A peaceful man
The holo-projector streamed a movie, full of deep colors and narrated by an old man. Despite his age, the narrator’s gravitas commanded respect and his powerful voice instantly captured the listener’s attention. Those who made the film could’ve easily added music for greater effect, though there was no need.
In this instance, sights and words were more than enough...
“With majestic grace three conjoined starships drifted in their eternal resting place. Hulls torn open to space and armor plating ripped, all engines frozen, their mighty cannon silenced forever. These behemoths and their crews fought together as one, till both metal and men could fight no more.
The latter held their hull and brutally culled the vicious horde of star warriors who assailed Earth. These indomitable men and women were killed by the invader’s beam weapons; their limbs cut off and bodies stabbed by vibroblades. Yet, almost without exception, they dragged more of their assailants, kicking and screaming, on their way to the afterlife.
Had they had a single breath, they’d spend it to kill yet another invader.
The former bled not blood, but power, fuel, and chem-coolant. They were not made of flesh, but megasteel, empowered by the wills of those who crewed them. And so, together the olden Peaceships fell; riddled by torpedoes, plasma bombs, and focused particle-beams. Decks and corridors thick with the lifeblood and bodies of their creators, the three Terran cruisers kept returning fire, long after this would’ve been possible for their much more advanced, alien counterparts.
Had they had a single drop of fuel left, they’d use it to ram yet another pirate starship.
The INS Akira, the INS Lincoln, and the INS Rome, names which would forever live, enshrined by the feats of their crews.
Part of the old battlefield they are; the Tri-Ship Monument is a testament most hallowed to those, whose sacrifice ensured the futures of our kin.
A school; youths coming from all over Terran Minarchy space learn how to cherish their lives.
A mausoleum; the bodies of these benevolent warriors are forever entombed within the hulls of their vessels.
Last, but not least, the three vessels are a symbol; one which Terrans and Star Blood allies branded with burning hot determination into our very souls.
The Monument’s orbit is carefully maintained by a host of volunteers and veteran engineers. Although not all of these oldsters are survivors of the Three, they all fought in that same battle, back in 1969. When that arrogant Pirate Lord Mahimm, drunk with power after having united most of the Fringe Space pirate clans, assumed he’d reap the people of Earth as if they were a mere crop.
So many were the Clanners, that their vessels blotted out the stars and dimmed the Sun itself. Their star warriors descended upon Earth’s peoples in their hundreds of millions. Marching out dropships and assault pods with enslaving intent, eager to fill the holds of their craft with crying women and children.
Cry we did, yet even in our darkest of terrors, we Terrans, persevered. The streets ran red with our blood and thick with our bodies. Everyone fought to their last breath, to their last ammunition, and with everything they had. For there is no life for us to be had, unless we are free!”
The holo-vid changed perspective.
This was not professional and entirely another set of footage, clearly taken by someone short – a boy.
There was this long corridor, occupied by dead crewmen and their pirate adversaries. They rarely floated alone; in most cases the unconquerable Humans fell, hands wrapped around the invader’s neck. Some, after expending all their ammunition or having their weapons destroyed in the heat of battle, continued felling the enemy with mangled pieces of their own spaceship’s hull. Others, before succumbing to their mortal wounds, they bashed the pirates’ faceplates open with their own helmets.
Not alone and unafraid, the boy focused his holo-cam and took close up shots of the fallen.
Preserved by the vacuum of space, the Terran faces all kept their last, frozen emote. Some had laconic smiles, others masks of benevolent rage, yet all emitted the same aura. The nimbus of those who embraced the sum of their terrors and, upon the anvils of their very minds, they hammered them into weapons of the soul.
The holo-cam turned around; the child had locked his mag-boots onto the floor and focused on his guide.
“Out of those who fell here, I am the only survivor...” – Smiling said a grizzled veteran of regal mien.
“Lived I did, so that one day I could instruct the youth, learn them of my own mistakes.”
“Sir,” – began the child with his boyish voice – “my father, Captain Grant, he was a star marine. He said you gave him two pieces of advice during his visit of the Tri-Ship monument. Dad refused to say what you told him. He instead stated that, I’d understand better when I hear it said here, even though the words are the same.”
“I remember your father and can say exactly what I instructed him yet, I feel that you came here seeking more.”
“Sir, when I grow up, I want to become a peaceful man.”
