Velin The Lothorian
Book 1, The Rifle's Song
Index:
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 6
He who sows embers will reap fires
Evening was fast approaching and the sun slowly rolled over Avern’a’s ruin-dotted horizon. Reia excused herself and went to see her teacher. She’d return soon and both would visit the boy they saved, see if he could tell them more about the raiders. Then Velin was promised a meal under the stars in her company, for he planned on saying more than a few things.
One hulkish-looking man approached Velin, and his face sported a happy grin.
Sam was Terr’aan truck driver and a close friend of Teal Death. The Human led a convoy of well-armed trucks, that were used to ferry many of the Oasis’ current denizens to safety. Sufficed to say, the Cowled One trusted this man implicitly.
Reia wasted no time telling Velin how she guided Sam and a party of adventurers, in a daring assault on one Vaugn compound. They were not only led by Teal Death, but had the backing of one power armor piloting warrior. The Lothorian already met a Star Knight in person and was quite keen on meeting this Sir Bennett. Yet, that would have to wait since these knightly warriors were too few and the vile monsters in need of slaughter, aplenty.
“Great work on those slavers, Lothorian! My people recovered every single trap of theirs – even the old ones.” – Bellowed Sam as he shook Velin’s hand.
“Now begins the also great work of setting those up, in key places around the Oasis.” – Replied Velin, after he returned Sam’s powerful handshake.
“True, but supplying them with spare ammunition will be even greater a hurdle, I assume.” – Stated the blond haired, blue eyed American, one thumb pointed at his old truck.
“If only we had the parts, we could turn these twelve barely floating wrecks into something fierce!” – Grumbled Sam.
“What can you do, Star Savior?” – Asked Velin, who was unfamiliar with vehicles and could barely operate the simplest of them.
“Fit these scrap heaps with proper armor and sturdy grav-drives, for starters...”
Sam stopped his wholehearted explanation after hearing the words Star Savior.
“I merely pulled a few dozen men and women from death’s clutches, Lothorian. We, our friends, and loved ones would be all gone, had it not been for Teal Death. If I was once a savior, then I am a failed one.”
“Few is much better than none, Sam.” – Velin said with a calm smile on his face.
The two men watched the setting sun in silence, each scouring their memories for old fears to conquer.
Velin noticed that a peculiar-looking cap was rolling next to Sam’s boot and picked it up. The Terr’aan was distraught and probably let it slip from his fingers. Red, with white visor, there was a stylized wheeled cargo hauler from Earth and some words, stamped on its metal front panel.
The Lothorian knew not a lot of Human words since they had multiple languages, but this he could translate. The inscription on Sam’s cap read:
“Haul through rain, fire, and lightning.”
Sam’s eyes wandered away from the Oasis’s water basin and its green gardens. In Terr’aan lingo, he mumbled some numbers under his nose – the trucker used various tech terms, most of which unknown to Velin. One word the Lothorian did understand and that was “speed.”
“When truckers want parts, where do they get them from?” – With wonder in his voice asked Velin and, witnessing Sam’s somewhat confused look, added:
“I meant in general.”
“Well, there are many ways you can get parts. The easiest option is to just order on G-Net from the closest colonial factory, and they will deliver brand new components. Secondhand parts are a big thing and on may of the outer colonies, there are large salvage yards. You go there, pay for hours of access and can then haul by the ton. One could sometimes find barely used engines, even entire wrecked vehi...” – Sam scratched his short golden beard, eyes throwing curious glances at Velin’s grinning face.
“You propose we salvage the raiders’ grav-cars and trucks? They’ve prolly picked up everything from the site of your last shootout.”
“My teachers taught me that, when confrontation with your numerous enemy is inevitable, you attack first. Ambush them where they are most vulnerable, when they least expect and then, retreat.” – Stated the soldier while assuming the attention posture, as if he was answering the question of his superior.
“Sam, your trucks are old, slow, and in dire need of repair. However, from all I saw and, what you told me, they are well armed. Am I correct?” – Asked Velin and removed his uniform kepis.
“You bet, we have plenty of guns! Though them scrap heaps of ours are so rickety, raiders could hear and prolly see us from miles away.”
“What if we want them to see us?” – Smiled the Lothorian and instead of his kepis, put on Sam’s trucker hat.
For someone like him, this otherwise worn-out cap was a priceless cultural artifact, and he assumed his new acquaintance felt the same. The thing was sized for a Human and didn’t exactly fit, so Velin tilted it a tad bit too much to the left.
Sam chuckled at first and then, holding his belly, laughed out loud.
“Ambush it is, my Lothorian friend! I promise you, they will see the most helpless-looking refugee convoy, ever.”
Wiping a tear, the burly Terr’aan waved his hand when Velin offered to give him back his hat.
“You can ride railgun.” – Sam said and fixed the hat so it would actually fit Velin.
“It is tradition for all new crew members to wear my cap on their first ride, for good luck.”
“Now,” – the trucker continued, while ogling one of the armed guardians nearby – “how may of them do you think we should hide in the cargo holds?”
* * *
The raider saw a bunch of old, barely lumbering over the dusty road trucks. Their overloaded grav-engines screeched loudly, as they made a run for the Oasis. His goggles could pick up only a handful of armed people, spotted no machine guns or heavy weapons. If he wasn’t riding a grav-bike, the bandit would’ve gleefully clapped his hands. A bout of happy chuckle over the comms had to suffice... for now.
“We haf anuthar juissse one! Twelfe haulars, stuffed to deir brims with futuar slaves. Dis is whut I call a guud catch.” – The scout signaled his, and the two nearest raiding parties.
