The Province Of Terrans 2
A Starshatter adventure
(Art by Clement Tingry)
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Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16
Chapter 5
Explorer's bane
Without saying a word, Northstone Firehand drew his Deathknell laser pistol and, instead of listing its features first, he pointed at the dueling ring. There, the man responsible for its maintenance had already removed the molten remains of Fib Quibble, bar one last, and rather stubborn brownish stain on the floor plating.
“If I say that I love this pistol, it would be an understatement.” – said the famed Spacer, as he performed a simple gun trick, weapon’s safety on, of course.
“Designed by Colt Inc. the first prototypes released in 1961, this weapon still gives many a slaver nightmares. My own is a quite unique, handmade version.” – the Spacer addressed his listeners with a soft smile, adding – “Since wise men do not speak too much of their personal arms, all I can say is that mine is capable of extreme overcharge shots.”
Holstering the laser, Northstone produced his Ghost Sweeper 2000 and looked down its iron sights with a smirk, giving those present in The Roundabout another good look see of the weapon, before he said with a wink – “The Ghost Sweeper is a dear companion for any Terran or fellow Star Blood on the hunt for the ghostly evils lurking across Fringe Space. I assembled mine during my gun craft test and fitted it with a... how should I put it... a no-longer-experimental heatsink? Yes, and I think that me saying that many words about my guns are more than enough a lag to this tale of mine long awaited.”
“Therefore,” – Northstone patted his gun belt and pointed at the back of his spacesuit – “the sooner I stocked up on ammo and locked my spare fuel canister on my backpack slot, it was time to go on an adventure!”
His listeners and those who watched over their G-net links need not imagine how sleek and unencumbered did Northstone look in his beautified spacesuit. They could see him as he walked into adventure then, standing tall before them now, armorplating glistening in the holo-lights, eyes glinting with a playful spark, and chiseled face aglow with humble smile.
“I remember the feeling when my mag-boots first tread that ancient carpet of dust. When the ramp of my starcraft closed shut behind me and I explored the ruined surroundings with my own eyes, rays of light shooting from the top and sides of my helm, only then, my dear guests, did I fully come to the realization where I was.”
He made sure to gift his listeners another set of holo-slides which paired well with his following and quite colorful description.
“Surrounded by ghostly death, treading over the corpses of starships resting upon the skeleton of an even older craft, I made my way towards the machine bay. Hands hovering over the handles of my guns, the integrated scanning visor of my spacesuit feeding me extra data, I realized one thing. Already, every single craft which surrounded Bird Of Hope could be chopped to bits, and great value extracted.”
“For those of you with passion for salvaging, just watching as I stroll among the remains of old starships and not looting even a single piece, might look heretical. Yet allow me to pair words with what you see on these pictures, my friends. Indeed, everything appeared full of potential monetary reward and had I been a scrapper, my tale would’ve been cut short here. However, I am an explorer and the secrets which this derelict warship hid deep within its tomb-like depths were much more important. Imagine if you will, that this monstrous thing was set on a combat mission to one of our planets by its long dead creators?!”
Northstone made a short pause and witnessed a sea of anxious faces. People of the Star Blood weren’t generally looking for trouble, but would eagerly defend themselves and their more vulnerable neighbors. Concerned looks were exchanged and a choir of whispers echoed across The Roundabout. None who already witnessed the horrors of this derelict warship wished to face it or its corpsified crew in battle yet, terror or no terror, they would rather die fighting than allow family and friends harm.
“No, there were others who’d one day exploit this literal gold mine of salvage, but not I.” – said Northstone and gave some of those whom he thought scared the most an encouraging smile or a warm look – “First scout and acquire information, secure your landing zone. Later, only when everything looks safe... well... then we can loot a little!”
The Spacer displayed a short video of his starcraft and its derelict surroundings. Indeed, everything did appear quite desolate, and though the Terran vessel was shielded with point defense emitters ready to blast anything not of life dead a second time, one could not imagine the throng of other dangers which still lurked in the dark.
“You may not see it, but everything emitted some type of radiation to a various degree. Exploring is a dangerous business, therefore I made the precaution to outfit my spacesuit with another layer of radiation shielding. Extra thick this one!” – the Spacer explained as he uploaded another set of holo-slides, showing different hot-beds of radiation dotted across his way.