The veteran’s smile grew a bit wider; he made a gesture, pointing at the nearest dead crewman:
“This is crewman John Heinlein Smith and by all accounts, he lived a most peaceful life. To be peaceful, one needs not be cowardly or meek, no! A peaceful man or a woman is capable of enacting supreme violence upon those who would threaten theirs and their loved ones’ peace. Their body, will, and very souls are trained to the utmost perfection. Contemplate any theories, have philosophical discussions with your peers, build the most wonderful buildings or peerless starcraft, but keep thine weapon by your side.”
There was an audible gasp and the boy’s little hand reached forth to shake the veteran’s.
“The two lessons I gave your father were: One – how to live and Two – how to die as a Terran.”
“Would you repeat them, Sir?” – The boy asked, his voice brimming with anticipation.
“You have near boundless opportunity to achieve happiness, child. Though, for one to be happy, they must also share their cheer with others. Those who fell here, they sacrificed their futures so we should all strive to be better for them. Laugh together with your loved ones, forge a free future for your kin, craft armaments of Peace to protect those who deserve it, raise bountiful crops and feed those who need it the most, have many, healthy and happy children. Then and only then you can grow old,” – he made a pause and nodded at the fallen Terrans – “in their stead.”
“I will remember this well.” – Mumbled the boy and vigorously shook his helmeted head, causing the holo-cam to temporarily go out of focus.
“As for my second lesson...” – sighed the veteran and gently patted the boy’s helm – “Though I wish you long life and peace, we all know what could happen. Therefore, if it is your time, do this.”
The veteran solemnly pointed at each individual Human crewmate, cited their names from memory and told a short tale of how they died.
“Terrans don’t go meekly into the night. We don’t run, cower, or beg for mercy, because we know from experience we’d be shown none! No!, instead we take control of our hearts and fight with the calm abandon of those who are already dead. Our every remaining breath and heartbeat is spent to enable the doom of yet another enslaver. For those whom we end shall never oppress or steal the future of another innocent.”
“Live a happy life, help those of merit and if need be, die like a Terran. Thank you for the lessons, Sir. But... may I ask something else?”
“My life-purpose once was to protect. Now, it is to teach those, whose futures our sacrifice made possible. Therefore, as a veteran, I am bound by duty to answer your question, child.”
“What is your name, Sir? I know that most veterans who serve on the Tri-Ship Monument rarely share their names. My dad didn’t tell me yours, even if you told him...”
“We like to remain nameless, to be the voice of our honored dead.” – Said the veteran and his voice fluttered a bit before he added:
“Since you are the son of a fellow marine, I will give you my name.”
The veteran produced something from his spacesuit’s front pocket. The military issue soldier tag floated on its metallic chain right before the holo-cam.
Stamped in the metal was the name: Maj. John Basilone
The holo-vid slowly faded away.
Today was Gene’s seventeenth birthday.
Starlight coming from the shuttle’s transparent cockpit conquered the young man’s entire view and he grinned from ear to ear. Not only he had gotten the family space shuttle safely to the colony of Applecrate, but he did so well ahead of schedule. Meaning, he could freely enjoy the local sights, and even test the small mecha frame he’d been tinkering with before the celebrations commenced.
He had no more than a few star-seconds of quiet after the shuttle exited hyperspace and Gene’s alone time ended abruptly.
“Bwothew, Wightning is... sniff... huwt... hic... pwease... sob... hewp it!”
Serena, his four-year-old little sister, held a blue toy robot. Remote controlled, capable of performing simple commands, it was built by him and drew energy from sidearm power packs. She still thought of the toy as a living pet and neither his parents nor he dared tell her the truth.
“Come here little sister,” – Gene mumbled with his well-polished after years of babysitting his little siblings voice – “let big brother see where Blue Lightning hurts.”
He gently picked up Serena and sat her in his lap. Gene took the robot, but being a prudent babysitter, he first distracted her before performing any maintenance.
“Look there Firefly,” – he used the nickname their father gave Serena and pointed at the gleaming dot of a planet, growing fast in their view – “the orchard full of blue apples approaches. They are as big as your head even!”
“Ooooh, can I hawe one, can I?!” – Babbled she, and waggled her tiny fingers at the stellar body.
For a few short seconds the girl forgot about her toy, and he was able to swiftly replace the expended power pack with a fresh one.
“Yes little Firefly, we will get you the largest blue apple yet!” – Promised Gene, fixing his sister’s red pigtails, wondering at her freckled, snub nose.
