled to the brim with lavish amenities shuttle awaits, when your Lordship is ready.” – Said the hunter, once more lightly snapping with his jaws, which was a sign of respect.
This Jaern could speak and act with such courtesy, that the Count almost asked him for his contract. However, he was a Taz’aran, and even though in these modern days sentients learned how to coexist with cannibalistic alien species, they were still repugnant to him.
“Now that I think more of it, It would seem that your tourist industry shows great promise. I will make sure to convey this sentiment of mine to all young nobles in my social circle. Now,” – The Count made a short pause before asking the most important question for him at the moment:
“I am sure you are here to report, apart from telling me about your commander’s most generous offer, that nothing survived your artillery strike?”
“When our scout team explored the area, there was no one there, Lord. Plasma warheads leave little to nothing after their expansion...” – Stated a bit confused by his question the unnaturally polite hunter, canting his head at an impossible for any other humanoid species angle.
“Not a single droplet of metal, not even a charred body part?”
The Count shuddered.
He felt that same nasty tingling sensation from a few star-minutes ago. This time it didn’t vanish, but lingered and crept up his spine, after he asked this follow up question. He and his fellow tourists were assaulted by one highly-trained, experienced opponent. The Terran gear this man sported was much superior to anything the he’d seen so far in the field.
Many hunting accolades the Count won in his day; some were awarded to him, because he bested the toughest of sentients. However, on this day, he and the others were the prey, not the hunters. They were stalked, chased, and then culled in the most brutal, efficient manned he’d ever seen. The shadow toyed with everyone except him, proving that no matter how merciless you thought you were, there was always somebody better.
“This entire area was peppered by acid rain, which fell shortly after our artillery barrage.”
The Jaern projected a data-pack from his PDA, highlighting a number of scan streams with his clawed finger.
“The scout team found only age old debris and ancient bone, Lord Count. Their scans could not be as extensive as they would’ve otherwise performed, but everything checks out. A number of craters, full of acid water and small debris – that was it. If you wish to learn more, Excellency, our scouts have just landed in the main hangar.”
His instinct for self-preservation was many times stronger than that of an average Taz’aran. Pragmatism dictated that it was always best to double check things, even if you wasted some extra time. The private trip to Tron city could wait for a few minutes longer, until he asked his questions.
He planned to go not towards the hangar, but the armory first. Generally, his people slept with loaded beam guns under their pillows, and vibro dagger in hand. He’d be damned if some adventurer caught him with his pants down.
Better safe than dead.
The Count already knew most of the facility from his previous visits and, after giving his host a sign to follow him, quickly walked out of the medical bay. In any other field base, there would’ve been a number of wounded and/or recovering soldiers, but not here. Avern’a was a long since conquered planet and the locals, according to all Jaern traveling brochures, fully subdued. It was a bunch of wozzie shit since with every visit here, the Count saw less and less troops. Either these Jaern were retiring in record numbers or... dying.
He suspected that all of these hunting tours were organized by commanders on the ground, because they had so few soldiers. Aliens like his people, the Taz’arans, some Clanners like the Push’va, and even enemies of Taz’ara like the Taksians, they all came here in droves. Instead of deploying their hunters to contain the altruistic adventurers, who arrived on Avern’a to free its people, the Jaern pitted other aliens against them.
No one could say that the eaters of the living weren’t crafty, for they even made money in the process.
“What say your Soul Huntress about this... occurrence?” – The Count deliberately and abruptly asked, catching his host unawares.
“The priestess of The One does not have to know what is not of her concern, Lord Count.” – The Hunter blurted out; tone a bit stern, but still within the acceptable margin of courtesy.
“My lips are sealed then.” – Said the Taz’aran and covered his mouth.
Before he entered the armory, the Count whispered with a conspiratorial smirk on his face:
“What she does not know, after all, can’t put her at risk, am I right? We can always say that there were... communication issues.”
To which the Hunter answered with a double jaw snap and his version of a smile. The count had already seen many a Jaern maw open, therefore he did not react like most aliens and vomit his guts all over the floor.
The armory was full, absolutely jam packed with combat gear. Suits of armor, grenades, and all manner of particle-beam weapons were neatly stacked on their shelves, waiting for Jaern to pick them up and go into battle. Hunters who no longer existed, and the Count suspected that what had occurred here wasn’t an isolated case. Whatever happened after he left was no concern of his, flashed a reassuring thought in his prudent mind.
