The Province Of Terrans

A Starshatter adventure

Glorious Sci-Friday is upon us, my Terrans!

It was quite the voting battle last week, but we have a clear winner. Our two hamster combat engineers shall arrive in all their fluffiness, buffness, and crates full of ‘splosives. Moreover, our tiny feet of doom pack a weapon deadlier than bombs, plasma guns or rocket launchers.

What is it, you ask?

Why, battlefield correct jokes, of course!

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 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

---

Chapter 6

Craftpaws

The mountain was rugged, covered in odd craters and its slopes quite steep. Those who did not know its winding, treacherous paths, would fall easy prey to rock-slides and be buried alive. They'd tumble down barely visible pits, their fall cushioned by jagged stones. Not even scanners would help, only good eye and knowledge of the terrain since this mount was riddled with magnetic anomalies.

Beautiful, the mount's snowy hat glistened and the local star winked at those who draw breath down there. Balmy sentients who were quite crazed indeed to settle this unstable rock. Yet, instead of despairing before hardship and complain because they had a literal mountain of work to do still, they'd wink back at the sun. Sweaty brows and dirty, blister-covered hands, those sentients had been dragging everything they've worked so hard to produce in their deep underground shelter.

The geology of this planetoid was such, that after its terraforming, most of its underground cavities became full of water. This mountain was solid rock crisscrossed by numerous caves, each of varied size but all now reinforced with megaconcrete and connected via tunnels. Terrans knew that none could survive orbital bombardments hiding in their basements. Not unless they had combat spaceships or anti-orbital capabilities, and could shoot down would be attackers far in advance.

Vinson watched as George and a few of the village men navigated their repaired Danube eight wheeler up the slope. The hardy vehicle had all-terrain drive and its tall, wide metallic wheels rolled over gravel, small rock, and dust with ease. The stealthy pod was secured on its flatbed with magnetic locks and cables, carefully wrapped in the cammo netting.

“Slow down Noln, be careful of that pit!” – Warned the Morale Officer, and gesticulated so the driver could navigate around the jagged hole.

He threw another gaze at the abandoned village and the burning farming fields around it. There was certain bittersweet, poetic beauty to this raging inferno. Vinson was not a farmer but a dock worker by trade, yet even he knew that ashes would nourish the soil and fertilize it for future harvests. True to his Terran upbringing and Morale Officer training, he made sure that nothing was left to the enemy. Homes could be rebuilt, crops resown. It was the people who were important and their future, invaluable.

The cozy homes and pre-fabricated domes were booby-trapped, their fortified basements rigged to detonate at the push of a button.

His PDA chirped and its holo-screen became aglow with a coded link. This was a message from the two combat engineers, Pews and Blam; their ship was about to land.

“Old man, take over, I am going to greet our knavish friends.”

“Oh,” – George's voice was much smoother after chewing on that Smoke Away gum for a day – “take the pickup laddie. They may have some battle gear with them.”

Vinson walked down the slope for a few minutes till he reached sparse at first, and eventually, plentiful vegetation.

George's friends from the terraforming company had seeded all tall hills and mountainous slopes with different plants to prevent soil erosion. Thick shrub crawled up the mountain followed close by tall Martian blue grass. Stumpy trees with long branches and wide leaves grew in abundance here, their roots deep and strong. Originally made to help terraforming Luna, sour potatoes waved their long reddish leaves above ground everywhere the eye could see. Though people couldn't eat those, they were good for dye making and if cooked into paste, quality natural glue.

A few minutes later, the Morale Officer reached a small outcropping. This is where they hid one of the pickups; just in case they needed to move around with speed before the pirates arrived.

Four men armed with the new Mannlicher carbines stood watch, yet he saw all of them even though they laid low, covered in their chameleo-cloaks. They fidgeted, rubbing against branches and shrubs, and as a result their cloaks did not fully conceal them.

