Velin The Lothorian

Book 1, The Rifle's Song

[Art by Marin GAO]

Index:

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

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Chapter 2

Eyes of a Terran

“No one’s gonna save you!” – Shouted the slaver after a long and jubilant chortle.

He and a dozen of his underlings stood beside a ruined building. Long since toppled, this once grandiose-looking apartment complex was but a sorry heap of rubble. Though certain parts of the fallen to its side building still remained intact, enemies would find it supremely hard to even walk near it.

During the ages since this abode and the surrounding town slowly dilapidated, the area was gradually being populated by a great number of booby traps. Scanner guided particle-beam snub guns set on wide dispersal fire, anti personnel mines, micro missile launchers programmed to blast any unknown vehicle and much, much more.

Therefore, many slaver gangs like his own, felt safe operating from this ruin. They’ve built their camps here, so guards and slaves could rest before their trip to the markets. Back in the day, many bands would raid one another, intent on claiming their competitor’s merchandise for themselves – hence the aforementioned booby traps.

The boss’s own ass was well-protected and currently rested inside one of his heavily armored power armor’s hands. His machine was parked a good distance away from the ruined building, but in full view of the chained slaves. Pilot hatch open, in a few seconds he could be behind the controls and start moving, since he kept its motors operational.

Once everything on this wretched planet belonged to the Avern’a, but now her people themselves were property of others.

Speaking of belongings, the slaver took another glance at the inventory file and smirked – they were about to make a killing tomorrow. Three long mag-chains of freshly caught slaves, all of them young maidens! This was perhaps the deal of a lifetime for a small-time band like his own, and he could almost hear the cling of freshly minted Taz’aran dekats.

Indeed, so happy was the gang boss, that he engaged in his favorite pastime.

Grav-shackles locked hands and feet, each group of ten girls were forced to carry the weight of their mag-chain. Bodies barely covered with raggedy clothes, ‘twas a feast for the eye and mind for all slavers. Of course the maidens were quality merchandise and not one of them was molested in any way, except mentally.

“Abandon all hope for escape, for you are property now!” – Roared the boss and was quickly joined by some of his laughing underlings.

A choir of obscene remarks, gestures, and graphic descriptions of all the horrifying duties which these girls would have to suffer daily soon followed. Every slaver, even the beginners knew – far easier it was to peddle flesh with broken spirit. However strange ‘twas to believe, but this time, fewer and fewer slaves had the gaze of a caged animal. Most of them, despite their sorry state, looked at him and his crew with an odd mixture of hate and hope.

Many star-years did the boss peddle Avern’a on the slave markets, slowly gaining wealth and status. Recently, however, things on this cadaver of a planet were beginning to... regress. He was hearing rumors of powerful aliens striding among the desolate ruins of this pitiful planet. Heroes descending from the stars, armed to the faceplates with high-quality gear and deathly Terran weaponry. Agents of Order, these pesky do-gooders were intent on decimating his kind without fail and... to the last.

All of this could definitely give the locals some hope, yet, apparently, this wasn’t the case. He was told, many of them embraced their defiant past and once more attempted to resist. The boss was good at listening and knew many a watering hole. Places where, while his crew whored and drank themselves under the tables, he gathered priceless information.

This time, after sifting through more than a hundred different rumors and listening to hearsay for many star-hours, he decided that all of this was malarkey. Wozzy shit peddling wimps spread these manufactured news in order to cause fear, or enable other bands to grab more slaves. He wasn’t some spacesuit-wetting dope, honestly trusting every single horror-laden rumor.

Things changed and slavery was being modernized once again. There was never going to be a return to this crappy planet’s tradition, nor a restoration of Avern’a old ways. The boss represented the future; high-tech reaping of this planet’s sentient crop, selling it for a tidy profit on well-regulated by Jaern authorities markets.

Enthralled by the colorful language of his underlings, the boss nearly choked on a spittle, when one heavily wounded road bandit strutted into his camp.

“The Terraaans are comiiiing! Terraan... is... out... there...” – Bellowed the arm-less man and fell unconscious to the ground.

‘Twas about ten star-years ago, when the boss and fifteen other bands agreed on forming a pact. To minimize infighting and hopefully prevent gang wars, they organized their own messenger service. No matter where one of their groups were or, what they did at the time, everyone obeyed this agreement. Sending a warning to their neighboring gang spared them unnecessary bloodshed, moreover, keeping the peace was paramount for security reasons.

Their type valued money among all other things, yet... what good were dekats to a dead slaver?

