by Will Crudge
This is the true lesson. An exercise of measured force and studious restraint. The proper application of focus… and all while embracing the fear of death. We conquer fear by not offering it resistance. We don’t let it take control of our actions, or trick us into making foolish decisions in the spirit of self-preservation.
All warfare must be approached like this. If not, then the horrors of war will become pandemic. Wars are larger scale in my time. So the atrocities that accompany these wars have become even more horrific.
So there you have it. In a time where human wars are interstellar, and are fought by billions at one time… The need for genetically gifted guys and gals with big fucking swords is ever-present.
I’ve mastered the core curriculum as well as I could. We are kept to the core fundamentals for seventy years, or so. It’s only in the last three decades of training that we learn the advanced styles that our individual clan specializes in. All War Master Clans learn the same core skills up until this point. But now is where we begin to branch out into different lineages. It’s easy to spot a War Master’s Clan affiliation by his or her sword style. It’s like a fingerprint.
Why is it that different clans learn different advanced techniques? Good question. We’re all trained to destroy our own egos, and thereby not identifying ourselves by our differences to others. So it would seem counter-intuitive. But I have a theory.
Yes, it's just a theory. I haven’t begun my advance training just yet, so I can only guess. I believe it’s a sort of ‘checks-and-balances’ thing. War Master Clans never appose each other. Or at least they haven’t, as of yet. But the advanced styles are designed to counter each other. I suppose it’s a means by which to maintain some kind of balance.
But what do I know? I’m the moron who’s being sprayed by a high-pressure water hose… While nude, I might add.
Yes. Barnes had us funneling through starship engineering lessons. We were doing a round-robin training exercise, by which we’d rotate through hands-on training tasks aboard a ship. It’s a decommissioned light freighter, but it has all the basic components of any contemporary ship in service.
My dumbass failed to double check the seal in my radiation suit, and I got a healthy dose of nasty contamination as a result. A normal human would have already been on his or her death bed after a dosage of that magnitude, but I’m not normal. Thankfully, my genes are naturally resistant to mutation, and I cannot develop cancer. That’s not to say that I’ve never ‘had’ cancer, but my immune system is so strong that I’d never know it.
Superior physiology, not withstanding, I need to be decontaminated before I sustain any permanent damage. Radiation resistant, doesn’t mean radiation proof!
I wince as my left ‘fun bag’ gets pelted pretty hard by a rogue blast of water. My training has enabled me to resist pain, but c’mon! Tit-blast, am I right? I look down, and it’s as if I’ve been breastfeeding an adult Great White!
Purple nipple isn’t my color. I learned that much today.
“This would not have been necessary, had you followed instructions!” Barnes chastises me. I hear Miranda and Kyle laugh. I couldn’t see their faces, but I know it was them.
We’ve become close. The three of us just clicked from the beginning, and now we’re a trifecta of badassery! Or so, I tell myself.
Eventually the decon is complete, and my rad-scan reads normal. I didn’t waste any time drying off and getting dressed. It’s not that I’m bashful, though. All of us have seen each other naked a million times, after all. I’m just cold as hell! I can resist pain well enough, but cold has been a challenge for me. It’s the one aspect of my training that I’m below average at.
Thanks to my ineptitude, our training has concluded for the day. So, I grab a hot meal with my mates.
“Kat, you’re a beast with a sword, but a total spaz when it comes to a little water!” Kyle says. For once I’m not distracted by his gorgeous locks of reddish blonde hair.
“Dick!” I scoff. I was lacking in a witty come back, as is my custom. I was still cold, and my brain wasn’t thawed out yet. I just let it go, and blew across the surface of my bowl of soup. Beef vegetable, if you’re curious.
“Why didn’t you double check your suit, Chicca?” Miranda asks. Although the better question is, why is she calling me ‘Chicca.’?
“Because I like to party.” I said as I slurp a spoonful of my piping hot liquid mouth-gasmic soup.