“Next time set a wider guard perimeter, at least ten steps between each person.” – Vinson nudged one of the startled men who looked at him, disappointment plastered all over his face.

“Make sure that moving branches are not poking your cloaks and stay really, really still...” – instructed them the Morale Officer with his calm smile.

Before he climbed in the pickup's driving seat, Vinson observed them reposition and cloak. They were quite meticulous and followed his instruction to the letter, thus he only saw where they hid because he was watching them closely.

“Good job! Keep practicing repositioning and cloaking, every fifteen minutes or so.” – he congratulated them and pointed a nearby flat rock – “One should take overwatch there and observe what everyone is doing, correct mistakes when he sees any. Rotate to condition your sight and hearing.”

Vinson left the men behind as his pickup truck hummed down the dirt road. Since he hauled no cargo, the vehicle's micro fusion reactor was on its lowest setting. These Danube trucks were loved and hands down, considered the working horses of all Terran settlers across Fringe Space. A rugged Tesla engine under the hood, people lugged not just produce or building materials, but modified these trucks for war.

Welding some jerry-rigged armorplating and a heavy weapon mount on the back transformed this humble Danube into a technical. Often those who invaded and clashed with the heavily-armed settlers thought these trucks were military issue vehicles. The farmers, miners, factory workers, and the bakers who opposed them they assumed were regular soldiers.

Nothing could be further from the truth and those pirates would find out too...

Changing gears and flooring the accelerator, Vinson watched a shuttle hover at the landing pad for a couple of minutes. He drove close only to see it swiftly roar up in the atmo, shields burning, and engines glowing. It was a sleek Spacer craft, its hull covered in multiple murals, inspiring and beautiful to behold. Indeed, the vanishing ship looked as if it belonged in a temple and not flying across the deadly vastness of outer space.

The two combat engineers hopped around the scarred landing pad, stretching their little legs after a long, probably rather cramped journey. He eyed two equipment crates resting on the concrete behind them, loaded with who knows how many explosives and spare munitions. From his early childhood working on the docks he knew those would fit in the truck.

“Heyo!” – Greeted him one of the engineers – “I am Ordinance officer Pews.” – he nudged his friend – “And he is Master Sergeant Blam.”

“Humaniya munmaniya.” – his fellow soldier unleashed a squeak; indeed adorable to hear, yet completely unintelligible.

“I do know Primal, but... would you tell me what he just said?” – Vinson asked as he shook hands with Pews.

“He is conducting a mental field joke exercise. Psych-Op stuff, Sir. You don't ask, we don't joke ya.” – Chuckled Pews as he removed his helmet, patting nut bits and cracker crumbs off his snout, his green eyes squinting against the sun.

As soon as his armor was open to the air, it unleashed the combined aroma of wet fur and salty cheese. Black with white and brown spots, the hamster's fur was cut quite short. Vinson knew why. Hairs would plague equipment to no end and even short circuit expensive gadgets. The military had their regs for a reason and no matter the client race, one had to follow them.

Blam soon followed suit and he smelled of some kind of dried fruit. Vinson could swear that those were elderberries, but one could never tell with them adorable jokers. They consumed a meager amount of food compared to average size sentients, yet their menu was quite extensive.

The Master Sergeant's fur was brunet and he did push what the regs allowed when it came to hamster facial hair. Indeed, his long, fluffy quiff was marvelous to behold. When Blam's yellow eyes too squinted against the hot sun, the Morale Officer watched in amazement how the sergeant produced a pair of old school shades from his pocket. The hamster gave him a thumbs up, fixed said glasses comfortably on his snout and reached for one of the crates, his integrated exoskeleton gently whining as he knelt.

“What's in the crates?” – Vinson huffed as they quickly loaded them on the pickup and jumped inside.

The two hamsters, never mind their armored suits, easily fit in the passenger seat.

“Oh, just some 'splosive stuffs, Sir.” – this time it was Blam who replied.

