The Province Of Terrans

A Starshatter adventure

My fellow Terrans, today is Sci-Friday and once again, I offer you another chapter full of exciting adventure!

Vinson the Terran Morale Officer is running for his life… kind of. While he keeps the pirate ship occupied, peppering it with automatic railgun fire, George is riding his Enfield to the gun stash and back.

What happens then? Read this issue to find out!

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.

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Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

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Chapter 4

Advantage

Red and white, the shuttle’s swept wings chased after Vinson. Maneuvering thrusters spewing focused streams of plasma and red-hot particle-beams from her constantly swiveling turret, the Clanner vessel wrought havoc upon the picturesque village. Roofs, walls, and furnishings were riddled with molten holes, yet the people holed in their reinforced basements remained safe. Pleasantly warm, the pollen-carrying wind now carried not only his bees, petals, and butterflies, but the heavy smell of particle-beam discharge.

Vinson reloaded his HRAR with a fresh power pack and ducked behind one of the older prefab dome-homes. This one sustained an entire volley of beams until its outer wall crumbled. The Morale Officer aimed his gun and sent another swarm of angry projectiles at the Clanner’s shuttle, hitting it straight in the viewing port. Shaken, the craft’s skilled pilot was forced to careen to the side, protecting the viewing port’s transparent metal from more railgun barrages.

“George,” – Vinson huffed as he dashed behind the nearest home, reloading his rifle on the move – “where are you?”

First he could only hear the mighty rumble of George’s perfectly maintained Enfield. The gravel being thrown into the air by swiftly rolling tires, and the sand’s hiss as it peppered the bike’s undercarriage. Finally, his eyes picked up the swiftly approaching silhouette of a sidecar motorcycle, the roar of its forced engine echoing across the village.

“I am close... wheeze... laddie!” – Replied the oldster in between two increasingly painful to listen to coughing fits.

“Then I’m dashing over to the left, behind that storage and away from the homes. Got only one power pack left so you best hit the Clanner good, you hear?!” – The Morale Officer’s elevated voice overpowered the ringing in his ears as he inhaled the hot air still fizzling with particle-beam energy discharge.

“Never... cough... missed with a Wire before.” – His friend’s answer was followed by the loud screech of metal reinforced synthetic rubber – “Boy, ye best be runnin’ now cos’ I be aiming!”

Vinson’s grin came back. Despite the burning pain in his side and chest or the air that stabbed his lungs with each breath, he proceeded to dash, HRAR ready to fire. His boots stomped the road lightly, maintaining satisfying to hear rhythm. It was as it this wasn’t a deadly dangerous shootout, but marching practice back in the academy on Sirius Prime.

“Launching!” – George coughed in his comms.

The last safety-promising wall was behind Vinson and his boots tread upon dry earth, grass, and somebody’s petunias. It was time for this chase to end, he thought. However, the enemy was not about to meekly go into the night. With a swift and marvelous to behold maneuver, the pirate shuttle roared around in a semi-circle, her pilot positioning it straight on Vinson’s path. Nose once more careening down, the hissing in protest twin beam turret aimed its barrels at the Morale Officer.

Vinson stopped dead in his tracks.

A helpful gust of summer wind caressed his sweaty face, the cape comfortably fluttering behind him, as he aimed the HRAR. The seconds he had now were only made possible because of his choice to confuse and stall. Otherwise the pirate vessel would not be overheated, and he, a charred body smoldering on the glassed earth.

Without delay, his own and rather efficient railgun bellowed an accurate torrent of projectiles. This long burst of automatic fire riddled the beam turret, mantle, guns, heatsinks and all. Power lines fried, the otherwise efficient weapon of war exploded, riddling the shuttle’s outer hull with shrapnel and plasma discharge.

The pirate hovered at place.

By now, he must’ve seen on his scanners a missile barreling towards his craft. Shields overheated, without the turret he had no chance to intercept this guided munition. It was way too close for him to attempt escape either.

For yet another star-second Vinson gazed through the made transparent viewing port of his enemy’s craft. His spacesuit removed, the pirate pilot looked at Vinson and there was boundless scorn in his eye. He did not scream profanities nor lament his doom, for that was not the Clanner way. Vile as they were, space pirates knew how to die and they did so, well.

Perforated from port to starboard, the shuttle’s interior became a sea of fire when the missile’s warhead detonated. The craft lost power and, being but a dozen feet in the air, it “landed” in a most violent fashion. The swept wings bent and one tore off the hull, its jagged shape planting itself somewhere far away in the farming fields.