Since the Terrans’ advent, everyone quickly developed a healthy fear of these relentless aliens. One could not bargain with the merciless Humans and their allies! Terrans felt no pity or feared their own death, and they would not stop until all of their enemies were dead. Despite all assurances of the Jaern that the Terrans would never be strong enough to invade Avern’a, he’d planned his gang’s escape. Just in case that the “impossible” occurred...

The closest men rushed to check this barely alive messenger, injecting him with a life-saving dose of medigel.

“Scan him and put everyone on full alert!” – Screamed in his comms the boss, while he stood up, intent on climbing inside his mecha.

“Boss, what do you mean by ‘everyone’?” – Confused, mumbled one of his newest underlings.

“EVERYONE!” – Roared the boss, one hand holding the conveniently placed shoulder handle, so he can finally climb up the mech.

Something swished through the air, and the sound of metal hitting metal rang painfully in his ear. A sound which came straight up and in front of him, exactly where that ruined building was. He leapt immediately, pushing himself off the mechanical arm of his mecha, as it blew up. The pain in his ears was nothing compared to the explosion’s searing flames, which now nibbled his arse.

Lifted up and propelled through the air by the blast wave, eventually the boss landed.

Body battered and bones broken, he desperately squirmed, trying to reach a medispray on his belt. He was a mecha pilot and not in the habit of wearing a heavily-armored suit. That twenty feet long flight through the air and then landing on covered in concrete scraps ground, for his power armor would end with a gentle scratch.

His fleshy self was another matter altogether!

He probably had multiple broken ribs, his left leg was unnaturally bent, and a bone stuck out through his right arm’s sleeve. Then there was the chest pain and the troubled breathing.

The boss nearly reached his belt with bloodied fingers, when he heard the unmistakable roar of a Terran railgun. It came straight up, from the top of the ruined building, that deathly boom. Followed immediately by the death throe of his newest underling, there was another shot and then... another.

A cacophony of death cries, desperately running feet, the hiss of particle-beams, and many a body hitting the ground, followed.

The boss knew perfectly well why he wasn’t killed first. A marksman wounded targets of importance and then picked off those attempting to aid them. The youngest slaver in his crew had to die, for he had almost reached him, intent on helping his boss.

One after the other, in rapid succession this armed with Terran rifle marksman vanquished all of the slavers. His elevated position atop the building gave him commanding presence over the slave camp, now turned killing ground. Only after the ruins were littered by the corpses of his crew, did the slaver boss ask himself a question of great importance:

“How did this rifleman bypass all the booby traps?!”

Huddled before him, the chained maidens uttered not one word, not even a whimper left their mouths. They stood there beautiful, calm; their faces straight, their tear-less eyes full of hate, and every single one of them was ogling him...

The boss could barely inject himself with one medispray, before a pair of alien-looking boots landed nearby. He desperately braved the pain of mending bone and healing flesh, one hand reaching for his overpowered beam pistol. Unnerving as it was, the many cold gazes piercing him would not stop the boss from shooting that rifleman dead.

He reached forth with his shaking arm, even rose up on one knee, yet the boots he saw were not there. Indeed, the boss attempted to turn his head and look around, but that was an attempt most unsuccessful. Said megasteel reinforced footwear found the side of his torso, broke a few more ribs, and promptly sent him back on the ground.

He managed to fire one shot; the pink beam harmlessly streaked up in the air, before another kick, this time to the chest, stole his very breath away. The slaver’s one good arm was then held by the wrist and snapped, as if his bones were made of brittle polyplastic. A powerful fist hit him in the gut a second later and he vomited his lavish breakfast, choking on some of it in the process.

The marksman who slaughtered all of his crew swung something long and sturdy – a rifle. Hit by a vicious butt-stroke, the slaver’s right leg broke and he now lay on the bloodied ground, helpless.

Looming above him stood a tall, powerfully built alien man. Such armored uniform and soldierly insignia the slaver had never before witnessed, but the railgun rifle was unmistakably Terran.

Even though he attempted to speak, the slaver could not since his lungs were quickly filling with blood. Only a wimpy rale, followed by bloody spittle, left his lips. Sight dimming, nevertheless he clearly saw the tip of a long bayonet aimed at his gut.

His killer did not gloat, nor, for that matter, smile. Face an emotionless mask, this alien marksman looked him with his dark-blue, almond shaped eyes. There was no pity or any other emotion, except calm happiness to be found there. The slaver boss shuddered, overtaken with ever-growing terror, as he slowly choked on his own blood.

‘Twas definitely not a Terran man, yet these eyes of his... they unmistakably were.

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You can find The Rifle’s Song and the second novella, Velin And The Bunker Of Death here.