Cover image composite NASA / Michelle Mansour CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0) by Joe Mansour
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Peacetaker
i
“Stand your ground!”
The master sergeant shouted, swinging the chaingun up, its scream joining his, depleted uranium rounds smashing into the enemy swarming the hill, recoil absorbed by the powered arm connecting it to his waist, ammo backpack empty in thirty-five seconds. He let it fall away and raised his assault rifle to lock in to his right shoulder, replenishing mags with his left hand.
They'd secured the hill, their last stand, a metre wide trench dug below the crest, the remains of his squad spread along it, their positions blue tells on his HUD, the enemy a sea of red before him. His battlesuit, set to mirror finish to deflect laser and dissipate heat, reflected images of their frenzied attack. He rocked from kinetic hits, ablative layers peeling away, warning percentages scrolling across his vision, shifted his stance.
“Come on then!”
He screamed, joining the shouts of his brethren, drowning out the shrieks of the fallen.
He fired the last round, dropped the empty rifle and pulled out his pistols, alternate firing from left and right, each shot hitting but doing little to thin out the attacking horde. As the first reached the trench he clicked on empty chambers, flung them at the enemy and drew his swords.
ii
Crushed under the weight of bodies Mason groaned and pushed up, squirming between the mass of corpses in an attempt to reach the surface. Most, he was pleased to note were the enemy, the Grau'een; the best approximation of their name by a human tongue. The Ayes would have pronounced it correctly, all glottal stops and hisses in the right places but for him Grau'een would do, or Greenies as they were commonly known despite their orange skin.
A sentinel stood at the edge of the trench. Its armoured head spun 180 to watch him emerge. Mason checked his suit power gauges sighing at the flat readouts. He popped the seal on his helmet, twisted it off and tossed it aside, split the torso's back and wriggled out, cooling and waste lines popping free from the one-piece he wore underneath. The heat from the sun was welcome on his face, he paused for a second, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth. He leant back, arms supporting his body, felt something squish under his left hand and swore, his voice breaking the silence.
“Chelnt!”
The sentinel skittered round on its six legs and held out two of its four arms.
“Do you require assistance?”
“No.” He waved it away.
“I am now available to assist without incurring a penalty.”
Mason acknowledged the comment with a nod, pushed up to his feet, stumbled and narrowly avoided putting a foot into the chest of a battered corpse, lower half missing, armour peeled back in jagged petals, identification impossible through the gore. He jumped on to clear ground, the action easy without the battlesuit weighing him down, power assistance was required to allow free movement wearing the armour even on a planet with a gravity two-thirds of Earth's, conflicts often ended due to drained batteries rather than depleted matériel. He straightened up, his back to the trench, feeling vulnerable despite knowing that with the battle over he had nothing to fear.
Multifaceted eyes sparkling in the mid afternoon light, the sentinel tilted its head, an affectation Mason knew was designed to make him feel that he was talking to a sentient being and not a machine. Its voice issued from a speaker on its chest.
“Are you OK Corporal?”
“I’m uninjured.” Mason indicated the charnel pit he had climbed out of. “No other survivors?”
“Not in this section, the engagement was definitive.”
“Definitive?”
“Reached decisively and with authority.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“I am not configured for jocularity.”
Mason narrowed his eyes, suspicious by its choice of words, they were simple machines, designed to monitor the conflict, ensure that pre-agreed terms were adhered to, their intelligence limited to enforcing the rules, their conversation to banalities preprogrammed in.
Dismissing the feeling of unease Mason said. “What's the result?”
“You have been awarded the win Corporal.”
“It's confirmed then, Altow is ours?”
“The nan-Aye is already in system and about to integrate. The Graar'e'e'een are pulling out and will be gone in the allotted time.”
“On to the next one then.”
“That is your choice.”
“What else is there to do?”
The sentinel’s arms moved in a fluid pattern that ended in what for a human could be interpreted as a shrug.
“Perhaps a break?” It said.
“A break?”
“Yes.”
He considered the sentinel's words, a break, did it mean a holiday?
“What would I do?”
“You can do anything you wish. Provided you harm no other.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Corporal?”
Realising there was no point conversing with a machine, he said.
”Can you get me transport out of here?”
“A flyer has been requested Corporal.”
“Thanks.”
The sentinel gave a half bow, the action causing Mason to step back at the sight of a 4m tall praying mantis bending over him. It moved past to the trench, picked up a battlesuit and prised the body from within like a whelk out of its shell. It tossed the armour onto a pile, the corpse on another. Mason saw a similar one comprised of Greenies, in general they were smaller than human standard, a little over 1.5m tall, slender, their skin orange with little variance in hue. Smooth hairless heads, large eyes, flattened nose and ears. Arms that reached almost to the knee, legs bowed out in parentheses. Their armour was reticulated overlapping scales, it looked primitive but Mason knew it was as sophisticated as his own. The sentinel split one apart, and added to the mounds.