Vinson ran from the crash; he rolled and then lie face down in the soil. He did not move until that which could still explode, did. When he stood up, ears ringing and nose bleeding, patting the dust off his uniform, George’s Enfield waited for him safe behind the storage.

Marvelous to behold, the man’s long white mustache was in the process of being twisted and in a most mischievous manner. George patted the smoking Wire launch tube in his lap with a fatherly grin. Devilish blue eyes threw everything that surrounded him look after look, as if the grandpa did not trust his motorcycle’s integrated scanner. Long, sinewy arms with wrinkled fingers, his face a picture of ancient scars, and bulbous nose broken many a time completed George’s lively persona.

Just as he always did (at least when Vinson saw him), the elderly Brit wore a set of retired military fatigues. Greenish they were once, many, many moons ago, yet their well patched britches and sleeves now looked light gray. His feet were clad in a pair of dusty leather boots; yet another military relic of years past, their soles were recently reinforced with megasteel nails.

The barrel of a long, heavy-looking gunpowder rifle stuck from its holding place. Ammo boxes and all, the sidecar was Elizabeth’s home. This anti-materiel weapon turned sniper rifle was the most deadly museum piece Vinson had ever witnessed still implemented in space age battle. The bolt action rifle was a leftover from Earth’s turbulent Great war era, or how most people called it, World War Two.

“See?” – the oldster coughed, a smoking cigar between his teeth – “That’s why me went into farming.”

“Got too old to dodge particle-beams and parry vibroblades?” – The Morale Officer sat on the sidecar, unholstered his laser pistol and proceeded to scan his friend’s lungs.

“Them strapping young chaps are too good at doin’ just that!” – the oldster smiled, trying to hide yet another coughing fit.

In a few seconds Vinson saw the results and, just as George dragged heavily from his smoke, Vinson snatched it without even a hint of hesitation, holstering his pistol as he did so.

“You insufferable old smokehead!” – he waggled his gloved finger in the oldster’s mustached face – “ The doctor told you something, and what do I see?”

“No-nothing... wheeze... ye sees nothin’.” – With a smirk said George and produced a brand new smoke from his left upper pocket which Vinson also grabbed.

“George, if you want me to lie to your great-granddaughter, at least let me drive.” – Vinson said with a half-grin and gently nudged his friend into the sidecar.

“The supply pod?” – mumbled the oldster with a frown, while Vinson took what smokes were still left in his left pocket.

“Yes, and you will be real happy with my haul, old man.” – The Morale Officer patted his wrist watch size portable computer or PDA – “But first, tell those friends of yours that it is now safe to come out.”

The oldster sent a coded radio transmission from his PDA instead of a digital link. In under a minute there were a dozen men and women examining the damage done to their cozy little village. Most held back tears, aware of the terrible danger they were spared, yet a handful of others lamented their impending doom. Vinson gave his friend a questioning look and canted his head.

“Worry not laddie, they will fight when the time comes.” – Grumbled the oldster, as he secretly produced a half-smoked stub from his pants back pocket.

“Oh, I am not worried George, not in the least. After all, this is why you called for me, didn’t you?” – said Vinson, and as soon as the grandpa sneakily took one puff from his smoke, he snatched it too.

“These days youngsters have no respect for the old!” – George sighed; finally admitting defeat he shoved a piece of gum in his gob and proceeded to chew vigorously.

The wrapper he folded and diligently stashed in his right shirt pocket read, “Smoke Away. Works EXACTLY as advertised or your credits back!”

“Gather ‘round, laddies and lasses!” – the oldster’s voice beckoned everyone to approach the parked Enfield.

When the people finally gathered five minutes later, Vinson could not unsee one thing. Nearly all of them sported scars and the signs of nano-reconstruction, gene-grafts, or cloning surgery. Sixty adults and fifteen babes, it was painfully apparent to anyone, let alone a Terran trained to crush slavers, that those sentients were former slaves.

About half of them were pale greenish Taksians. People so mistreated by their authoritarian government, that they oft ended up sold into slavery. Bureaucrats lined up their pockets selling citizens guilty of thought crimes and counted them as dead in the prison registries. The other half were gray skinned, almond eyed Lothorians. Those born peons and serfs were considered beasts of burden and often ended up sold on space pirate or cartel slave markets. Certainly, following their recent liberation by Terran forces, the fate of the common Lothorian had changed for the better.

Vinson didn’t have to imagine what pain had those people suffered. He only need look in their eye to turn the pages of their torturous past...