They saw him evade most of these hot spots and enter a service gate, pried open by way of explosives Universe alone knew how long ago. It was then, when his scout goggles picked up violent electrical discharges. Ahead, there were arcs of energy jolting between damaged crystaline power convertors and glowing white hot blobs of plasma, hovering above where their once mighty connectors stood. Who did all of this damage, people could only entertain a guess.
Was the ancient derelict such because of a long forgotten battle?
“Here, I do not advise any of you to navigate such an environment. At the very least sport a personal shield (PSG) and outfit your suits with adequate protection. Huge discharges like this one are rare, yet during my many years of spaceship exploration I faced many. The spacesuit has one easily changed underlay which I fit exactly for this dangerous issue in mind. Rarely, if ever, I use my heat dispersal padding.”
This was a grand warship once and even its service tunnels were large. Such, that even mecha of fifteen feet height could comfortably fit while operating bulky machinery. With huge and power hungry systems like these, a crew of average humanoid-like sentients could not offer efficient maintenance. However, from the holo-slides that Northstone had just uploaded for everyone to see, it appeared that at one time attempts at repair were made.
Fried body parts encased in armored polymer and protective metallic fabric lay where a crewman once worked. There was a glowing blob of plasma instead of crystaline convertor—a clear sign that certain somebody failed. How was this part of the warship still standing, let alone there was still some energy coursing through molten plasma lines, the audience did not even entertain a guess.
“Those twelve corpses I scanned earlier, they soon shambled into view, weapons in their rotting hands.” – said Northstone following another drink from his pint and projected a short holo-vid.
“They did indeed attempt, and quite smartly, if I may say so myself, to corner me in between the electrical discharges and their weapons. One tried to push me into that blob of plasma, yet I flew over with my engines and it was him who ended up... melting.”
His audience witnessed him, far from being overconfident, pull a masterfully executed combat maneuver. Instead of taking unnecessary risks, which in this deadly environment could’ve cost him his life, Northstone played it smart. Drawing the Ghost Sweeper, he made sure to shoot the six armed with beamguns first, even though they were the furthest from him. These quickly made soulless corpses fell, weapons safely clinking on the floor.
The five who charged at him, swinging an assortment of old vibroblades, he dodged with shortish engine jumps and by positioning himself behind one of the energy discharges or plasma blobs. One by one, they got burned to crisp and he had only beam their foul spirits following his scanner’s input. Gun empty, he reloaded with a fresh power pack and noted only a small bit of his shield energy drained by two lucky beam hits.
Spacers were, beyond any shadow of a doubt, supremely efficient. One could not expect to go into the depths of literal space hell, wasting their resources like a fool, and then come out alive. Brash, yes, swashbuckling, of course, yet they would never stumble into deadly overconfidence like those whose corpses Northstone was forced to unalive for a second time.
There was that rackety automated turret at the corridor’s end, yet the Spacer did not waste a single shot. He produced his dagger, activated it, and the swiftly flying vibroblade impaled the turret, rendering it useless. The same calm which he shot the ghastly spacesuit-wearing corpses with, Northstone grabbed his blade, sheathing it on the move.
“There, following that quick and decisive battle, I finally reached the end of that once grand gallery of fine machinery. This is what I saw when I examined the machine bay with both fleshy optical receptors and scanning rays. Floor-plating, ceilings, and bulkheads ravaged by many a century of battle damage and littered with the shattered bodies of would-be scavengers. A single, towering mecha of the power armor class, suspended in its maintenance harness six feet up, in a row of over a dozen ruined similar machines. At the far end of that bay, there was that digital activity which my starcraft’s scanners picked up earlier. Now, dear guests, imagine my surprise when I finally laid my eye upon said promising sensor readings and witnessed this...” – the spacer spoke and there was a bit of anger felt in his voice, as he showed the next couple of holo-slides.
Indeed, the first thing that all who had so far enjoyed Northstone’s story took note of was the mech. Those of the spaceship professions, the engineers, the captains, and their crewmates, they swiftly told everyone else who asked about it. This was what the crew of that derelict had been once piloting to navigate the service tunnels and quickly respond to any emergency. Fitted with tools and armored from head to toe, the Space Repair Mecha (SRM), could probably have walked straight through the plasma blobs and energy discharges with nary a scratch.
This one, however, it looked heavily modified and cobbled up from different mecha parts. Replacing the elaborate arm toolkit that it once had, the machine now sported an integrated weapon—a warhammer hand of sorts. It was not easy to see, yet those in the know wondered what happened with this mech’s pilot hatch since everything looked plasma welded shut.
Be that as spooky as it may, the tall alien skeleton which lay on the floor-plating became an instant focus of attention.