“Why bother?” He said.
The sentinel paused. “Corporal?”
“Why bother sorting them out?”
“The armour has value.”
“OK.” He frowned at the implication. “Why split up the meat?”
“Secondary backups must be disposed of correctly.”
“Dead is dead.”
“Indeed.”
The Grau’een had committed everything to the final battle, the rules of engagement were clear that this would be their last attempt to hold the Nexus point. Complacency had been their undoing, for three millennia the system had been uncontested, it being of little interest to the other species until humanity discovered the Nupt was a short cut from their consolidated territory in the Orion spiral out to Perseus without passing through Howli controlled space. Their first engagement had been a brutal lesson in the danger of underestimating what many viewed as the newcomers to Galactic society, the second fought to a draw, the third marked by desperation, numbers increased to the maximum permitted, indulgences recklessly spent, favours called in and new deals made. The terms agreed, forces committed, the fighting brutal and decisive, or as the sentinel had said; definitive.
Altow system was now under human aegis. A blue white supergiant with seven planets orbiting in some semblance of stability, the fourth of which, habiting the Goldilocks zone, supported life. Preferring the consistency of climate and daylight to the wilder lands in the northern hemisphere or the southern archipelagos dotted in an inhospitable ocean, the Greenies had put their settlements
on the equatorial belt close to the elevators that connected to the orbital ring
He watched the sentinel for a while, grew bored with its methodical sorting and walked past it to look out over the plain. From his elevated vantage point on one of the hills that rose like knuckles on a clenched fist from the surrounding prairie the grassland stretched out before him, once pristine, now churned and ravaged by artillery shells, littered with wreckage from the battle. Survivors, both Human and Grau’een, were wandering across it, grouping together and keeping a wary eye on their counterparts, even knowing the hostilities were over it was hard to shake the hatred that had encompassed them a few hours before. Creatures flew over the carnage, their pointy heads and slicked back wings reminded him of birds but with his senses limited to that of a preSing human he was unable to identify them. Raucous cries from the ones that were trying to scavenge the abundance of flesh, a brief chatter of small arms fire caused them to scatter, their size now obvious; closer to a buzzard than a sparrow, flying towards the trees that crowded the horizon. Sentinels interceded, surrounding a group of agitated Greenies. Puzzled he ramped up his vision and watched the altercation, the machines circled them, a Grau’een was waving their arms, anger evident in their actions despite the species barrier.
“Sentinel, what’s happening down there?”
“The Graar'e'e'een commander is demanding the bodies be treated with respect.”
“What?” Incredulous he turned to look at it, reeled back from the monster swamping his vision and dialled down the magnification.
“They are a member of a sect similar to the Ludders.”
“Oh.” Mason snorted with derision. “I’m surprised though.”
“Corporal?”
“The Ludders pride themselves on being preSing.”
“The Chaltogrnd’nitar profess the same”
He pointed down at the scene. “Then why fight for the Ayes?”
“When else is the playing field level?”
“What?” He frowned.
“All combatants are by agreement limited to the same parameters.”
“You mean preSing with no backups?”
“Dead is dead.”
He shivered, the fabric one-piece giving little protection from a chill wind that swept in from the east. He bumped his core temp, overrode the warning messages confident the flyer would arrive before he depleted his reserves.
“You’re chatty for a sentinel.”
“Standard conversation protocol Corporal.”
“No, you seem almost sentient.”
“Clever programming.”
Mason laughed. “Too clever, your responses are unusual.”
“That is regretful.”
“What is?”
“Your suspicion, or perhaps it was my indiscretion.”
It twisted to rise above him, spread its arms, manipulators spinning and clicking, body panels sliding back to reveal snub nosed armaments. A subsonic hum of weapons powering up.
“Sentinel?” Mason scrambled backward, uncertainty in his voice.
It skittered toward him, targeting lasers flickering.
“Sentinel?” Mason held up his hands in what he knew was a fruitless effort to defend himself, even in a battlesuit he would have had little chance of survival.
“Can’t help myself sometimes.” It said.
“What?”
It stopped, lowered its arms.
“Nan-Aye is online.” It said.
Mason’s systems chimed, the readout in his left eye incrementing. The sentinel folded away its weapons arrays, dumped heat hazing the air above it, the hum fading leaving them in silence.
“Flyer will be with you momentarily Corporal, I have duties to attend to.”
It bunched its legs beneath it and sprang in to the air, long bounding leaps that soon took it out of his sight.
“Chelnt!” Mason breathed out, confusion vying with relief he dropped to his knees. He felt a ping from Grace, responded with a wry smile coupled with a squinting cat. He polled Clance and Aris, got nothing back. He pushed his fingers in the soil, wondered if the price had been worth it, knew it wasn’t, realised it made no difference.
