Velin The Lothorian
Book 1, The Rifle's Song
Index:
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 5
A perfect day to live
The burning heaps of metal and polyplastic were once grav-vehicles. On their way to the now fabled oasis, they were ambushed and, one after another, set ablaze. A bunch of road bandits, who not so long ago circled the wrecks in their own grav-bikes and cars, had since dismounted. Two by two, the armed thugs scrounged these heaps for useful parts, supplies, and, of course, people.
Just like many other vultures, the road bandits preyed upon the locals, slaving anyone who fell in their hands.
Fitted with scavenged gear, yet often sporting top-of-the-line Taz’aran beam guns or brand new Jaern PPGs, there was no end to this plague upon the face of Avern’a. No matter how many of them did adventurers and freedom fighters kill, more parasites sprang seemingly out of nowhere.
Many individuals made a run for the oasis, encouraged by the utter demise of a vicious road gang. Indeed, at first they were successful and a lot of them managed to reach safety. However, as it turned out, the removal of a single gang achieved nothing, but temporary succor.
Successful cleansation of parasites had to be thorough and planet-wide.
Another band of raiders took over the same territory and, their numbers swelled by other gangs, they quickly grew into a huge hurdle for anyone in the region. The road bandits raided, they slaved, consolidated their strength, and gained ever firmer grip over their “territory.” They grew bolder by the day, ogling the oasis itself, slobbering over future loot and slaves.
For now, their raiding parties foraged on the roads for bite-size booty.
Two figures skulked around the burning husk of a large truck, the thick plumes of choking smoke greatly aiding their lurk. Tall, the muscular man moved with practiced guile, long vibroblade in his hand. Behind him, his petite female companion aimed her small pistol at a nearby bandit. Shrouded more by her stature and camouflage suit than the blackish fumes, finger on the trigger, the toned young woman awaited her comrade’s mark.
Stride careful and gear fitted to perfection, the man avoided his target’s sight. Unnoticed till the very last second, his Terran-made bayonet violated the bandit’s back. Piercing make-shift armor, bone, and flesh, the twenty inch long blade’s tip emerged from the chest. Since this one’s throat was nigh crushed by the man’s powerful grip, the second gangster could not hear his fellow raider’s death throe.
He did see the bayonet’s bloody tip though, yet a star-second later was shot in the head by the woman. Subsonic, the armor-piercing needle hit him at the base of his skull and his eyes popped out, thinking faculties soon to follow. The two armed with Terran-made weapons people quickly determined that there wasn’t anyone left alive here, and snuck towards the next smoldering wreckage.
Not one word was uttered; they exchanged simple signs and nods, yet the duo communicated well. Upon reaching the second wreck, they successfully stalked another two bandits. Expediently corpsified and in nearly the same fashion, this time the gangsters carried something of use – grenades. The man grabbed them and used a piece of wire to craft a grenade bundle, which he then wrapped in a discarded cloth and tied to his belt.
This way the improvised explosive device would generate the least amount of clank and be at hand, ready for throwing.
Skulking through the fumes did indeed work for a third, and as it turned out, last time. While the woman was shooting dead one of the loitering about gangsters, from a prudent distance and in his back, someone finally decided to check on their missing comrades.
“‘Eems wiv got survivaaars! Sprid out Impirars and nab the sukas, live and squirmeng.” – Somebody in charge roared with a happy note in her voice, seemingly uncaring about the deaths of her underlings.
The man was in the process of snapping a neck when he heard this and, for the first time since the battle began, hissed:
“Just you wait, I’ll crown you all!”
Then he gave his graceful female companion another hand sign and, no longer skulking, charged straight at the third wreckage. His intent was to overwhelm and slaughter two more bandits, before what was left of their raiding party joined forces. The woman followed close behind him, reloading her needler pistol on the go. They moved swiftly, but instead of surprising the bandits, they bumped straight into them.
Emerging from one especially thick cloud of black fumes, the two raiders faced them and they were ready for a fight. One in which they had the upper hand and preferably with emaciated, unarmed people.