Although properly squeaky, the sergeant's voice had a gruffness to it. Brutal, pain-promising hoarseness, one which veterans of many campaigns shrouded themselves in.

“We could use some demolition charges.” – The Morale Officer nodded, fully expecting that the duo brought a few of these powerful explosive packs, at the very least.

“Yesh,” – Pews nodded as he rummaged inside the pickup's glove compartment, nearly his entire helmetless head inside – “we haff dem too.”

The lieutenant pointed his snout first, and then Blam's – “I shoot 'eavy plasma repeater and he carries automatic 'nade lobber.”

“We also brought one TakNuk, Sir. Just in case the baddies gots bigguns.” – Blam half grumbled and half squeaked, a holo of one heavily modified torpedo warhead popping up from his PDA.

They were going nuclear...

Vinson grinned and successfully resisted his urge to pat him on the head. They weren't pets, but adult sentient beings who only allowed babies and little children to pet them. He fondly remembered growing up with his hamster friends. Tired from a long day of chores and running around his colony's spaceport, he'd often ask one of them for a hug and a joke and woke up back home, tucked in his bed.

“By 'bigguns' you mean?” – inquired the Morale Officer, his eyebrow raised.

“Giantf... mrhn... deahf... nomh... robots.” – said Pews, a half-eaten waffle stuck from his mouth.

“Shippies would do the blowsies uppsies fine.” – Eyes slowly blinking behind his shades explained Blam.

Vinson's raised eyebrow lowered and his face twitched. Those two planned to blow up the pirate spaceship! One could not be sure if they were pulling your leg or being serious until them hamsters implicitly said so, therefore he asked.

“How do you intend to deliver that TakNuk?”

“Dunno yet, Sir.” – squeaked Pews when he devoured the waffle – “First we gotta see what dem baddies pollute our beautiful space with.”

“We'll think of sumfin on the fly, Sir!” – said Blam with a vicious grin – “That's what ye called us engineers for, right?”

“Killing solutions, 'sploding problims!” – proudly squeaked Pews, and produced a juice pack from one of his pockets that read 'Sour Melon' and 'With extra sake flavor' on the package.

“Don't listen to 'im, Sir. The motto of our 252^nd Star Engineering Brigade is 'Splosive solutions, killing problims'.” – Blam corrected his superior with a sigh and was somehow able to shrug in his armored suit.

“I likes me version batter.” – Pews laughed and took a loud slurp from his juice pack, smacking as he did so – “Also, do not cozily shrug in that damned exosuit, Sergeant! What if ye hurts someone?”

“Me switched it off 'lready.” – sneered back the sergeant.

“Isn't that heavy to move with just your muscles alone?” – Vinson asked since he never wore a fully enclosed armor, only light spacesuits and even rarely so.

Instead of a verbal reply, the two hamsters removed their arm sleeves. Planned, because they always plotted things like that in advance for greater effect, they flexed their muscles. It was a pose which Vinson remembered from the old wrestling holo-shows he once watched as a child, “Slappomania” came to mind first.

Often hamster soldiers did not bulk up, instead relying on their agility and small size for battlefield survival. Those two were massive!

“Can't wait to ponch sum slavin fokk.” – Blam stated as he affixed the arm joints to his armored shoulder.

“Pray tell, Master Sergeant... huhwhere would you ponch 'im... or 'er?” – Pews asked his sergeant and he was dead serious.

“Knee, gut, or toushie.” – came the grim answer.

Vinson's smile grew as he navigated the pickup around the village and up the slope.

“Make sure I am around or shoot some holo-slides, you two. This would make a grand morale shattering video, and I do know exactly what I'm talking about!” – snickered the Morale Officer as he drove near the hidden garage entrance.