His entire family sported the Martian genetic augmentations, which were now unnecessary for anyone living there. Red irises and golden skin, once vital for all colonists’ survival, were but a distant memory these days. The planet was already terraformed, but people known as Conservationists kept these out of want to preserve this part of Mars’s cultural heritage alive.
Serena had to grow up first, become twelve and then decide herself if she wanted the gene grafts. Gene didn’t know if she’d keep her adorable freckles. His green eyes didn’t change color, only the irises and skin pigmentation did, as a form of basic radiation protection. Mars already had her atmo and everything restored, but everyone who visited the planet had to marvel at those rare, “golden” Terrans.
“Pwomise?” – Asked Serena and hugged her fully healed robot toy, all distress due to it being “hurt” long forgotten.
“The absolutely hugest, bestest, and sweetest apple known to humankind.” – Promised he, confident in his mother’s ability to find anything and everything, once her mag-boots touched a colony’s starport.
As if just by thinking about her Gene could magically summon his mom, Cassandra mumbled from the cockpit’s open door:
“Yes my little Firefly, we promise. You know, your aunt Sally makes the best apple pie on Applecrate!”
Known also as the Golden Fairy of Mars, because of her thigh-long blond hair, their mother was once a famous loader girl. She still worked at one of Cydonia city’s big starports, but only when her friends asked real nice.
Cassandra taught her eldest son how to pilot a power armor and his love for these sixteen feet tall mecha grew with each passing year.
“Mom,” – Gene grinned from ear to ear – “I got us here one full day ahead of time and you know what this means, right?”
Cassandra hugged both him and little Serena, giving her son a big smooch over the forehead.
“It means that my son will show off that power armor frame he’s been working on over the last six years.”
She effortlessly lifted her littlest up and gave her a smooch on each cheek, before instructing him further:
“Just remember, when you demonstrate your power armor, show off the big vibro knife. Us loader girls like to have a weapon at hand, had someone decides to drop in... unannounced.”
“My idea to re-purpose that old vibrosword will pay off big time, wouldn’t it?” – Mumbled excited he and his mom nodded in full agreement.
“I also may have linked a few good women beforehand, so you better be ready for a much bigger audience, son.”
Cassandra speedily evacuated the cockpit, sporting one of her trademark chuckles, which all of her children loved so much. Gene’s father Grant, entered after his wife went to wake up the rest of their kids and sat next to his son.
“Gene, you are quite sure of your decision?” – Asked him his dad for one last time.
“Yes dad, I am joining the Martian Raccoons mecha team, as soon as we get back after our vacation. My plan, and you all knew about this, is to become a peaceful man. I worked so hard to acquire all the necessary skills, developed and built that prototype power armor frame. Things will go into high gear, as soon as I start working for the Raccoons. Of course, my promise to help in the floating restaurant still stands.”
Grant gave him a bear hug, while mercilessly ruffling his son’s red hair.
“I know, the boys and girls of their engineering team have basically been slobbering over your mech for the past two years. You’ll probably nab some juicy corpo contracts for parts, guns, and modules, after your first year on the team that is.”
Gene, try as he might, couldn’t free himself from his marine father’s grip and finally tapped out.
“One day...” – the young man mumbled, implying he’d be good enough to escape this hold.
His dad stood up, patted him on the shoulder and winked at him, before saying with a fatherly grin:
“Sure son, one day.”
Baker, John, and Heart, Gene’s three younger brothers stormed the cockpit and all further father and son talk became impossible. The boys; fourteen, thirteen, and twelve, respectfully, were besides themselves with anticipation. Applecrate was their favorite planet to go to and they kept coaxing their parents all Martian winter long. It never took much convincing, because everyone loved swimming in that crystal blue river, together with Applecrate’s mysterious blind fishies.
The Martian family was probably just as exciting a sight to the locals, their golden skin and all, as the wriggling aquatic Applecrateans were to them.
Then there was aunt Sally’s cooking and her absolutely to die for, blue apple pie.
The colony had a sturdy defense force, good anti-orbital railguns, and if things really went for the worse, hundreds of mercs to boot. Among said soldiers of fortune, Gene favored the “White Mountain” PMC; not only because his dad worked with them, but for their exceptional charity work. All of these factors made Applecrate a prime spot for Terran and other tourists, granted they did not bother the locals too much.