“Dead is dead.”
iii
Constructed from preformed units, the place was based on a preSing Hawaiian Tiki bar, wooden tables with thatched covers, grotesque faces carved in the pillars, rough blown multicoloured glass lights strung in chains between them. The barholler a 15th century warrior in ceremonial dress, an array of pneumatic arms spreading behind it dispensing rum based cocktails to the clientèle. Accustomed to being without Sense the majority of conversations were audible adding a low hum against which background music, upbeat with a heavy focus on a stringed instrument, competed. A small stage, little more than a raised area at one end featured men and women in grass skirts shaking their hips. A banner hung above it celebrated the victory.
Uncertain whether to go in Mason paused at the door, observing the crowd. The flyer had meandered across the battlefield picking up survivors before dropping him at one of the base stations that linked to the orbital ring by elevator. He had showered on the trip up, picked out clothes from the choices available sticking to the conservative end in an attempt to be inconspicuous; a two toned shirt with transparent panels, trousers in complementary colours, sandals and a baseball cap.
‘Quit acting like a sniper.’ pinged Grace, a set of emotions, anger, humour and underneath it, grief.
‘Yeah yeah.’ irritation tempered by a smile.
‘At the bar, I got the first round in.’ happy, something like a pirate waving a bottle. He ignored it, Grace always over embellished her pings to the point where the supposed unambiguous nature of them became confusing. He made his way over to her, pulling up one of the stools next to hers. Much like the majority of the bar’s customers she was tall and heavy set, thick cords of muscle visible on exposed flesh, the best configuration for an infantry soldier. A few mechers congregated at one end, lone snipers dotted around keen to keep their own company. Standard (if that could even be considered a term for the vast range that comprised humanity) humans would be shipping in once the nan-Aye established full control, the remaining Greenies lining up at exfiltration stations or self terminating and relying on upload dependant on personal belief.
“Mason.” She smiled, teeth white against blue skin, blond hair buzzcut short, flickering nictitating membranes protecting purple eyes. She held out a shot glass to him and picked up her own.
“The fallen.”
“Dead is dead.”
They downed the liquor. He allowed it to work, reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses. Grace opened a pack of cigars and offered him one.
“Thanks.” He said, drew in the smoke, frowned at the taste and said. “Banth?”
“And Arfax, a proper tribute.”
He did the shot, blinked at the barholler for a beer.
“Only cocktails here haole.” The warrior sneered making his facial tattoos form threatening patterns.
“Howli! You gulk sucking chelnt! Who you calling a howli?”
“Easy Mason.” Grace put her hand on his arm. “It's part of his schtick, a Polynesian word for foreigners.”
He accepted her feedlink, skimmed the contents and gave a half smile.
“Surprised he didn't catch you out.”
Grace's volatile nature was the basis of many an OWCR tale. Fighting your own kind was frowned upon, viewed as a primitive trait that should be consigned to history alongside judging a person on their gender or skin colour. But as a splint Grace had faced numerous prejudices and been forced (or a more accurate term would be chose) to resort to violence that, whilst never permanent, could be devastating.
She tapped ash letting it fall to the rough hewn floor. “Maybe I've mellowed.”
The barholler guffawed, pointed at the smashed anglerfish lamp hanging from the back of the bar. Mason caught the replay and joined in the laughter.
“Yes, well.”
Grace filled her glass, drained it. “I wasn't the only one.”
He could see she was letting the alcohol get to her making movement hesitant and clumsy. His nites were agitating to remove the poisons, he muted their complaints and refilled the glasses. Grace picked hers up, held it to her lips then put it back on the bar.
“We are the last, you and me. The last of the 99ers.” She said.
“I thought Clance would outlive us all, even with Aris leading him astray.”
“Mechers, reckless and overconfident.”
“We should have stayed together.”
“And who’s fault was that?”
She did the shot and wiped her mouth with the back of a hand.
“Fault?”
“You know what I mean. Why were you up on the hill?”
“Travis ordered it.”
“Ordered.” She laughed. “Ordered.”
“Suggested then, politely requested.”
“And how did that turn out?” She looked round. “Where is the Master Sergeant?”
“Decomposing with the rest of the meat.”
“Mason.”
She raised her eyebrows, mild shock which he wasn't sure was feigned.
“He knew the risks.”
“Same as us all.”
Mason looked down, his voice low, almost a mutter. “I almost died today.”
“Who didn’t?”
“I mean, after.”
Her face crinkled in confusion.
“After?”
“A sentinel, I think it was going to kill me.”
Grace roared with laughter, slammed her hand on to the bar top knocking glasses flying. The barholler muttered, the arms behind it swung round cleaning up, the action giving Mason an uncomfortable flashback.
“A sentinel?”
“Yes, a sentinel. I came this close.” He held up his left hand making a pinching gesture, thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart.
“OK, I’ll bite, why did it try and kill you?”
“I think I asked the wrong question.”
“The wrong question?” She blinked at the barholler, waited for it to put fresh shot glasses down. “And what is the wrong question?”
Peacetaker (Nupt Wars Book 1) Page 1
