by Martin Perry
Eventually he had settled on a very paired down set-up. He had spent more on the under-suit, making it more protective than those that his friends were equipped with. Silver tubing criss-crossed across it, creating randomly sized triangles all over his body. It was capable of taking a significant volume of projectile and laser rounds, which allowed him to keep the panelling to a minimum. Gaudy orange in colour (he said it showed off his creative side) he had hard covering over his elbows, shoulders and chest. A long, flexible panel ran the length of his spine, but other than the other panels over his crotch area and knees, there wasn’t an awful lot more to it.
“Hey, guys, I’ve been thinking,” started Thom. “The Captain is probably going to keep us together even when the new crew come on board. We’ve shown we work well together and he isn’t going to waste the combat training me, Maur and the other support staff have gone through.”
“Get to the point Thom,” murmured Charles.
“Well, we need a team name!” he replied with enthusiasm. “We can’t just be three guys and a chick doing missions. We need something that sounds menacing.”
“I don’t think we’re ready for a team name Thom. We’re not quite the well-oiled machine you seem to think we are,” replied Kerra, failing to drum up some excitement as leaned over her shoulder and clicked her rifle into place. She attached the odd weapon that Maur had recovered from the sewer to a second holster on her right thigh.
Maur laughed to himself.
“What? What are you laughing at Shitster?” Thom said, aggravated again.
“Well,” started Maur, “that makes us the Beta Crew. Not quite ready yet.”
“I like it!” laughed Kerra “Beta Crew it is!”
“Goddammit guys! You knew that’s not the sort of thing I was going for.” Thom was back in a huff, and his petulance forced him to take three attempts at clipping in his rifle. “It’s needs to be something daunting, scary, fucking bad-ass. Something metal.”
“An old friend once toured with a band called Steel Anus. Is that more like it?”
“Maur, come on, Steel Anus? Are you serious?”
“What? They were big in Moscow State. I went to a show once, it was pretty crazy. Last time I heard from him though he was in a rehab centre on some remote natural satellite. Most of the band hadn’t made it that far without overdosing. I’m sure we could take the name if you wanted it...”
“...no.”
“Well, come up with a better suggestion then,” said Kerra.
“Why do all the good ideas need to come from me? How about The Cannons? After the ship?”
“I think you would feel more at home on The Annies,” Charles chuckled.
“Ugh, fuck. Fine. Beta Crew.”
“Great. Glad you’ve decided.” Maur paused. “You definitely won’t consider Steel...”
“No. Beta Crew. Done.” Thom interrupted sharply.
Still chuckling at Thom’s expense they headed out of the hangar bay door. It was allowed it sidle up only just high enough for them to get out. Charles had to stretch the flexibility of his armour while ducking down under the heavy door. A late breakfast and tardy mission preparation meant that they were heading out into the full heat of the day, Cirramorr’s tall spires hazing in baking light, dust kicking up into their faces. The streets were mostly quiet, sensible people taking shelter in their homes and businesses to let the crushing warmth pass.
It made their tasks easier – fewer people to bump into and the merchants would all be easy to find, nestled in their offices. The tiny needles hidden in the back panels of each of their outfits extended. The under-skin could sense the discomfort the inhospitable heat caused and so the sharp points punctured the small round plastic openings in each of the suits. Then, with a hiss, gas was injected in. Although the gases had multiple purposes, on this occasion they were just to used to reduce their body temperature to a cool, calming temperature. Openings in the neck lining would let some escape up into their faces, but it was directed well enough to stop them sweating entirely.