While his three brothers joked and even bet how soon Gene would land their shuttle, the young man checked the starship’s approach. Since most Terran children learned how to pilot simple shuttles in their early years, he had no issues correcting the course with minute fuel expenditure.
For the next two hours before the landing, their family’s starship became aloud with banter. Serena’s adorable, yet quite false singing, as she packed her tiny backpack full of her... robot toy possession. Then giggling, when her mom and little brothers chased her all over the shuttle, trying to fit her inside her child’s spacesuit.
No matter how mundane space travel one assumed was, safety demanded all crew wore a sealed suit during any landing.
Of course, during said atmo entry, all they talked about was food. First about aunt Sally’s, and then all of the wonderful local delicacies. A family tradition this was and, especially wholesome traditions like this one, they existed to be followed.
Engines booming, a short trail of drive plasma behind them, their shuttle descended down to the surface. The tips of her red wings ever so softly glistened since Gene performed his very best landing to date. As soon as the landing struts touched Applecrate’s starport, his family erupted in cheers, clapping, and shouting.
“Three times hurrah for our birthday boy! It was a most excellent landing this one.” – Bellowed out his dad, gently patting him over the shoulder.
“Soft too!” – Said his mom and gave him another smooch over the cheek.
“He’ll definitely crash-land next time!” – Joked Baker and poked Gene’s back between his shoulders, inducing an immediate and rather similar reaction from Heart and John.
“No, his mecha will trip!” – Chuckled John and proceeded to imitate a sudden, rather theatrical fall.
“Gene here will drop a container on his PA’s foot and then limp around the starport!” – Shouted Heart and followed his brother’s example.
For the next star-minute, their shuttle’s cockpit, instrumentation, and even spacesuits were absolutely reverberating with loud cheer.
“You jokers better free this comm link or I’m going to fine you for excessive blabbering!” – Roared with false anger the voice of Applecrate’s starport controller on their open comms.
“Oh noes! Mother, I think we overstayed our welcome here.” – Chuckled Grant and hugged his wife, who followed a second later with her own verbal jab:
“Terrible it is, I know! Now we have to pay comm fees for the rest of our lives.”
“Just make sure that young PA pilot son of yours does a backflip for me and we are all even.” – The controller’s voice announced before cutting off the link.
“Boy, now you are in trouble!” – Half-serious and with pretend fear mumbled all three of his brothers.
“What’s a back... fl-fl-fwip?” – Asked Serena and almost said L properly for the first time.
Silence conquered the cockpit and with all eyes on her, the little girl hid her flushed face behind her robot toy.
“Now hear this! Grab your things and we march to aunt Sally’s place. Gene here will come later, when he completes his little demonstration.” – Grant addressed the family with boisterous, military-like tone, sporting a wide grin as he did so.
“We promise not to eat all the pies, right?!” – Snickered Baker as his brothers nodded conspiratorially.
“Mooom! Daaad!” – Attempted to protest Gene, but was already being shoved towards the cargo hold by his parents.
“Me and Wightning, we pwomise to save big bwothew a sl-sl-swice.” – Babbled Serena and waved his way, while he strapped all his safety belts on.
In their haste to see aunt Sally, his family didn’t waste even a single star-minute to change out of their spacesuits.
Everyone practically raced each other to their bright-red pickup truck, which they had already rented out for the duration of their entire vacation. The vehicle’s Tesla engine whispered a few loud whizzes when his dad flipped the activation switch, and megasteel tires rolling sped down the road.
“Remember the vibroblade, son.” – Whispered his mom on their family’s PDA link.
“Yes, yes, and I promise to do that backflip too. It shouldn’t be that hard to pull off with the new motors I installed last week.”
Gene strolled down the shuttle’s ramp with his nimble power armor, its highly modified motors nigh mum. Compared to all the noise coming from the starport’s loader girls moving around in their own machines, his was silent as a hamster stealing assorted nuts during the dark of night.
“Don’t forget to take their orders.” – Was his father’s message he got immediately after his mom’s.
“I don’t even have a workshop!” – Answered he, confused by the advice.
“That’s what you think, boy.” – Rumbled in unison his three brothers and linked him the holo-pic of their home’s old garage, completely refurbished and set up with a brand new power armor bay.
Gene’s chin trembled and he took a star-minute to take control of himself.
The boys must’ve saved everything they made for a year just to buy this, not to mention all the work needed to fix that tottering, old hovel!