Yet, the two they now faced were nothing like their usual victims. The man attacked by leaping forward and up in the air, leg aimed at the closest bandit, vibroblade still humming in his hand. Before the kick connected, his companion rolled on the ground, evading a hissing, red hot particle-beam.
She fired a few times from point-blank range and the needles found their mark. Even though this was an inherently silent and small weapon, its megasteel projectiles forged gory exit wounds, killing the bandit on the spot.
The physical strength and inertia behind the man’s flying kick was immense. Upon finding the mark, his foot crushed bone and immediately transformed the bandit into a mewling heap. Wallow long the parasite did not, for his neck was snapped by a devastating elbow swipe.
Quickly, they ran and took cover among the wreckage, while still on the look for survivors. There were none, yet a star-second later after they lay their eyes upon the four dead passengers of this car, another bandit shrieked:
“Me saw one! Boss, dere be a live kid heiden ‘ere.”
“Nab em! We’s comen to help in da war car.”
Since the initial cry came from the direction of the last and biggest of wrecks, a modified passenger bus, the man whispered quick instructions:
“Carbine. Circle around that hole and flank them. Only shoot when the kill is secure. Go!”
He himself ducked under one of the dusty pieces of debris and his hand reached for the grenade bundle. The unpleasant rumble of badly tuned grav-drive swiftly closed by and he pulled one of the wires, activating the detonators. Rolling from under the jagged piece of metal, he assumed a well-trained throwing stance and aimed the bomb.
“Shoeith iiim!” – Screeched the same female voice which gave orders not a few star-seconds earlier.
Shoot her crew did, yet way too late since the man had already rolled back under cover and his grenade bundle flew true.
A brutal explosion shook the ground; molten metal, burning body parts, and shattered polyplastic showered everything in range. Not the man though, because he’d anticipated this and prudently hid under that long piece of metal. Covered him it did, yet nothing could’ve protected him from the blast wave and when he attempted to stand, the man spat blood.
Staggered and deafened from the explosion, nevertheless, he grabbed his rifle and ran straight towards the wrecked bus. The bloodied vibroblade lay in its bayonet groove with a satisfying click, but it wasn’t its moment, yet.
First, the man noticed one bandit, who’d foolishly left his cover and ran towards the explosion. He aimed his rifle, but the raider was a bit quicker since he was still staggered by the blast. The red particle-beam hit him, thankfully straight in one of the most reinforced parts of his armored uniform. There was another hiss and the bandit flew aback, most of his upper torso blown up by a heavy projectile.
The man immediately changed direction and after making a few long steps, lay on the ground. Rifle squarely aimed at the nearest piece of debris since his eye caught movement. Someone reached with his beam gun holding arm and fired a full stream, without aiming. Him being on the ground, the man was safe from this haphazard attack. With a vicious grin on his face he aimed lower, and pulled the trigger of his heavy railgun rifle, twice.
The pellets blew a hole straight through the bandit’s cover, armor, and sent his gored body a few feet back.
With a well-trained move, the man stood on one knee, heavy rifle still aimed at the smoldering wreck. He noticed the foot of another bandit, sticking just a little bit out behind another piece of debris. Instead of doing exactly what he did just a few star-seconds ago, he shot at the foot. When the legless raider rolled on the ground, screeching and in much pain, the rifleman blew up his head with another well-aimed shot.
He couldn’t risk his armor-piercing projectiles hitting the bus proper.
With a quick dash and roll, he reached the same cover which his latest target hid behind. For a second he disputed using the particle-beam carbine laying before him on the ground, but then raised his rifle ready to strike. It was too close and perfect for someone like him, a soldier trained by Terr’aan masters of Peace in the secrets of bayonet combat.
“Come at me villains! I challenge you to honorable melee combat.” – Shouted he, unmasking his position on purpose, and walked tall, out of cover.
Two raiders revealed themselves the moment they saw him and both of them sniggered. Snide smirks on their dirty mugs, they beckoned him:
“Oiii, hes’ gon’ doeh honarabla combat, he sais. Let’s fighten Lothlorian!”