Beta Crew, as they were newly christened, ticked off the first few items on their to-do list with ease. The food merchant knew they were coming, and was ready to take a swab from Kerra as confirmation of their receipt of the goods. Two automated carts, loaded high with preserved, vacuum packed ingredients for Thom’s kitchen, then followed them onto to the fuel merchant who was located close to the stadium that housed regular hand-to-hand combat tournaments. A quick visit – they were really just dropping off a bottle of whiskey that had survived the attack by Los Piratas de Elsevern, Captain Champion’s way of saying thanks for the discounted price that the Jump Cannon continued to enjoy for their propulsion materials. The last official duty was to pick up a small brown package from one of the back streets. Their recent battle evidently hadn’t been reason enough for them to stop smuggling discrete, slightly illegal goods on their large, difficult to search ship. It was probably just an improperly modified form of fertiliser anyway. No harm done.
“Right. We’ll go see this historian guy now. I make no promises for his accuracy however,” said Kerra, her eyes held wide open, head shaking, to hammer home the point that if all he gave them was bullshit, it wasn’t her fault.
As they strolled onwards, the food carts still trundling behind, beeping to alert everybody of their presence, Kerra told them about how she had first met the man on a trip with her father as a child.
Her father had wanted to identify a hunting knife that was used against a member of one of the colonies that he had protected while on duty in the Trans-Orbital Relief Corps. The Historian, his job quickly becoming his title as the team discussed the story, had mused over it for about twenty minutes before handing it back and shrugging. While this didn’t fill Beta Crew with a lot of hope, the promise of perusing his stock of military knick-knacks and bizarre weaponry from the past stopped them from abandoning the idea altogether.
The Historian’s unit sat separate from the usual rows, and was unattached to any of the traditional puran architecture. Its central structure was a cube, but it seemed like the old man inside had struggled to keep his stock under control. Worthless old weaponry was stacked in wooden crates around the door. He had covered up the windows, and while the glass kept itself perfectly clean, the dirty rags on the other side hadn’t seen the inside of a steriliser in several years. A few larger pieces of unvalued memorabilia pointed over the edge of the roof, rusting barrels of expended weapons that were either so outdated or so broken that they didn’t even warrant the attention of thieves. Square and dilapidated, there was no sign up on the front of the unit. Whatever The Historian’s business plan was, it didn’t involve attempting to invite customers in.
Kerra pushed aside the door, its motor completely fried. It jammed a little, so one of Charles’ heavy paws gave it the last shove.
Beta Crew stepped inside, or at least most of it did. The unit was crowded, more stacks of crates circled around dusty shelves. Each shelf was protected, looking more like a fish-tank. Ventilation pipes swung down from the ceiling and connected to each of the tanks in sequence. The boxes were lit, and weapons of all shapes and sizes, from all eras and from numerous planets, filled them. The distinctive lack of price-tags, and the suggestion that the contents were incredibly expensive, was notated by a single hovering green projection that simply said “Ask for prices. No time-wasters.”
Charles resolved to stand in the door-frame. He didn’t have the funds to risk bringing one of the shelves down in the few narrow aisles. Kerra and Maur wandered up to counter, while Thom hustled over to a shelf that featured a range of blades that caught his eye. This stuff was really too expensive for the kitchen, but he could look.
As they pressed their hands down on the counter-top, Kerra and Maur set off a tinny rattle that counted for a poor imitation of a bell. They could see the round, mostly bald man sitting in the back office of the unit through another crystal clear window. His feet were up on the desk, and his black cloak
was rapped around him, coming up just below his chin. The Historian was snoring, enjoying an afternoon siesta, but that didn’t stop Kerra from pounding her hands up and down on the counter when she didn’t get an answer.
“Hello! Hey! Wake up!” She kept on slapping, trying her best to motivate the bell into a more encouraging alarm.
“Hey! Wake up!” joined Maur, smiling at Kerra as the two tried to wake the snoozing shop-keep.
