by Ian Woodhead
Galactic Troopers
Ian Woodhead
Copyright 2017 by Ian Woodhead
Chapter One
In another two more minutes, that punishment drone would be floating past his cell door. Ex-Trooper, Danny Cole, previously of the strike-down unit and posted to the Imperial heavy cruiser, The Donnington Scimitar, now labelled as a minor heretic, rolled his collected prize in the palm of his filthy hand.
He didn’t have enough moss. Trooper Cole was going to need at least double the amount to even have a chance of his desperate plan to succeed. Apart from the ceiling, which he could not reach, he had scraped the four walls down to the bare stone. He bet this cell hadn’t been this clean for over two hundred years.
One more minute to go.
There was no other choice in this. Mr. Smith would have to lose some weight.
“You can’t do that to me, buddy boy! If I vanish, you’ll have nobody left to look after you. Who’s going to be here when you wake up screaming from your nightmares? You seriously need to think about this.”
Trooper Cole was taken aback by this rather unusual outburst. He’d never heard the voice of reason be so vocal before. “Calm your jets, I’ll only be taking some of you.” He moved past his stone-slab bed and stopped in front of the two-metre-high, crude, human-shaped outline. “What needs to be done, needs to be done.” Trooper Cole dug his finger into the narrow gap between two stone blocks and managed to pick out a sizeable lump of moss which he added to his collection. It worried him not to hear Mr. Smith bitterly complaining about Trooper Cole poking holes in his outline. He guessed the voice of reason was probably sulking.
He had thirty seconds left. Trooper Cole crouched and furiously scraped off as much moss as he dare within his now rapidly shrinking time period. Did he have enough? Well, Trooper Cole would soon find out. He raced over to the cell door and pressed his nose between the bars in the large window.
The distant sound of the vile creature’s incessant beeping made his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this excited. Oh wait, yes he did. Last month, the guards served all the prisoners with real food. The rumour he heard was their glorious Empire had wiped the hateful insectoid Blanik fighters off the face of their home planet. Trooper Cole didn’t believe that propaganda nonsense at all. He kept his opinions to himself and sat on his slab and ate something which resembled a carrot, if he squinted.
The punishment drone had risen up to his level now. He listened to the other prisoners shouting at it, calling the thing dirty names. One prisoner even spat at the drone when it floated past his cell door. The poor bugger received a stream of neural inhibitors for his trouble. Trooper Cole could swear that the globule of wet snot made a fizzing noise when it landed on its battered outer casing. This plan was going to work, he knew it.
“You’re going to die, you rash fool. Come back to the slab, buddy boy, and bring me back my legs. They’ll be signing the release forms any day now.”
“Piss off, Mr. Smith,” he muttered. There would be no pardon for this minor heretic, no matter how badly their side was doing in this civil war. They were going to make an example of him. In three days’ time, the guards would drag him from this dank cell, up to the surface, and epoxy his naked body to a twelve-metre pole in Traitor’s Corner before the captain of the Donnington Scimitar boiled his brain with a single shot from his ship-issued sidearm.
Trooper Cole’s plan was as simple as it was devious. Everyone knew that these ancient drones should have been scrapped hundreds of years ago. The damn things were even built way before the Third Reformation. Suffice to say, they were running on spit and luck, but not prisoner’s spit, obviously. If he could get this ball of wet stinking material down the drone’s intake vent, it might malfunction. His hope, if he was in the mood for a proper fairy tale, is that the drone would fall to the floor outside his cell door and explode, with the resulting after effect of his door unlocking and swinging open.
“That is not going to happen,” said the voice of reason. “You can’t escape from here; nobody can.”
Trooper Cole hated it when Mr. Smith crawled through his private thoughts like a Tazkhanion slug.
“The best you can hope for is a blast from its phaser coil, knocking you out until they come to melt your ragged body. If you do this, you can kiss goodbye to any thought of a pardon.”
The drone was now three doors away. “If that is my fate, then bring it on.” Trooper Cole turned and glared at what remained of the moss outline on the far wall. “It means that I won’t have to listen to your whining voice ever again. It also means that the dreams will finally be over, Mr. Smith.”
“Do you not find it annoying that you can never remember your dreams?”
Trooper Cole heard the sly undertones of that last statement, but he chose to ignore it. Mr. Smith’s scare tactics weren’t going to work on him, no way. He’d stopped worrying about the contents of his dreams months ago.
He carefully picked up the tightly rolled ball of moss and got ready to throw it. The drone was now two doors from his cell. Just to be able to get a good night’s sleep without those insidious dreams tearing into his soul was enough reason to let them kill him. He looked down at his moss and suppressed a hysterical giggle. There was no way this dumb plan would work, not that this was going to stop him from trying.