While a small crowd of women gathered outside, their own power armors parked around one unused landing platform, he approached. Considering these to be sufficient numbers, Gene moved both hand controls, jumping up in the air. His machine pulled it off with visible ease and landed steadily on its feet, in the blink of an eye.
“Ladies, as you all can see, my prototype’s mobility...” – Began he, yet was almost instantly interrupted by a tall brunette, wearing the dock foreman strips on her pilot suit:
“Sign me up for one unit, please. Name’s Lara.”
His PDA bleeped with a number of links, all of which consisted of orders for one unit each. That was what his mom meant when she linked “a few good women.” He grinned; even though these were more than a few, if he worked like a madman, Gene could build all of these in his new workshop.
“Do you want me to demonstrate the prototype’s integrated vibroblade next?”
There were a number of loud whistles accompanied by vigorous hand clapping, which to him was a resounding yes. He flipped a switch on his left panel and a long blade extended from its integrated sheath, installed in the mech’s right forearm.
“This is a modified Colonial Militia issue longsword. Which, you all know well, means that parts for the weapon will be readily available. Maintenance is cheap, the weapon affordable, and best of all, it is ready to use with the touch of a button.”
Gene cut the piece of scrap metal he carried maglocked on his machine’s back for this demonstration and sheathed the sword. It took him only a few speedy steps to reach a nearby stack of cargo containers. With practiced ease, thanks to his mother’s instruction, he lifted one of these up and then above his head.
Even more energetic clapping followed, plus another dozen or so order links.
“I made sure to follow all recommendations of a seasoned pro. My prototype has greater stability and significantly more powerful actuators inbuilt in its limbs, so one can load cargo even in a constrained space.”
A torrent of spaceship cargo maintenance specific questions followed; which he, a child who basically grew up on a starport, answered flawlessly. The loader girls appeared fully engrossed in this improved machine and were happy that its designer took sage advice from one of theirs.
Gene couldn’t fathom where two full star-hours vanished. The young man was ready to end his demonstration, count this as a resounding success, when ear-piercing sirens roared across the starport’s landing pads. Alien starships warped out from under their cloaking shields, hundreds of armor-clad assailants descended from the sky, weapons firing.
“This is a massive Jaern raid! Everyone, make sure to never fa...” – Bellowed in his comms the starport’s controller before her tower got slagged by a direct PPG blast.
This devastating weapon spewed directed pulses of electro-plasma, and these alien raiders employed it to bombard entrenched positions.
Loader girls were already running at the enemy in their power armors; lobbing pieces of equipment and cargo at the swift on their feet aliens. It was a fight that they could not possibly win, yet these mothers joined it nonetheless. More of the starport’s support personnel, the crews of ships currently moored here, they all poured out of nearby hangars armed to the teeth and firing.
Their sudden strike a success and with greater numbers, these Jaern should’ve had the superior hand. Gene was not about to stand around like a statue; he unsheathed the integrated sword and, dashed at the nearest raider. Screaming, the alien fired a few particle-beams at his mech, yet was only able to hit him once, before the long vibroblade cleaved him in two.
Although Gene had training as a power armor pilot, this was his very first actual combat. He no experience and nearly got blown to bits by a strafing alien craft’s PPG. What saved him, bar his incredible luck, was that Jaern flier’s somewhat premature attack run.
“Go to your family, we will hold the starport!” – Shouted in his comms Lara the starport’s chief – “We have more gear and weapons in the hangars, we’ve trained for this!”
Applecrate’s defenses, mainly its anti-orbital railguns roared shell after shell, aiming at something up in space. Multiple turrets, missile launchers, and mobile guns placed on the backs of various trucks rolled out of their garages. This new, well-organized and brutally efficient wave of weapons fire caught the invader off guard.
However, this riposte could not effectively stave off the literal swarm of Jaern vessels.
Gene’s PA was running down the road and had just entered Applecrate proper, when he saw entire homes vanished in big blobs of plasma fire! More alien troopships descended from the skies and deployed another wave of raiders, many hundreds of them. Some, he noticed on his sensors, assailed individual homes. After a short and vicious hand-to-hand battle, the Jaern dragged whoever they could capture with them into their landed dropships.
“Do not get... wheeze... captured!” – Coughed one of the locals in Gene’s comms, her words quickly followed by a loud detonation.