“Ha!” Kyle points at me as he speaks. “You’re deflecting with humor again, aren’t you?”
“You’re being a childish cock-juggler again, aren’t you?” I retort. Bam! My brain must have rebooted.
But I wouldn’t be able to revel in my mastery of shit-talk-jitsu for very long. The alarm klaxon was sounding, and everyone in the mess hall began to scramble to their designated action stations.
I know it's un-lady like to say so, but the alarm made my butthole pucker slightly. Without another word, we three separate as we head to our individually assigned action station.
Miranda peeled off to the east-side weapons control bunker, where she was assigned. Her assigned task was to monitor the automated ammunition system and gun-barrel statuses. The turrets would handle themselves to a degree, but it took a person to respond in the event of a malfunction. She was responsible for manually changing out magazines and barrels, in the event of a systems failure.
Kyle split off to the north-side heavy weapons armory. He was assigned to be the assistant gunner in a heavy slug-thrower team. Senior students would do the shooting while we bottom feeders would hand out belts of ammo, and give out high fives when an enemy got smeared… Or so I suspect.
I bust lose to the artifact bunker. That’s where our clan keeps vintage museum pieces, priceless manuscripts, and some old space fighter called the Throat-Slasher. I’m told that it’s a two thousand year old long-ranger super fighter. An LRF-90, if I’m not mistaken. I could care less, though. Space-flight operations training wouldn’t be for another five or six years from now, so I don’t let my mind get distracted by useless details until I decide it has some kind of relevance.
My assigned task is to quickly package up the artifacts into hardened containers, and pass them off to loading-bots. From there, they’ll be stowed in the hold of a fast moving frigate. If an attack were to be legit, then it’s likely pirates. If it’s pirates, then this bunker would be their top prize.
Technically, the loading bots are fully capable of packaging up the items themselves. But they’re commercial grade bots, and they’re not designed to be as delicate as the task requires. Ergo, I must wrap up all of Santa’s gifts so the elves can load the sleigh.
We’ve done this same thing a thousand times, and we have always been told that it was just a drill once we had reported to our stations, and prepared to begin our duties. But to my surprise, and ever-tightening sphincter, the announcement never came. At least not the usual one.
[Attention, all hands! This is NOT a drill! I say again, this is NOT a drill! Proceed to conduct your action-station duties, and standby for instructions from the cadre!]
The announcement repeated two more times, and I could have forged a diamond in my anus. I grab my packaging materials, and set out to complete my task. The other two of my ‘task-mates’ arrived just after I did, and they joined in. George and Silvia are senior to me by at least a decade. Since their student quarters were one level up from mine, it had taken them a few extra seconds to get here.
We don’t speak. No need. We’ve been doing this drill for fifty years. Time is slowing down, and I can feel my adrenaline begin to surge. Not good!
My family line is particularly prone to something dangerous… Very dangerous.
Primal Rage.
It’s an innate ability that nearly all War Masters have, but some are more prone to bring it up to the surface than others. It’s dangerous, because it’s incredibly difficult to control. That’s one major reason why we get paired with a Zodiac after we graduate.
>
The Zodiac can help keep our human minds grounded, and gives us the additional mental focus we need to control the Primal Rage.
But I’m not paired.
As a student in the temple, we may be exposed to all manner of hardships, but it’s in a controlled environment, and we’re under the supervision of experienced War Masters and Zodiacs alike. But this is no longer a safe space.
Primal Rage is an anomaly to me. We’ve learned about it, of course, but we aren’t taught how to control it until we’re close to the end of our training. I suppose it’s because it’s very difficult to learn, and it’s best if those skills are fresh in a new War Master’s mind.
The power surges through our unique genetic structure. Since we aren’t limited to the two strand double helix, that composes the rest of Earth-based biology, our genes form a virtual tunnel of interdimensional energy. When our endocrine systems, adrenal glands in particular, are sufficiently stimulated, then the Rage is prone to rush through us like a flood gate.