Two well-aimed laser beams felled the ignominious gangsters, before they could shoot him. The cheats, they always got what was coming; slime like them could evade their doom for only so long.
One pair of tired eyes watched how the last six bandits approached the wrecked bus.
Crawled behind the bloodied bodies of dead passengers and ruined luggage, there was a little boy. No older than eight star-years, the kid had seen more than most of his peers would, for their entire, sheltered lives. Eyes nigh empty and soul void of hope, this child expected torture or death, and not even in the same order.
Many of the alien adventurers and freedom fighters who came on Avern’a to help, fell in love. Their progeny often suffered horrendous fate, when they died fighting the Jaern and their allies. Oftentimes these children were stuck on the planet, without any hope for escape. Nearly all of them ended as chattel, sex slaves, or worse – delicacies to be devoured alive, on some Jaern commander’s table.
The precious few who reached their teens grabbed the gun, joined one or another resistance group. They followed in their parents’ footsteps, fought and ultimately died a glorious death. This boy aimed to do exactly the same, for he was soul-scarred and had nothing left to live for... or so he thought.
Pistol left with one last shot, the child was quite adamant to not fall in bandit hands.
Instead of doom however, he witnessed the brutal, just demise of all nearby raiders. Fingers bleeding, his shaky hand lowered the pistol so it was no longer aimed at his temple. Deep inside his hollow eyes the will to live was reborn, and the fire of hope, its flames now burned tall.
The six bandits approached, but hesitantly and the child witnessed how this tall, alien man, the one who called himself Lothorian, smiled. Such a happy grin the man sported; even his almond shaped eyes emanated happiness, and the boy felt one long forgotten emotion.
The longer this child looked at those alien blue eyes, he not only felt safe – he knew he was safe!
“Get them.” – Whispered the child.
It did not take long for this man to start shooting. His rifle ripped a number of bandits to bloody chunks, and while they did fire in his direction, most of their beams missed. Those which hit the man’s uplifting-looking uniform either glanced or vanished, beaten by armor and energy resistant underlay.
Then more laser beams came and hit some of the remaining bandits’ backs. Boring cauterized, smoldering holes in their flesh, two more parasites fell dead on the dusty ground. The last bandit, a burly, armed with a long vibroblade man, charged.
Fearsome, vicious even that gangster looked, yet the rifleman felled him with one single stab. Body coiled and ready, the man changed his stance in but a second. He leaned forward and feet planted firmly, his hands powered by a swift hip movement, he propelled his rifle. The bayonet sunk up to its hilt and emerged from the sword wielding thug’s back. Then the rifleman gently yanked his rifle up, twisting the vibroblade. His torso sliced in two, the bandit fell eviscerated on the ground.
The gentle figure of an Avern’a woman crawled through the debris, and her voice was that of an angel. The child attempted to reach her, yet his body was drained of strength and sobbing, he fell unconscious. A petite figure emerged from the broken bus a bit later, the child sleeping in her arms.
* * *
Much later, after hours had passed, another and much larger group of “Emperors” arrived at the site. Their leader was greeted by a sight most grisly and, aghast at the sheer brutality of it, contacted the gang Boss. This one ordered him to take a holo-slide and then destroy every trace of their defeat.
Next to a still smoldering fire, where any weapon which could not be looted, burned, someone left a warning. There was a pile made of dead bandits, topped by their severed heads. Resting atop each other in a loose pyramid shape, every head had a wreath of sorts. Some wore hastily-made circlets of rusty wire or cable, others were impaled by short metal pieces, nails, even slagged power packs.
They were not just killed, no!, his fellow gang members were posthumously “crowned.”
Only a pitiless warrior would leave a barbarous message like this! Even though it was true that he and others like him did many a vicious act, the pure ferociousness of it all shuddered him to the core. And as he watched the burning heads, the road bandit entertained a wholly new for him notion – retirement.
* * *
You can find The Rifle’s Song and the second novella, Velin And The Bunker Of Death here.