He could see aunt Sally’s three story home; grenades, laser beams, and automatic railgun fire pouring out of its many windows. Like most colonist houses, it was designed with bunker-like properties, and built from top grade materials. If he could reach it soon, between his mech and their firepower, they’d stand a much better chance!
Gene charged straight into one group of Jaern; who, instead of establishing a defensive perimeter around their dropship, hastily loaded alien, oval containers in it.
It was the straightest, shortest path to his aunt’s home and his folks.
He did not think too much about what these raiders were doing; all nasty, lazy aliens did was to steal from hard working people. Only when they opened fire at him and his scanners pierced through the outer shells of their containers did he realize what the Jaern were doing.
This wasn’t some mere loot his eyes saw inside, but his people!
The aliens kept firing, yet without bigger guns they could not effectively halt his mech. He slammed into them and in a fit of cold rage, butchered all four with either his blade or mechanical limbs. The prototype emerged victorious and barely scratched by their beams, though this was not true for its pilot.
It was a naked frame, a PA designed for hauling cargo, not cleaving through vile slavers in a frontal attack!
Hit a number of times, by glancing, low-yield particle-beams, his scorched chest hurt the most. He had only one spare medspray in his suit’s pocket and injected himself, before deciding what to do. Either carry the alien stasis pods full of Terrans or abandon them and run for his aunt’s home. Which could mean he’d probably be denying his family essential assistance, but...
A Terran left no other Terran to be dragged into life of never ending abuse, if he or she could help it.
He quickly dashed, carrying two of the oval containers at once and stashed all of them near an occupied, still firing at the enemy house. Then and only then, after three full star-minutes had passed, did the young man run towards aunt Sally’s home.
Ruins and charred alien bodies everywhere, the once beautiful, reinforced with mega concrete building was no more. Scared out of his mind, Gene ran around the rubble, scanning frantically so he did not accidentally crush someone.
He discovered what remained of his parents at the very edge of this carnage. They were surrounded by a carpet of slain aliens, whose smallish bodies were either rent by his father’s powerful assault rifle or fried by his mother’s laser pistols.
Gene had no time to process this when he found what was left of his three brothers and aunt Sally, back to back, blasted apart by a mortar shell. There were many more dead Jaern, mowed down by his brothers’ and aunt’s snub guns. Theirs and his parent’s deaths appeared to be caused by short range artillery, yet this occurred only after Sally’s sturdy home got blown up by an air strike.
His very mind was quivering and he, overwhelmed with wave after wave of shock. Yet, the stark difference between him and some random sentient of the same age, was that Gene was Human. With great difficulty he overcame most of the stress, held his heart firmly in his hands and did one last, thorough scanner sweep.
Serena’s body was nowhere to be seen!
Immediately, Gene did what any Terran man would – he expanded the range of his search and looked for his little sister.
Soon enough, he witnessed another alien dropship landed in the vicinity and dashed with all possible speed towards it. One of the containers probably held the body of his little Firefly, his last family alive. He refused to accept that she’d died and her tiny body lay somewhere, crushed under a pile of rubble.
This time, the six Jaern raiders did establish a perimeter around their ship. They immediately opened fire, though by clever use of the ruins, both as cover and thrown projectiles, Gene persevered. Again hit and this time with no medspray to stop the bleeding, one singular thought found way to the forefront of his mind.
He was going to die.
No, not before he saved his sister!
Gene could only manage a limp now, him and his PA both suffered plenty of damage. Before he could enter the dropship, a tall, armored from head to toe Jaern warrior blocked his way. Armed with a long, curved vibroblade of his own and covered in Terran blood, the alien snarled at him on open comms:
“Your rampage ends here, Terr’aan.”
The alien craft was probably built from some sort of sensor reflecting alloy. Gene’s scanner did pick up Serena inside, though her life-sign came all distorted like.
Instead of wasting his breath, the young man attacked immediately. This alien, however, he easily parried his first few swings and countered with an assault of his own.
It was getting hard to breathe and the young man could almost feel his own heart struggling.
An arm!
He could lose an arm and still carry Serena to safety!
Fully embracing the second lesson that veteran gave him back on the Tri-Ship Monument, Gene lowered his guard completely. With calm abandon of those who were already dead the Terran youth focused his all and, the second this towering Jaern stroke, he did so too.