The more ‘rage-sensitive’ one may be, the harder it is to control… And I have virtually no control.
All I can do is pray that the monster within me can stay asleep until this ‘attack’ thingy is over. But then, a new realization hit me. Fuck!
My DNA took it on the chin with all that radiation earlier. It will make a full recovery, of course… but now my little strands of genetic code are on the verge of holding back immeasurable energies. I don’t know enough about the Rage to be sure of anything… But I’m positive that I should be very concerned. If not, terrified.
But I have to stay focused and finish my work. Artifact after artifact passes through my hands. I package them all with great care, and great speed. I didn’t give anything a second thought. Not even a single flutter of my eye. Until…
When I first saw it, I knew what it was. My grandfather’s sword. Not a wooden one. Not even close. It had my family crest engraved into the base of the hilt. The blade was flawlessly polished, and the handle showed no sign of wear. Amazing, considering that it had killed dozens of enemies, and been in countless battles.
I knew my grandfather died a few centuries back, but by the time his sword was recovered, my father had already accepted my great uncle’s sword as an heirloom. This sword must have been here all this time. Just waiting for me to find it!
I was so awestruck by its beauty, that I barely noticed I got knocked unconscious by the blast… Not that anyone would notice being unconscious, but you get the picture.
FUCKING PIRATES!
My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself on the floor in. I jump to my feet, but I failed to notice the ringing in my ears. I tried getting up before my equilibrium took hold, and I so I am demoted back to being carpet decorum.
My hearing begins to fade in a moment later, so I try to stand once more. It worked. To my surprise, there’s hardly any damage to the artifact room. The other candidates have all recovered, and are muttering to each other with looks of confusion.
But I’m not confused.
It ended up being a concussive mine that detonated on accident in the adjacent hallway. Everyone was so eager to get to their positions, that one of the newbie candidates dropped one… and had likely armed it by accident. Aside from a few bumps and bruises, nobody was hurt. So we drive on.
It doesn’t take long to finish packing the last of the artifacts. But we have no time to breathe easy at the same time. As soon as the last loading bot is on its way to the transport ship, a new klaxon begins to sound.
[Attention… Multiple unidentified vessels on approach! Drop ships detected! Prepare to repel aggressors!]
At this point I’m not so much frightened, as I am frustrated with myself. We’ve drilled for this a million times, but I never fully paid any attention to what my follow-on duties were. The other candidates bolt out of the artifact room in separate directions. Their facial expressions and body language suggests that they know exactly where they need to go next. But I don’t.
I guess I had always assumed that I would hunker down in this room, and kill anything that tried to make a break for the transport vessel. It was assumption based on the fact that the ship never actually went anywhere during the countless drills. So, I never performed the due diligence, so as to read through all of the annexes of the emergency plan.
I nervously stick my head through the bulkhead door, and peer both ways down the hallway. Aside from the fragmented casing of the concussion mine – coupled with some mystery bodily fluid – the hall way was desolate.
I could hear the distant shouting of the defensive team leaders spitting off orders, and the occasional whine of servo motors from any number of bots nearby. But my little piece of heaven was devoid of any such activity. It made sense, after all.
The nearby hangar that the transport ship housing is protected by heavy blast doors. Beyond that, the artifact room isn’t easily accessed by anywhere that didn’t have defensive positions being set up. Pirates weren’t known to be the most prepared bunch of folks in the galaxy, so I wouldn’t count on them achieving any real success here.
By now, I assume, the distress call would have been sent to our allies in the region, and there would be a squadron of UAHC warships on their way. The UAHC Fleet was well versed in combating piracy, and they would not be unprepared.
Our defenses were not designed for holding off any lengthy siege operations. It was basically a delaying action. Our greatest defense was the UAHC military. Our temple is well within UAHC territory, and their fleet maintained a permanent QRF stationed within five light minutes of us.