He saw his own suit, placed in one of the armor alcoves. True, the trusty gear was no longer supremely ornate, yet the techs of this base did repair all of its battle damage. Before he stepped in it, the Count once more gazed at its back, traced the repair job with gently shaking fingers. Only after the suit closed around him, did he notice the absence of his prized rifle.
His exoskeleton slightly whizzed when he turned around, and the onboard computer displayed 98% system readiness.
“Pray tell, dear host, where is my ‘Roaring light,’ where is my priceless family heirloom?”
“I regret to inform you, Excellency, that during your evacuation the tank crew prioritized your wellbeing. They did not linger around and look for your marvelous rifle.” – Said his host as he walked over to one weapon locker, and punched a code on its security panel.
“However, until our second scout team locates your weapon, I am authorized by my commander to offer you this, as a temporary replacement.”
The Jaern pulled out a brand new, crisp-looking PPG rifle, Coalition issue. He handed it to the Count, plus a couple of double power packs, much befitting such an energy guzzling weapon. This was designed by Taz’aran engineers, he was sure of it, because the rifle sported a bayonet attachment.
“This is C.J.W.P.D. ‘Redemption,’ a thoroughly tested prototype rifle, Excellency. You will find her much more accurate and longer reaching than the usual PPG. It also sports those bayonets which your noble people love charging into battle with. Since and before I evolved, my personal choice of arms was always this.” – As he spoke, the hunter picked up one quite brutish-looking, but supremely efficient in the hands of a Jaern warrior, weapon.
This ancient, halberd-like weapon the Jaern called Klech.’ Somewhat on the short side, its lower end was fitted with a pointy spike, and a particle beam rifle nestled inside the shaft. The Count was aware that only the most skilled and experienced of hunters could handle this rather exotic armament in battle.
“I assume C.J.W.P.D. stands for Coalition, Jaern... something?” – Mumbled the Taz’aran as he recognized himself with the well designed rifle’s controls.
“Pretty close, but no, it stands for Coalition Joint Weapon Project Division, Lord Count. Now, if you will it, we could proceed to the main hangar.”
The massive, twelve foot tall evolved hunger rested the Klech’ upon his armored shoulder in such way, that he could aim and fire its beam rifle at a moment’s notice.
“Lead the way, dear host.”
They finally left the armory, both ready to do battle, and defend themselves, if needed. The Count was not sure why his host carried that vicious polearm, but it made him feel a tad bit safer. Few as they were, all Jaern hunters he saw so far, no matter their rank and standing, always walked around in their armored suits. They had on them at least a sidearm, and that eerie sensation at the back of his head nearly vanished.
Just before they reached the main hangar, he though he saw something glint, an energy field waver around the corner. The Count stopped dead in his tracks and jumpy as he was, aimed the rifle immediately. However, he felt a tad bit silly, when a second later a Jaern scout decloaked exactly where he saw the glint. The warrior made a hand sign, which he knew from other hunters meant “tracking you” or simply “watching you.” Two seconds later, the Jaern wavered back under his active TOC, not even that flicker the count saw earlier was visible.
“Be assured, Excellency – no one can infiltrate our base.”
The gate closed shut behind them and the two found themselves inside the hangar. Three small starships were parked at different places, alongside the furthest wall he could see a troop of Jaern scout tanks. These were resting on the floor, some of their maintenance hatches stood open. Six machines, and yet only one of their two Jaern crews could be seen performing repairs.
A shuttle, brand new Taz’aran model, he could see landed next to an older and much rougher-looking Jaern reconnaissance shuttle. At the wall, opposite to where all tanks were parked, the Count noticed spacecraft number three – an old Vaugn dropship. Most probably gifted to this base’s Soul Huntress by a grateful Matriarch for services rendered.
He shrugged inside his armor; these things were built like space tanks and carried quite heavy particle-beam and PPG weaponry for a mere dropship. Though, what looked supremely imposing from the outside, was an absolute torture to travel in. By the looks of her, his own shuttle was a luxurious model and, just like that commander promised, fitted with all the amenities a person like him, a noble, deserved.