“Goodbye, my voice of reason. I would say that it’s been a pleasure knowing you, but it hasn’t. With luck, the afterlife will be a little kinder to me than this one has.” The drone had now stopped outside the cell door next to his.
He then realised just how much he’d also miss his cellmate. The Gizanti in the next room had been his only friend in here, about from Mr. Smith, that is. In fact, without the Gizanti’s frequent interventions during rest period and exercise hour, Trooper knew he wouldn’t be alive now to attempt this stupid escape.
His voice of reason was now chuckling. “Are you sure you don’t want to abort this ridiculous escape plan? See, I suspect that your slow mind has just reached the part of what to do if, by some miracle, your plan to get out of here does work.”
The Gizanti, Trooper Cole, and whole other bunch of freaks on this level were classed as political prisoners. The guard kept them locked up for most of the time while the rest of the population were allowed free reign on the hell level. He’d have to pass through that first before somehow thinking of a way to break into the guard admin section.
The Gizanti hurled a stream of abuse in the common tongue at the drone, and the machine responded by blasting the huge armour-plated creature with a neural inhibitor. As the inhibitor was calibrated for human brains, it had no effect on the alien, and nobody had bothered to reprogram the drone to account for the fact that humans were the only intelligent life-form in this galaxy after all.
His cellmate smashed his heavy frame against the cell door, which resulted in yet another blast from the drone. Trooper Cole realised he could be waiting for some time. It was rare for the Gizanti to be so vocal.
He had wondered how long it would take before the big guy’s temper finally broke. From the crashing and banging coming from the other cell, he guessed that the human jailers’ thoughts of a quiet night had well and truly gone into the trash compactor. Give it a few more minutes, and those muscle-enhanced idiots would be up here with their electro-batons and sleep sprayers. Trooper Cole was watching his escape plan peel away at the seams and he was helpless to stop it. What could have so upset the Gizanti? Granted, it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of individuals, but on most occasions, he just found most of the human dramas going on inside here funny.
“Perhaps if you had kept your ears open instead of obsessing over your ridiculous escape plan, you might understand
the reason,” said his voice of reason. “The drone spoke to the Gizanti in its native tongue, Trooper Cole.”
“What did it say?”
“How am I going to know that, you idiot? Surely your psychosis hasn’t reached the level where you and I have totally split apart?”
The Gizanti was still shouting at the drone, but it was no longer banging about. It had switched to it native language now too. Trooper Cole had the feeling that the drone had pushed the alien a little too far today. Not that it would have taken that much. All Gizanti had an inbuilt hatred for machine intelligence. On their world, everything from drones to weapons to starships had to be vat grown.
“If we do go our separate ways, does that mean I get to choose my own name? Oh, I won’t have you stealing my moss anymore either.”
“Shut up.”
A week before the misunderstanding at Praxis Three Spaceport, which resulted in the local priest accusing him of heresy, Trooper Cole and his squad attended a weapons training programme. The sergeant in charge had allowed him to bond with a Gizanti pulse blaster. He’d found it most disconcerting to listen to the weapon politely asking Trooper Cole to move his fingers as the pulse blaster was uncomfortable with his alien paws being so close to its anal vent.
When Trooper Cole heard two more drones rising to this level, he should have guessed the jailers wouldn’t have bothered checking this out in person. They cared too much about their card game than the apparent safety of their prisoners. He guessed it matter whether human or electronic eyes arrived next door, his slim chance of escaping had now dropped to zero. Once the Gizanti saw the additional metal blasphemies, he was going to go absolutely crazy with rage.
Silently admitting defeat was difficult, but even he knew when to quit. Trooper Cole retreated to the wall, he crouched and began to rebuild Mr. Smith. There would even be some left to give his voice of reason a pair of kneecaps. “It’s nice to know it wasn’t a complete waste of time.” He looked up. “Are you not going to say that I told you so, Mr. Smith? It’s so unlike you to miss an opportunity to insult me.”
Trooper Cole applied the moss while listening as the screams in the next cell restarted once the two drones joined their companion. It sounded cruel, but he wished their neural inhibitor did work on his species. At this rate, the Gizanti would be spending the rest of the night in the torture tank.
“I implore that you lie down now before it is too late. It will soon be starting, Trooper Cole!”
There was no sign of that humorous tone now. Mr. Smith was deadly serious about his request. Well, stuff Mr. Smith, he wasn’t going to take notice of anything he was going to say to him tonight, not after the zero encouragement his voice of reason he gave to him. It’s almost as if he didn’t want Trooper Cole to try to escape. Mr. Smith hadn’t even thanked him for redoing his body.
He stood up, wiped the remaining bits of moss down the side of his trousers, then stood back to admire the improvements he’d made. He’d obviously been wasted as a squad leader in one of the most ruthless assassination units in the Mighty Terran Empire. Trooper Cole should have been one of those eccentric artists travelling from planet to planet. Judging by what he’d done with Mr. Smith, he would have made a fortune!
