The Province Of Terrans

A Starshatter adventure

(Art source unknown)

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Sci-Friday is here, my Terrans!

Ehehehe, or how the Terran hamsters chuckle. The Corpo witch must die today!

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.

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Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

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Chapter 13

Termination Clause

Clad in her executive combat gear, Director Berul witnessed the doom of her expensive hirelings. Not once, but thrice were they ambushed, outwitted, and outmaneuvered. Screams of rage and wallows of pain conquered her garbled comm link. Burning corpses, entombed in their elaborate armored spacesuits rained from the sky. If that was not enough, Zhur apparently ordered his starship to unleash a full beam barrage.

Screeching and booming through the atmo, the beams evaporated a long swath of stumpy forest, turning everything around it into molten glass. A hail of shrapnel hit her augmented armorplating and though it got damaged, it deflected most of it. The rest she was able to dodge by jumping and running aback. Fitted with one rapid-firing integrated shoulder beamgun and a wrist mounted vibro-blade, her executive suit of field armor sported a light exoskeleton.

She was a ruthless businesswoman, not a seasoned soldier.

Taking cover, the twenty-five mercs around her wore similar suits, which relied more on their heat and impact resistant underlays, than heavy armor for survivability. Armed with a combination of automatic snub guns, long rifles, and compact beam carbines, her enforcers were perfectly able to traverse this harsh terrain.

“Lieutenant!,” – she screamed aloud, abandoning comm link protocols – “situation report.”

“Our allies are... they are close to being totally schlocked, ma’am!” – grumbled the commander of her security detail – “We, however, were at the edge of the blast area and therefore, much safer.”

“Recommendation?” – Berul inquired as per company rules; an exec in the field was required to first ask their enforcer officers for operational feedback or suffer a hefty pay deduction.

She’d wasted way too much money as it is.

“Withdraw.” – the officer plainly replied and when she gave him a puzzled, almost angry look, added – “Pull back from this wozzie-shit area, ma’am. Regroup at our field camp and then track the retreating partisans, locate their underground base.”

“Scanners don’t work and unless your boys got some slave sniffing gene-grafts, I know not how we’ll catch these obnoxious little traitors.” – Director Berul lamented, following her mercs as they swiftly removed themselves from the battlefield.

“We don’t need ‘em.” – snickered one of the veterans – “Partisans, as sneaky as they are, they still need to walk.”

“Director,” – Berul’s lieutenant addressed her when they reached their field camp – “I think hiring those pirates was a waste of funds. You should’ve contracted one of our black market Corpo cleaning teams. Ground-pounders all of them, they would’ve finished with this gaggle of slaves in two star-weeks, Terr’aans or no Terr’aans.”

“Zhur gave me a discount.” – and the Director sighed before she agreed – “But in hindsight, you are correct, Lieutenant. Next time, I will trust in your mercenary contacts.”

“Ma’am, if the wozzie-shit hits the proverbial air cooling device, how soon can your cloaked shuttle reach us?” – her officer asked aloud.

“Ten standard star-minutes.” – she replied with a sad wince – “It’ll be our bonuses, to the very last decat, in exchange for our lives.”

“Knowing that the boys will fight better.” – the merc said with a smile.

“They will terminate my contract. I’ll be nearly penniless and... unemployed!” – hissed the agitated Berul.

“Don’t worry, Ma’am. These days lots of slave operations and merc companies are hiring ex-Corpos. Flesh peddling is always good business.”

“Focus on the matter at hand, Lieutenant!” – she shouted, and motioned her enforcers to move faster – “As a matter of fact, if we catch these rodents ourselves, then I can invoke the ‘termination clause’.”

“Zhur won’t be too happy if you cancel his contract, Ma’am.”

“Failure is not anything that we at Gahen Inc. should reward, you know.” – Berul said with a sly smirk.

“Which means more Shinies for us!” – said the lieutenant with a vicious grin and barked – “Boys, set up the robo-turrets on visual friend-or-foe identification! On the double, we’re leaving in five.”

Still somewhat shaken by the horrible display they’ve witnessed minutes ago, younger mercs threw a casual look-see at the smoldering battlefield behind. Their colleagues were in the process of setting up the camouflaged robo-turrets, as they established a temporary security perimeter, just in case.

These efficient turrets weren’t remotely controlled drones, but network-less, preprogrammed robots, armed with automatic needlers. The metallic, silent vibro-projectiles they fired would turn the innards of those hit into mince. More, these sentry guns were nearly impossible to hack since no Corpo in their right mind would openly deploy vulnerable drone-tech on a modern battlefield.

Painted in chameleo-colors, the spheric turrets were just about to be activated when the forest opened fire. With a loud whistle, a metal slug tore one merc a see-through hole in his chest, the impact flinging him a couple of feet back. Fired from a Clan repeater, a torrent of particle-beams followed suit and showered the field camp, pinning some of the mercs down.

“Take coveeeer!” – screamed the Lieutenant, pointing where the enemy fire originated, bellowing a follow up command – “Return fire and suppress. Quick, before they run away!”