The Count followed his host and soon, both of them stood before the recon craft, its three Jaern crew waiting for them. His heart sank since one of these men looked almost identical to the scout who appeared in the corridor. That uncomfortable sensation, the one which he felt immediately after waking up in the medical bay, returned with full force. Some sentient once told him that this feeling of impending doom was like “somebody is walking on your grave.”
From the looks of it, the evolved Jaern hunter also noticed that something was horribly off. He gave a simple hand command to the scouts, which the Count knew meant “disperse and hide.” Things happened at a supremely accelerated pace only a star-second after the three bolted.
The scout shuttle exploded.
The otherwise innocuous-looking scout tanks, their main cannons opened fire. Of course, one of these guns was aimed at the scout shuttle, another at the luxurious ship. The tanks fired a couple of volleys, and only after the gate leading into the hangar collapsed, the machines’ main reactors overloaded.
The Count was violently pushed by the explosion and his suit got hit by shrapnel. By the time he leapt up, assisted by his exoskeleton, that certain deathbringer was fighting his Jaern host. Most Taz’aran nobles were seasoned dagger fighters, but even he gasped, mind overtaken by terror, at the shadow’s martial skill.
Evolved hunters were tall, strong, and obviously experienced. However, the man with the Terran gear got inside the Jaern’s guard, making that amazingly brutal Klech’ nigh useless. Moreover he’d already showered the mighty hunter with a torrent of automatic railgun fire. With each move both of them made, that vibro dagger stabbed and slashed, always hitting without fail. Bleeding profusely from a number of wounds, the Count’s host could not possibly last long.
He also need not wonder where the three scouts were. One was blasted by the explosion and the other two he saw laying on the floor, their heads full of these nasty armor-piercing needles. Conflicting thoughts could spell his doom and he fought off the terror. Instead of abandoning the Jaern, in the vain hope that his death would buy him enough time to reach the Vaugn dropship, the Count aimed his new rifle.
“Naz’e!” – He screamed in Taz’aran and witnessed how a twelve foot tall Jaern ducked on the floor.
The new rifle spewed one high-powered plasma bolt, which miraculously hit the shadowy enemy straight in his chest. This sent their opponent flying at least a few steps back, before he landed on his feet, evaded a wide beam from the Jaern’s Klech,’ and... vanished.
It was accurate this weapon, and did not shoot pulses of electro-plasma, which had the tendency to veer off target, but coherent bolts. The count reloaded since he’d overcharged it and emptied the entire power pack in one shot. He refused to believe that monstrous Terran or whoever he was, remained unscathed!
“Moen’na dereth.” – He continued giving directions in Taz’aran and after telling his host to “get to the dropship” himself ran towards the Vaugn craft.
It was much easier this way, saved time and could probably their lives. Limping and bleeding all over the floor, the Jaern did follow his direction. In counted few seconds, his armor’s medical system kicked in and some of the wounds, not all of them, but many, regenerated. The massive warrior, however, immediately suffered from medigel shock. He almost staggered head straight into the thick armorplating of the dropship. Empowered by exoskeleton Taz’aran hands saved this lumbering Jaern from breaking a bone or worse.
The safe-looking vessel opened its loading doors as soon as his host commanded it. Therefore it came to a complete surprise, when the integrated scanner of his suit picked up a stealth grenade inside. There was no time to save himself and the Jaern.
Pushing his exoskeleton over its maximum tolerance levels, the noble leapt away from the explosion. Mid flight he noticed movement on the scanner and rotated his body as best he could, firing another overcharged plasma bolt. The shadowy death got hit and then wavered into nothingness – he’d hit another holo-decoy!
Just before he landed, the Count was nearly ripped apart by railgun fire. The projectiles gored his legs, rending one of them completely to pieces. He fell ungracefully, body broken by the impact, heart about to burst out of his chest. The prototype PPG rifle slipped from his fingers and he looked upon a kneeling semi-visible figure. With his last breath, before the ghostly deathbringer stabbed him with his blade, the Count asked:
“Who... cough... who are... you?”
“No one.” – Answered his executioner and plunged the dagger straight into his face.
***
Dear reader, if you liked this story, you might enjoy my published work.
I am NO ONE. I love it The Ultimate final blow for the Count to never know who bested him.
The pacing was great, and the combat scene was well-written.
The end could have been better, as I thought I was reading about another Count Omasa or General Nedal origin story. I looked forward to this count facing off against Gareth as a worthy opponent.