Two of the six recently placed sentries appeared from their rocky hiding places. Sending a coded link from his PDA, it opened the wide and tall door ingeniously hidden between the rocks. Militiamen guided Vinson around the trap pits and inside a cavernous tunnel. The gate was promptly closed shut a mere second after the Danube rolled forward, nearly hitting the vehicle's rear end.

Passing through three more gates, Vinson finally halted the truck, its vacfoam tires screeching over freshly cast megaconcrete floor. When he and the engineers exited the vehicle, they were greeted not only by the sight of George twiddling his mustache, but a big, nearly sorted pile of battlefield salvage. Of course, the stealth pod was in the process of being unloaded by the eight wheeler's crane.

“You splashed one of theirs!” – Pews hopped on one leg, counting something under his snout – “How many baddies?”

“Seven, including the pilot. Their scout team was being cheeky and tried to set up shop, beaming the old man to death in the process.” – said Vinson and touched the scorched armor plate on his side.

Blam lifted his shades, scanned the Morale Officer's damaged uniform and gestured with his little hand – “We'll fix that, no probs.”

“Yeah, fix it as easy as monching a big bag of assorted nuts.” – agreed the lieutenant and scratched his snout, carefully eying the pile of salvage as he did so – “Sir, ye want us to start craftin' but, huhwhat exactlie?”

Indeed, Vinson asked himself “exactlie huhwhat” should those two adorable, beefcake as heck hamster engineers be crafting first. That downed pirate shuttle provided their small nano-printer with a lot of easy to work with pieces. Using their cutters and with a couple of days time, the engineers could chop this salvage into smaller bits. As a Morale Officer leading untrained, inexperienced militiamen, he had to first think of their survival.

“The dead can't learn.” – said his handbook.

With that in mind, Vinson weighed their limited options.

(One) It wouldn't be hard for experienced engineers to make armored uniforms for those untrained men and women. Morale Officers were experts in crafting unique fatigues, best fitting any group of Terran freedom fighters, no matter their race and culture. Reinforced with small, light-weight plates and woven in megasteel treads, he'd pair them with sturdy, easy on the feet footwear. It was one thing to go into battle wearing civvies and entirely different when dressed in protective uniform. He would assist the hamsters and make sure that these armored fatigues were not just comfortable, but aesthetic. Moreover, by working on outfitting this rookie troop with uniforms, he'd have enough time to fashion them a proper Terran battle flag. A banner to remind the former slaves that freedom was not free. Vinson would employ all of his Morale Officer skill and weave a standard emboldening iron will and steadfast determination!

(Two) When picking this specific weapon loadout, Vinson made sure there were plenty of hand grenades. Inexperienced troops were not marksmen, yet lobbing 'nades was easy to learn and not terribly hard to do. The combination of razor sharp shrapnel and explosions often hampered the advance of highly trained, well equipped adversaries. Not to mention the attrition which booby-traps caused. However, oftentimes rookie grenadiers needed a hand, so to speak. Ex-civilians could throw only so far and in many cases, that placed them under accurate beamfire. Why not craft compact, light, and easy to use grenade launchers? These had three times the range of the usual hand throw and its mag-rail was powered by a pistol power pack. Fitted with a rifle butt and simple iron sights, the launcher could lob thirty hand grenades before it needed another pack.

(Three) He could go straight for carbine upgrades or in this case, attachments. One of the easiest items to make was the ubiquitous Terran holo-scope. It came with a pair of goggles, which could also be upgraded at a later date and provide various advantages, like range magnification or heat vision for example. Moreover, if the engineers were able to create and maintain a secure short-range Comm-net between the goggles, militiamen could share vision. Which, coincidentally, also meant that they could share targets. Holo-scopes provided their users with a hefty accuracy bonus, however... no combat advantage of such caliber came without its dangers. Scanners could detect the wireless transmissions and capable system operators like the pirate Rangers, hack the network. Mortar rounds, guided missiles, and even heavier munitions would immediately pay an explosive visit to all pinpointed link nodes.

(*_*_*)

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.