Instead of blocking the incoming blade, he aimed for the alien’s torso, lunging straight at his adversary. Yet, despite landing a hit, it would seem this Jaern warrior was of the furtive, seen-it-all kind. He changed the direction of his strike mid-swing and, instead of slicing off Gene’s arm, metal, flesh, and all, evaded certain doom. By blocking the Terran sword from fully penetrating his armored chest, the Jaern, although wounded, survived.
Hastily dashing away from the killing range of Gene’s sword-arm, he hissed:
“Dare not assume that we are alike, Terr’aan! There is great dishonor for any of us, especially someone as evolved as myself, in being slain by mere food. Bleed you shall and I, seconds after your painful demise, claim both mech and your still warm body as my trophies.”
Gene had no more strength to run, he could barely move his legs, even breathe. Yet, before his inevitable doom, he planned to stretch his every remaining ounce of energy, even those raspy breaths of his to their last.
“Come back... cough... and die.” – Coughed Gene and beckoned the Jaern warrior, his sword-arm cutting a long piece of the alien dropship’s wing.
“Do you think we had only these starships at our disposal? I can call for a replacement anytime!”
“Cough... the keyword is time...”
Something had startled his opponent and he, after making a split second decision, evacuated the premises by use of powerful integrated engines. His suit flew off in the distance, soon to be joined by many other alien craft. There was a change in the flow of battle, that was certain but Gene’s body felt limp and his PA automatically locked itself in place.
His fading eyesight caught movement and heard a scarred mercenary scream in his face:
“We got you boy! I am injecting you with nanos and a double dose of medigel. Bite this!”
The medic pressed his specialist injector to Gene’s worst wound, while hastily shoving a clean vacfoam rag in his mouth.
There was a lot of pain caused when regenerative meds worked and also heat. A person of ill health could even die, had they received too much medigel. That, and the wondrous nanobots could only heal what was there. They could not regrow severed limbs or lost organs...
“M-m-my sisteeer!” – Screamed Gene and pointed at the alien dropship, the second his savior removed the rag.
At this moment, his vision was no longer blurry and he witnessed another merc carrying Serena’s limp body.
There was no force in the Universe capable of holding a brother from reaching his hurt sister, bar Death himself. Gene ripped his safety belts and in a flash was holding Serena.
Her tiny body bloodied, the child’s empty eyes looked through him and her lips moved:
“Wightning... is... huwt...”
Gene could barely believe what he was seeing!
His beloved sister reached up, the robot toy’s mangled head still clutched between her bloody stumps and this time she screamed:
“Bwothew... heal!”
***
The hospital storage was absolutely jam packed with stasis pods. Their brutalized occupants, nigh all of whom toddlers or young children, were in dire need of serious medical attention. A constant choir of angry moans, sobs, and the names of loved ones repeatedly spoken, ensured that anyone who overstayed their presence here would never forget it for the rest of their natural lives.
This was a hall full of sleeping anguish and waking rage...
Gene sat next to Serena’s stasis pod, looking at her twisted face and hollow eyes.
“My little Firefly.” – Said he and couldn’t even recognize his own voice.
“Don’t worry about medical, son. The company will cover all costs for her regenerative surgery, limb cloning, and reattachment. However, there are some things which even our advanced medicine cannot fix. For that, you should talk to a representative of the Psy-corps. They are the only ones who can even attempt to help, wish that terror away from this child’s mind.”
The chief exec of “White Mountain” PMC stood next to Gene, one hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“I will do what I can to help my sister, Commander Horton. I can work for the company, become a ‘Mountaineer’ just like my father before me. With my mech, I will kill any monster the Psy-Corps agents want me to, even that Jaern so called ‘god!’”
The man he called Horton sighed and then nodded, swiping a PMC mecha pilot contract to the youngster’s PDA.
“For you, she is your beloved sister. To the Jaern all we are is food, and she, a delicacy.”
The old soldier looked Gene in the eye and when this one signed the contract, stated:
“Son, we are going after them and heaven is coming with us.”
He walked a few steps, checked something on his command holo, adding:
“Remember, your singular duty is to live for her! Vengeance, although necessary, comes after...”
Gene silently nodded and once alone, gently patted his sister’s stasis pod.
“Brother will heal,” – he almost choked on his words – “little Firefly.”
***
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You can find my published books, all set in the Starshatter Universe on Amazon:
The Starshatter Decalogy, seven out of then books available for your reading enjoyment.
The Rifle's Song is a Conanesque pulpy Sword & Railgun novella, full of unrelenting, heroic action.