The Emperors had a cunning Boss, known by his nickname:
“Overlord.”
It was he who devised the clever plan and organized each band according to what their vehicles and raiders were best at. Bikers were insanely fast, so he delegated most of the light raiding and the vital scouting to them.
Drivers followed behind them and in groups of four war cars, attacked small convoys. War trucks were needed during raids on big convoys and a few always roamed nearby, ready to answer a biker’s call.
This strategy was so overwhelmingly successful, that the Emperors quickly grew in numbers and power. Riches from all the people they sold into slavery, provided the gangsters with new financial opportunities and much, much better gear.
Today promised to be a great day, the rider thought.
From everything he scouted, this limping truck convoy was full of all kinds of goodies. Maybe, after the boys and girls disabled these decrepit wrecks, something could be salvaged? Between the scrap and all those fools they’d potentially sell to the Vaugn or Jaern, the Overlord would most probably reward his diligence.
The raider prepared his heavy beam pistol and revved the grav-engine. He wanted to get as close as possible, before the real shootout began. Sometimes the Boss awarded those raiders who killed the most defenders with brand new guns or vehicles. He’d been drooling over one brand spanking new bike, which sat in their garage for the past star-month.
There was an issue with him remembering more details, however, because somebody shot the raider center mass. Half his torso blown to gory chunks, the flying crazy bike lost control and collided with the ground. It quickly transformed into many, and burning pieces of metal, molten polyplastic and yes, raider bits.
The rest of his gang buddies batted an eyelash not. This was not because they didn’t give a damn; even though some of them could care less, most had no eyelashes to begin with. Few, who actually knew the scout rider, bellowed explicit messages over open comms. Their ill-constructed threats promised the person who shot him a torturous and slow demise.
Much faster and maneuverable than these old trucks, ten war cars split in two groups and followed by five battle trucks, closed in to surround the refugee convoy. Even though the scout linked them his visual and scan data, some of the cars attempted to scan the trucks once more. Indeed, their anger subsided a bit since everything checked out – the decrepit machines were stuffed full of hapless refugees.
From his position atop the biggest truck, one rifleman carefully studied the raiders’ grav-vehicles. He’d heard what some of them promised and laughed heartlessly. Feeling no emotion in his stony heart; with the grin of a reaper about to cull the damned, he pulled the trigger. Fired from an elevated position, his railgun projectile blew a hole straight into one of the war cars’ engine compartment, sending the vehicle into a deathly spin.
Instantly, the raiders realized that they had a great marksman to deal with. Yet, no matter how accurate his rifle was, ‘twas one man and they, many. After the loss of one war car, the rest didn’t change their tactics, but intent on killing this single defender, showered him and the truck he rode with everything they had.
Small arms of all particle-beam sizes and types, unleashed a torrent of red hot beams. However, no matter the raiders’ eagerness to end him, the rifleman stood there and kept shooting. Unrelenting, this towering man fired shot after shot and with great precision, kept damaging the cars, wounding or killing their crews.
He was protected by his elevated position and one thick, segmented megasteel hatch. Which the rifleman prudently ducked behind of, anytime a reload was needed. One, two, and then three more cars either stopped forever or careened away from the convoy, shrouded in flames. The rest intensified and concentrated their firepower, with some car crews even attempting to sniper that monstrous rifleman.
Indeed, they managed to land more than e few shots, yet those were grazing hits. These many, little wounds, could not put a stopper on his constant firing, nor, for that matter prevent him from lobbing one grenade bundle.
A war car, one which got too close, was blown to smithereens by the explosion. The upper torso of her driver tumbling in the air for quite some seconds before landing somewhere in the dirt.
Now the raiders were mad and, after joining forces with another party of four war cars, they called for their trucks. The plan was to box the convoy in; use the armored war trucks to shield them from this rifleman, while their boarding teams attacked from up close. Till the last second possible, that abominable shooter kept blowing holes into their precious grav-cars, killing and maiming more than a dozen of them.
Then... then, the convoy changed course and with a much greater speed than it should’ve been possible!
Nearly crushing into the raiders at some occasions, suddenly and from point blank range, the otherwise toothless trucks opened fire. Hand-held laser guns, plasma flamethrowers, machine guns, and even looted particle-beam cannons were unleashed upon the unsuspecting raiders. Cars were sliced in two or blown up, large molten holes bored through the vicious-looking bandit trucks.
Everything, for just a tad bit, settled, as all vehicles slowed down or halted completely. Then, from the trucks’ bellies poured out a small swarm of well-armed militia. Aided by the abominable rifleman, who leapt straight into the melee, gun blazing and bayonet slashing, these resistance fighters soon overwhelmed nearly all bandits.
It lasted long, that pretend chase this fake refugee convoy drew the raiders in for; the end, however, was quite short. The truck crews and militiamen took no longer than ten star-minutes to loot every useful bit. Using plasma cutters and vibroblades, they chopped vehicle parts and armor-plating, stuffed power packs and guns into empty crates. After loading all of these into their trucks, they did what their rifleman was about to and prepared to speed away, vanish into the desert.
The rifleman and militiamen carried something on them, a spiky present of sorts, ready for when they’d slaughtered all the raiders.
He found one of the parasites whose noggin was still intact and nailed his parting gift on it, using a swift butt-stroke. What was left from these three vicious raiding parties were fleshy bits here and there, covered by trash, molten metal and many, many crowned heads.
* * *
You can find The Rifle’s Song and the second novella, Velin And The Bunker Of Death here.