“Me boys, be ready to hop in yer cars and pickups.” – continued George – “Girls, ye grab all foodstuffs, clothing, meds... just like we practiced.”

The tavern owner, who still carried the looted particle-beam pistol, hugged his wife and child. By the way others looked at him, the Morale Officer understood that they chose this willful Lothorian as their leader.

“Sir, we already took the guns from the dead pirates and removed their gear.” – his strange, yellowish eyes glinted as he clenched his looted pistol – “Yet, between these and the few beam shooters we’ve got, it is nowhere near enough to...”

The Lothorian met Vinson’s eyes and was stunned to see a most serene smile on the Terran’s face.

“Allow me to introduce myself. Morale Officer Vinson, commissioned by old George here, to help lead you into life-saving battle.” – The Morale Officer stood up and extended his gloved hand, which the tavern keep shook.

“Noln is my name.” – said the yellow-eyed Lothorian – “My wife is called Fan, and me daughter, Elle.”

“Nowhere near enough to do what, good sir?” – Vinson asked, when the man introduced himself.

“Kill the pirates when they come to take us. We ain’t going back to that hell!” – and such was the cold rage, the determination felt in the tavern owner’s words that Vinson’s smile grew wider.

“Worry not friend, for we shall use everything of theirs,” – said Vinson and pointed at the smoldering wreck of the pirate shuttle – “to enable their doom.”

“Of course, we won’t leave you empty handed,” – the Morale Officer mounted George’s motorcycle – “for I came bearing Terran implements of Peace.”

Vinson started the Enfield and revved its engine a few times, before he added:

“Get in your vehicles and follow me. I arrived via a cargo pod full of guns.”

It didn’t take long for the venerable motorcycle to rumble down the metal road. He drove over the puddle which was once a pirate Ranger, experiencing a gentle bump as he did so. When he looked in his rear view mirror, the cars and pickups trailing behind him didn’t even notice it. Before Vinson arrived here, he did not expect that the Clanners would reach the village ahead of him.

“Lad, how exactly did you spend me gun money?” – George shouted from his cozy sidecar.

Indeed, dear reader, how did Vinson spend George’s hard earned credits? Now, your votes will determine what type of weapons and gear are supplied to the village militia. Each option is different and offers varied tactical options and combat capabilities, so choose wisely!

(One) Mannlicher G19/50 rail-carbine is the main armament of inexperienced, but superbly led Terran militias. Compact, accurate, light-weight and easy to maintain in the field, this weapon had earned much hatred among all enemies of the Terran Minarchy. Pronounced Maen’le’char in Fringe Speak, the very name of that weapon meant Defiance. Vinson was left with extra credits and purchased short, nimble vibroblades, laser pistols, and a few crates full of grenades for good measure. As a heavy weapon, Vinson picked a shoulder-held anti-materiel laser. This one could shoot in a wide dispersal, normal or overcharged mode; it was perfect for blasting light, medium tanks, and low flying attack craft. The cherry on top for this weapon loadout was the two crates full of chameleo-cloaks. These provide good concealment and can hide the soldier’s body heat to a certain extent.

(Two) Krupp LR-19/80 is a laser rifle that packs a lot of punch. Accurate and fitted with a bayonet lug, this weapon is usually supplied to regular Terran soldiers or experienced militias. Reliable, the rifle is longer than the carbine and somewhat heavier. However, together with its issued vibro dagger it transforms into a spear and is deadly even in the hands of beginners. Vinson paired these with suits of light armor, railgun pistols, and a handful of hand scanners. There were less grenade crates since the heavy weapon for this loadout is a heavy RPG. Shoulder-held, this fires lock-on 75mm missiles that can hit both ground and air targets. This weapon has twelve spare missiles; it is deadly to main battle tanks and can bring down armored ground attack fliers.

(Three) Kalashnikov JAG/30 semi-automatic gyro-jet rifles. Though bulky and heavier than laser or railgun weapons, they can fire a wide range of special munitions. Explosive, armor piercing, incendiary – a soldier armed with one of these rifles benefits from great stopping power, yet is limited by ammo capacity and weight. One is also slowed down since they have to carry the bulky gun and its heavy magazines, but with good organization and supply chain everything is possible. Vinson paired this loadout with Japanese laser pistols made by Nambu and a number of vibroblades. No grenades in this set, because the heavy weapon is a 120mm US made mortar. It comes with twenty mortar rounds, all high-explosive, with the ability to hit preprogrammed targets.

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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.