Experienced in ground combat, the light on their feet mercs moved with purpose. Quickly taking cover, they only lost one of their troop before returning fire with everything on hand. Grenade launchers sprang into life, lugging fiery munitions into the thick forestry, blasting entire trees into flaming chunks. Running from cover to cover, the mercs approached what was left of the smoldering treeline, their beamguns frying everything that even twitched.

Another sniper shot turned a merc’s head into mist rising their casualties to three. Emerging from a hole in the ground shrouded in a torn chameleo-cloak, the War Liar opened fire at them. The hail of railgun projectiles cut through two men, blasting their bodies to gory chunks of meat.

Berul immediately opened fire herself, one of her beams hitting the Terr’aan’s shimmering energy field. Before they could pin him down with focused beamfire, the man floated away deeper into the forest, mocking them as he did so:

“You Corpos can’t even shoot straight!”

“Lieutenant!” – Berul screamed as she ducked behind a muddy rock nearby – “What the schlock do we do now?!”

“This is rearguard action, Ma’am! He has no more than three, maybe four men with him, covering the escape of their main force. We can flank and blast this bum to death with beamfire, grenades, or both.”

Organized and alert despite their casualties, her veteran enforcers proceeded to walk through the burning foliage, spraying beams and lobbing grenades as they advanced. Berul followed them, adding her own weapons fire to theirs, in the hope she could hit that annoying Human. The bonus pay they’ll get from corporate headquarters if they managed to slay a Terr’aan War Liar, would be quite significant.

“Lieutenant, if we get this Human we’ll be rich!” – she shouted, already counting decats and perhaps even a promotion for herself – “I will take care of their sniper, you nab that cape-wearing liar.”

Her field armor’s faceplate was fitted with integrated rangefinder goggles, so the exec could order safer orbital or arty strikes. Berul had activated it with a voice command and ordered its computer to triangulate the sniper’s location, immediately after the first shot was fired. If the scanners worked properly, she could even get advanced warning of incoming projectiles and try to dodge them.

Not today.

Director Berul zigzagged towards the last known location of that sniper, blade and beamgun at the ready. True, it was dangerous to detach from her mercenary force, however, the exoskeleton enabled swift retreats. Not a minute later her faceplate had just acquired three moving targets, one lugging the longest rifle she’d ever seen, when the entire forest behind her erupted with laser and railgun fire.

She rolled around only to see enemy weapons flashing from the trees, holes in the ground, and even rocks. Eager to earn their bonus pay, her mercenaries had “flanked” themselves into an ambush! Grenades and particle-beams whizzed at the partisans, who, instead of running away, doubled down.

If that was even possible, another group opened fire closing in from behind her enforcers. Plasma bolts whizzed and hit the mercs in their backs with frightening accuracy! Someone let loose a barrage of fragmentation munitions from their automatic grenade launcher and the rear of her enforcers turned into a wet, open graveyard.

Despite their training and experience, she immediately lost eight of her men and a handful more lay wounded on the muddy ground.

“What the wozzie-shit?! How could they even be there...” – Screamed over the comms her startled Lieutenant, and immediately shouted new orders over the gunfight’s crescendo – “Drop the plasma ‘nades on ‘em, fry their left flank alive! We’ll then storm those behind us and kill all of them partisans piecemeal.”

A projectile boomed past her shoulder decapitating another merc and angry Berul charged straight at the shooter. Her mercenaries were well-armed, they could hold their ground and break through if need be. Yet, just before she leapt into action the Director sent in the coded signal, calling in the cloaked shuttle. That bonus would pay for the special recall service since she believed her enforcers were more than able to kill the War Liar.

Director Berul would never know that her plans to spend these yet unearned decats were to remain just that, plans. As soon as she engaged the sniper, who was none other than the elderly Terr’aan, the Corpo found herself dodging attacks of a wounded partisan and the woman who feverishly dragged him away on a damaged stretcher.

Of course, Berul first put a beam straight in his belly rendering him harmless.

The woman’s hand held a Terr’aan-made laser pistol and bore scars unmistakable in Berul’s eye. Swift, her own movements augmented by the exoskeleton, she performed a graceful flip, shooting the oldster’s shoulder before she landed. Cackling at the woman’s horrified facial expression, Berul proceeded to punch her, smashing a few ribs and sending her on the ground fighting for air.

“The knee... wheeze,” – shouted the old man, choking on his bloody spittle – “overcharged... cough... las-”

More he could not say because Berul nearly eviscerated him. Yet, a star-second later her joyous cackle was interrupted as she got hit in the knee joint by an overcharged laser beam. The slave woman had somehow crawled up despite the pain, and her wounded companion tossed her his gun with his last breath.

Berul tried aiming her integrated beamgun, yet she fell, her face firmly planted in the mud. The pain train ran through her brain and even all of the medical system’s stims couldn’t ameliorate it. Why? Because her leg was missing, sawed off from the knee down.