The Historian grunted, and flipped himself out of his seat. A shaky hand came up to his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache – something that wouldn’t be all too surprising given the racket Kerra and Maur had just made. He stomped towards them, his displeasure at actually having custom was obvious, and the undone zip on the front of his trousers made it clear that he wasn’t ready for them. Hopefully he didn’t want to shake hands. Although there were no screens or further projections on in the shop, Maur didn’t expect his viewing habits to be the most family friendly. The Historian was rotund, beyond overweight. His unit lacked any sim suite, at least that he could see, which explained his weight. People who didn’t spend much time in sims had a tendency to keep weight on. They just didn’t get enough exercise.
“Guh.” The Historian had made his way to the countertop. “Can I, urgh, help you?” More eye rubbing.
“Yes, although it would have been good if you could have asked that question when we came in ten minutes ago.” Maur said, an unfamiliar unpleasantness in his voice, attempting to impress Kerra with false bravado. It must not have worked, there was a puzzled look on her face.
“Hmm, quite,” hummed The Historian, lacking any signs of intimidation. “Well lets get this over with.”
Kerra unclipped the weapon of question from her thigh holster, and slid it across the counter. The gem on the handle scratched along, making a screech catching the ears of everybody in the unit. Even Thom turned his head from the lit shelves, but they kept trying to play it cool.
The Historian picked it up, turning it over a few times in his hands, careful to avoid the sharp edge of the bayonet. In the dim light of the unit it took a couple of minutes for him to notice the carvings on the handle, but his eyebrows rose as soon as he had. Chubby fingers rounded around the cuts in the wood, tracing out the tiny map that they drew. He let out a deep sigh, scratching his temple before laying the gun back down on the counter. He was now wide awake, and looked very concerned.
“I’m not sure I want to be the one who tells you what this is, as I assume you brought it here because you do not know,” he huffed, Kerra and Maur nodding at his assumption.
“Well, I want as little to do with this as possible, I won’t take any payment.” They hadn’t expected to give any. “As it will only imply some involvement in the theft of this item. I want you out of my shop as soon as possible, that is the only reason I am giving you an answer.”
“Wait a minute! I didn’t...” Maur was cut off before he could finish.
“I don’t want to hear it. Like I said, let’s get this over with and you can get out of my unit. This weapon belongs to the Free Man Nation.”
“We shall not be oppressed. The disgraceful treatment that the human race has inflicted upon ourselves through years of unnecessary technological advancement is appalling. We have sent ourselves out into the universe and made humans the victims of alien influence. We have bowed to their custom, let our women be invaded by them, and lost our own achievements in the fog of theirs. It shall not continue. I will wreak vengeance against the alien oppressors!”
Part of a statement released to news outlets, but never broadcast. It was eventually linked to a psychiatric patient from central Pritania. He doses were increased shortly after.
Chapter Six
There was a long pause.
“And...” said Kerra, stretching it out to voice her displeasure.
“And you should be very wary as to how many people you tell that you have this in your possession,” replied The Historian, his arrogance unwavering in the face of dissent. “The Free Man Nation are growing group of criminals and would-be gangsters who have significant issues with how we all live our lives, seeing it so odious as to warrant declaring themselves as an independent state, albeit one without borders or land. They believe that our interaction with alien lifeforms - although to call them that these days would confuse many - has diluted our culture and put Earth at risk of invasion, annihilation or alien over-population, possibly all three. It is their single sworn goal to revert mankind to the way we were prior to the first Collapse.
“The world, as I’m sure you are aware, was a very different place before the Collapse. I have several pre-Rebirth items for sale within my store, most kept well out of the reach of customers, and it is these such items which the Free Man Nation believe we should be using on a daily basis – not inherited technology from folks like the puran people of this wonderful little dust-hole we call Cirramorr.”
“Prior to the warring, poverty and engineered disease which would see the human population drop to below, at least as the history books say it, one-hundred-thousand men and women, mankind’s technology was very different. We had not achieved near-quantum flight capabilities, and as such had not ventured far enough outside of our own Solar System to encounter the races that the Free Man Nation believe have been so harmful to us. Nuclear arms were prominent, space flight limited and, as is most important to the Nation, humans lived in their own filth and despair rather than sharing it with others.”