Even a full-scale pirate attack wouldn’t last more than thirty minutes, after all. They were well aware of the UAHC presence, and they’d limit themselves to a quick raid at most. So we just had to bloody their noses long enough for them to run out of time.
Easy, right?
Wrong.
It isn’t until I turn into the hallway that I see something that is… decidedly not ‘piratey’. Three suits of bright red powered armor round the corner ahead. They are not brigands. They are trained soldiers. They move like silk, and cover each other’s blind spots with their rifles… with great precision.
A bolt of plasma singes the tip of my ponytail as I dive to avoid certain death. Surely a single bolt wouldn’t kill someone of my genetic heritage… but I am unwilling to test out that theory.
My dive transitions into a graceful roll, as if by instinct. When I come out of it, I use my momentum to gain my footing, and I dash into the artifact room. The heat from a small barrage of plasma makes me flinch as I clear the hallway.
I might have peed a little. But I am unwilling to confirm that right now.
I know there was a reason I didn’t pack up the sword earlier. At least, that’s how I justify my dereliction of duty… I snatch the War Master’s sword from behind the display case where I stash it.
Hesitation during combat isn’t something I would recommend. And here’s why… I take too long checking the power level in the energy pack of the sword. The release mechanism allows for the thin cylindrical pack to slide out of the base of the hilt, much like a pistol magazine does. As this is not something that a candidate at my level would normally do, I take too long.
I don’t feel the first bolt hit my upper back, but I do feel my face smash into the plate glass display case nearby. The second plasma bolt hits the center of my spine between my shoulder blades. The third? Well, let’s just say the soldier that fired it must have thought my ass wasn’t hot enough. How altruistic of him, right?
Playing dead is my best option, I decide. I consciously slow my heartrate to a crawl, and begin to match my body heat to the ambient temperature in the room. It’s the first of many cool tricks I learned during my training… But it requires much more mental effort than usual… Par for the course when you have an exposed ass cheek, and a tennis ball-sized smoldering welt next to your ‘back door’.
My little dead-possum trick must be working, because t
he three men sweep the room, and then head towards the hangar. Granted, it’s difficult to determine gender when it comes to modern battle armor, but I’m positive that these three were male. Their suits are likely equalized to the temple’s air pressure, so they’re breathing through their vent filters. The filters don’t bother cleaning the outgoing air, and thusly, the smell of their pheromones are palpable… Especially from the ‘ass-man’ among them.
Then it hit me. How in the hell did I pick up on their pheromones so easily? It was as if I was some kind of bloodhound, or something.
Wolfhound, actually. Onslaught’s mind was melding with me. He was close by. I feel a well of relief flood though me… Maybe not relief from the ass-pain, but it was emotionally soothing, at least. He is keeping me grounded. It is so awesome!
By the time I decide to engage my muscles and rise to my feet, the massive grey blur bounds over my head, and tears after the three powered soldiers.
I reach for the sword, and take off after him.
But as usual, I miss the party. By the time I clear the corridor, and make it into the hangar, Onslaught had rendered the three soldiers lifeless…. Very lifeless… MMORPG connoisseur’s sex-life lifeless.
I admit it is a little creepy to see the huge K-9 stand over mangled heaps of twisted metal and shredded flesh. But it’s not nearly as creepy, as the blood and sinew that is dangling from his snout.
“These are not pirates.” He says calmly.
“I noticed.” I say. I walk up and take a good look at the closest mangled body, in relation to, where I was previously standing. “Who do you think they are?”
“They’re Crimson Agents.” He says rather decisively. I don’t bother to argue. He must have already known something.
“But isn’t this a pirate raid?” I ask. Deep down I know there is more to this story, but it is still an honest question.
“It’s subterfuge.” He says as he shakes his massive head. “We’ve suspected…” He cuts himself short. I’m getting the impression that I’m not supposed to know something, but I dismiss it altogether. There’s no point in concealing anything from me, after all. We are under attack, and so there’s no time for a formal briefing on the enemy’s disposition.