Crying out in pain, the slave woman picked up her own muddy pistol. Switching it to maximum overload she proceeded to burn through Berul’s shoulder, severing her beamgun and arm as a result. Completely overwhelmed, the corpo’s medical system crashed, its last command to the main CPU was opening the suit’s faceplate since the Director was hyperventilating.

When Berul’s full of stims blood reached the heart and resuscitated her, she awoke only to see the slave woman looming over, a big rock in her shaking hands...

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The battle was not over.

Adamant to break through the encirclement and unaware of their Director’s imminent demise, the mercs fought on. Under blistering crossfire, they did indeed attempt to launch their attack, for dear life was oh-so-precious. Used to dealing with pickles like this one, they actually believed that their training and gear would give them the edge.

Casualties?

More money for the rest since they received combat pay bonus as a unit.

And they would’ve gotten their way, yet the enemy was faster. A couple star-seconds before their grenadiers lobbed a barrage of plasma munitions, a wide, blue laser beam burned through their flank. Overheated, the weapon sustained irreparable damage and its operator lay down his life, yet the day was won.

More than half their number lay dead, turned into charred husks, puddles of molten metal where their weapons and gear fell. Mauled by railguns and burned by lasers, wounded, the rest cried out for help. They called their pirate bodyguards, the Director, anyone who would hear.

Their links went unanswered for they were jammed.

More, they could hear a duo of squeaking voices counting aloud and utter terror grasped their souls.

The tiny feet of doom!

So this is why this otherwise puny gaggle of runaway slaves was so well outfitted and fielded such devastating firepower!

Yet what followed crushed their will completely, for the high-pitched voices sang:

“It’s just what I want – to watch slavers bleed – their guts on the ground – degenerate scum destroyed – oh, how I love countin’!”

It mattered not that this was a song called “Cozy Doom” originally composed and performed by a hamster life metal band called Cuddle Force. The mercenaries realized that they were doomed and nothing that they’d try would save them.

Serene smile on his face Vinson inhaled deeply, as if he was at a table heavy with delicious food and drink, and this devastated forest not a battlefield but someone’s cozy home.

“Aaaah... you degenerates absolutely reek of terror.” – said Vinson, holding the smoking hot HRAR, his eyes gleaming with happiness such that the terrified Corpos had never witnessed.

“P-please,” – moaned one of the mercs – “I give y-you... gargle... m-money...”

“Why would I even entertain the notion of taking your blood money, slaver filth?” – asked the Terran, as he released the slagged power pack and reached for a fresh one.

“Moreover, if we spare your dirty lives you’d go on to prey upon others, preferably unarmed and utterly incapable of defending themselves and their children.” – Vinson stated this as a matter of fact while he loaded his HRAR with a satisfying clank.

The short few moments of silence were cut by a not-so-distant and immeasurably cuddly voice counting:

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight... Oh, there is a bit dangling over here so that’s a total of twenty-nine!”

“No,” – stated Vinson and motioned his troop to emerge from their hiding places – “better your predation ends here and you feed the many critters of this planetoid.”

Four of the wounded enforcers attempted to fire at him, but were shot dead by the militiamen. Screams filled the air as two hamsters approached, standing in all of their small stature on Vinson’s side, long and blood-dripping daggers in their little hands. Those who still had some modicum of mobility began to crawl away. A futile measure, for the Terr’aans would not visit mercy upon them, just as they themselves wouldn’t spare anyone, not even little babes.

“Count them...” – commanded the Morale Officer with casual severity as he turned around, his cape fluttering in the burning wind.

The merc’s cloaked shuttle didn’t even fly over since her crew witnessed those who they were supposed to extract being slain on their holo-optics. They did not even dare switch their comms on open links for they did not wish to hear the tiny feet of doom cheerfully counting.

Thus the vile Corpo bitch met her just demise.

But... what should Vinson do in the aftermath of this clash? Fortunately, though incapacitated for the foreseeable future, George and most of the wounded were alive, including Fan. She fainted in her husband’s arms, as he rushed her towards the nearest triage dugout.

(One) Count his blessings and immediately retreat from the area. Though for a Terran Morale Officer no casualties were considered acceptable, today was an exception. With the mercs and their vile boss taken out of the picture, the pirate captain had few options left. Either let his wounded rot in the mud or retreat a handful of star warriors at a time. Of course, the now driven mad with rage Zhur may act irrationally as much as he wants. He knew not the location of the militiaman’s base.

(Two) Linger back for a few minutes and loot everything that could be of use from the dead enforcers. After all, these vile murderers no longer needed their combat gear, nor all the medical supplies or food piled at their field camp. Mayhap the two engineers could find creative use of those nifty robotic turrets?

(Three) Waste no time or effort carrying heavy crates full of what was quite possibly, sub par field rations. The militia had plenty of good food – most of them were farmers after all. However, grabbing the grenade launchers and spare power packs from the dead mercs was a capital idea. Using those to blow up all supply crates so the Clanners were denied rations and meds, even better.

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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.