“A Jaern hunter?” – Jenn’s angry hiss was followed by disgusted whispers as she asked – “What by Mars’s Holy Roads are these cannibals doing there?!”
“Jenn, when I saw him, that was the exact same question I asked myself.” – said Northstone with a nod and sipped from his pint, elegantly forking one of the deviled eggs before eating it a few seconds later.
“Those who know me,” – he displayed a Jaern’s holo-slide taken after the alien was made very dead and his voice became ice cold when he added – “are aware that I hate the munchers and for good reason.”
The tall, armored and armed to its sharp, pointy teeth alien cannibal had two rows of chompers, blueish skin, and pink eyes. Its vile gob showed obvious signs of gene-grafting and there was a bulky, yet quite beastly electro-plasma pulse weapon called PPG rolled beside the holographic corpse.
Quite similar to the holo of the recently deceased Jaern, yet even taller, the rotted skeleton also clutched onto his PPG. It was his once imposing armored suit which emitted the digital signature that Northstone picked up earlier on the scanner. Even little children living on the Fringe Space border knew that the big Jaern were important bosses, and they had the best weapons and gear. Therefore, what the skeletal owner of this suit had was an integrated fusion core and a powerful, still working computer.
This was a potential treasure trove of scan-data packs, comm-links, and even personal log entry files which Northstone, a crafty Spacer, had obviously retrieved. ‘How’ was the important question that made his audience quiver with anticipation.
“I looked around, Deathknell drawn and ready to fire. No, I did not even imagine the dead hunter could raise himself up with his moldy bones and shoot me with that PPG. When they die, and die they must, their craven little souls are immediately swallowed by that pseudo god of theirs they call the ‘Lord of Minds’ or simply ‘The One’. What I was actually worried of were living Jaern and thus, I performed another passive scan of the area.”
“This was a mistake, but I would learn that much, much later.” – The Spacer said that with a sad smirk on his chiseled face and his Dzenta’rii friend sighed, fully expecting something quite unforeseen to occur.
“While said scan showed diddly squat in terms of living, flesh munching Jaern degenerates, someone or I should rather say something took note of it. Yet I shan’t get ahead of myself, my dear guests! What would you have done, had you been in my mag-boots?”
A tsunami of chatter, respectfully silent of course, traveled back and forth across The Roundabout. Far from being rude like the late Fib Quibble, not a single soul actually voiced their theories. They all knew full well that when a Spacer told about their adventures, they oft asked such questions without expecting an answer. It was an apt storytelling maneuver which entertained the glorious little gray cells of one’s audience. By having fed their imaginations with tasty morsels in the shape of picture and word aplenty, Northstone Firehand did what Humans of his kin did best.
He let their imaginations run wild for a full star-minute before actually telling and showing them what happened, and those sentients have traveled light years for this experience!
Dear reader, what do you think our crafty Spacer actually did?
(One) “My gut feeling got me out of many an ambush. When a Terran ventures deep into enemy territory, we always assume the worst might happen. Therefore, instead of opening myself to potential attacks from all sides, I made a few steps back. Taking cover in the gate’s arch and keeping an eye out for trouble, I aimed to scan the machine bay again. This time I was looking for foes of the ghostly kind.”
(Two) “That mech... its warhammer arm looked quite deadly. Moreover, compared to everything else in this machine bay, the thing almost appeared operational. As I skirted the ruined edges of that room slowly making my way towards the skeletal Jaern, I had my Deathknell aimed at the mech. It goes without saying that I was also quite ready to evade any surprise attacks by way of my spacesuit’s engine power.”
(Three) “Pussyfooting around and lallygagging, those are not Terran habits, you see. Battle happened here once and would occur again, yet I would make damned sure the dice rolled on my rules. Without any hesitation, switched to extreme overcharge, I aimed my Deathknell at the most dangerous thing—the mech. If it ever so twitched, my trigger finger would twitch faster!”
(*_*_*)
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.
Terrans do not skulk and hide
Bravely into danger, they do stride.
Laser pistol at their side
Aimed out front, swept side to side.
Deadly munchers for to see
Spirits deadly to you and me.
Will fall in short time as they must
Shot by the ghost gun, never covered in rust.
Aimed straight at the ancient mech
Should it twitch, he’d shoot that tech.
Hello, thanks for the mention. Tomorrow afternoon I will read it and vote for the best option from my point of view. And of course, I will link this in Sunday Castle Festival...