Kerra and Maur listened attentively, Thom had sidled up to the counter and even Charles was leaning in further to make sure he didn’t miss a single word. It was all rather far-fetched, none of them even knew that much about the Collapse, it had been centuries ago. Knowledge on the Rebirth and how man had recovered was even more slim.
“We, and I mean the people who are actually aware of their surroundings and the masses who populate them, don’t have a lot of detail regarding their power structure. We know they, as in those in charge, are all equally ambitious, and as such it is likely that they divide territory, with agreed territory owners keeping control of ongoing operations within it. However, the movement started somewhere, and you would assume that the originators of the Free Man Nation maintain the bulk of power.”
The Historian rolled his palm across his face again, the conversation had made him forget his tiredness up until now.
“Ultimately, they want to cleanse Earth of any non-human inhabitants, but these people aren’t stupid. We’re dealing with some of the most profitable criminal and business minds in known space, and they are entirely aware that the rest of mankind don’t share their views. More than that, most have never even considered a view remotely like theirs. They work behind locked doors, in private property and off the grid.”
“Preparing for the impossible?” Maur said mockingly.
“It is believed they intend to enslave mankind once they have gathered enough power and have us retreat to Earth. Beyond that, one would assume they intend to funnel their energies into returning us to the simple life we once enjoyed, and rule over a life without korakians, purans, etcetera. Essentially, they are currently big fish in an infinite pond. They would like that pond to be an awful lot smaller, and an awful lot more profitable for them. Unfortunately for non-believers, they believe that xenophobia, genocide and enslavement is the way to get there. They just need the power to achieve it.”
Maur looked at Kerra, Kerra looked back at Maur. They shared a moment of bemusement that seemed to crack the usual awkwardness that occurred when they looked at each other too intently. What The Historian had said was definitely coherent, but it didn’t seem plausible – the plans seemed to far-fetched for anybody to truly believe in.
“For a man who couldn’t put a name and era to a simple hunting knife,” started Kerra, “you seem to know quite a bit about a crowd of criminals that none of us, I think this is safe to say, have ever heard of.”
; “Kerra, I’m not sure he’ll remember...” said Maur with an unwelcome interjection.
“Quiet,” she replied with a sharp, hushed bark. “So exactly why should we choose to believe you?”
She said this more openly, directing a considerable degree of mistrust towards The Historian. Her eyes were boring into his. Another long, but this time awkward pause as the old man grunted. Whenever he scoffed under his breath every bit of blubber on his body seemed to shake. It was unnerving how he could make so much noise, and move around so much, without actually breaking the silence of their stare.
“Because, little girl,” he said, then paused again. There was venom in The Historian’s words. “Remembering the day when you and your father made that first visit all those years ago, I did not lack the knowledge to answer his question, I simply did not wish to aide the sort of scum who welcome filthy destitute non-humans onto Earth like the Trans-Orbitals do.”
Kerra slapped down her hand, gripped, and within moments the Free Man pistol was pressed against his forehead.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“I may not agree with their methods," came calm, softly spoken words in reply from The Historian, pressing his head into the barrel with a confident grimace, "but do not think that means I can not sympathise with their cause. I can think of no greater joy than to get off this shit-hole and return to an Earth free of the trappings of our modern world. I am a historian after all.”
The morning silence broke with rattle of approaching infantry in the distance.
Metal clinking against metal, boots hitting the sand and the creak of the unit as Charles’ heavy hands lifted from the door-frame combined to create an ominous feeling among everybody inside. With their heads twisted around, Thom, Kerra and Maur watched as Charles backed away from the unit and slowly began to withdraw his rifle. They could see his biceps throb, his jaw roll as teeth were ground, and feet spread as the stock of the rifle was carefully shifted against his shoulder. The big guy was preparing for a fight, even the more recently trained soldiers could tell.