The screaming in the next cell increased in volume, so did the sounds of the three drones hurting the big guy. They were using their own version of the human electro-baton on the big guy. At this rate, those metal bastards would end up cracking open the Gizanti’s thick orange hide.
Though the screams, he heard a few words in the common tongue. It was difficult to make out what the Gizanti was saying at first, but as he repeated the phrase over and over, Trooper Cole began to understand what the first drone had said and the reason for his cellmate’s violent reaction. He was saying that everyone on home-world had been stolen.
He heard the three electro-batons strike the creature’s plating, yet it felt like him who had just been attacked. Every muscle in his body seized up, the motion toppled him, and he crashed onto the floor. He never even felt the impact as his mind had taken him somewhere else.
Trooper Cole found himself standing on the edge of a high cliff. A man of the same height as him stood a couple of paces to his left. The other man turned his head, and Trooper Cole found himself staring at his own face just about a decade older.
“You’re me?”
“I’m Mr. Smith,” he replied, “and welcome to your dream. You’re going to wish that you did as he asked, Trooper Cole, as this is so going to hurt you.”
Chapter Two
He heard the glikgliks before his flock even uttered their panicked bleating. Walish Din snapped open his eyes, launched his wiry frame out of his hammock, grabbed the staff, and raced out of the small tent. The two moons gave the young Diannin enough light to see just how close his twelve animals had wandered to the edge of the canyon.
“You tiny-brained, seven-legged morons!” he yelled, racing towards his flock. “Get back down here or you’ll feel the end of my staff on your heads!” His threats would make no difference. They all heard the shepherd and uttered the panicked bleating that Walish Din heard moments before, but none retreated from the edge. Why go back to barren land when the grass pods here were so plentiful and delicious?
If just one of those animals fell into the basin, both his spawn donors would elect to have Walish Din pushed back into the group shell. He shuddered at that dire thought. Yet the mental threat, even if it was partially of his own making, helped to push his legs a little harder.
He reached the first animal, grabbed her hind tusks, and propelled the stupid animal behind him, hoping the rest of them would follow her. Walish Din ground his teeth in frustration when not one of the animals took any notice of one of their own rolling down the steep incline like a large seed wheel. It just meant more tasty grass pods for them to munch!
Walish Din had to use his full repertoire of command words and thought strings to get the annoying animals to move away from the grass pods. He threaded his way through his flock, tapping the more stubborn animal with the staff to ensure they kept moving. There was one glikglik who hadn’t stopped stuffing the grass pods into her guts. “Come down here, you pain in the glipharg!”
She looked down from her perch, gave the shepherd a defiant bleat, before continuing to graze on the grass pods clinging to the side of the rock.
“I hate my life,” he said, dropping the staff so he could climb using both hands. “I hate my spawn donors.” It wasn’t fair that he should look after these idiotic animals when his spawn kin were allowed to leave the nest and grow their own farms. Walish Din was now just a few inches away from the remaining animal. “I’m warning you! Get down here right now, or I’ll push you over myself!” Just because he possessed the touch, just because he could connect with their minds without the use of flock tendrils. “Most of all,” he gasped, reaching for the stray glikglik, “I hate you!”
Walish Din grabbed the animal’s hind tusk and held on, despite her reaching around and trying to bite his fingers. “No you don’t!” He gave the beast a vicious tug, felling victorious when the glikglik lost her grip and tumbled down the rock. His victory quickly turned to guilt when he saw that two of her legs were now badly twisted. It would take a good three nights for them to heal. He watched her limp over to the rest of the flock, wondering how he was going to explain this to his spawn donors when the sun kissed the two moons.
To make his situation even more ridiculous and annoying, Walish Din wasn’t too sure how to get back down. The only way he could go appeared to be up. He held onto the rocks then looked down, trying to work out how he climbed up here. Getting the glikglik down had been had been his only concern; consequently, Walish Din hadn’t been watching where he placed his feet. “You’re more stupid than the glikgliks.”
His only option was to climb higher and hoped that once he reached the top, he might be able to see another way down. He sighed heavily, wishing he had stayed in his tent now. Walish Din caref
ully climbed up the rock while wondering if his spawn donors really would elect to have him stuffed back into the group shell if he had allowed some of the flock to fall down into the canyon basin. At this rate, the only creature likely to fall to their death was going to be him.
The shepherd felt this was his life-changing moment. When he finally got back down to solid ground, Walish Din was going to tell his spawn donors and the tribe elders that he no longer had the touch. It’s not like they could prove otherwise. The tips of his fingers found another lip on the rock face. It felt sturdy enough. There was another lip a little higher too. He prayed to the Gods, then let go of the crumbly stuff under his other hand and swung his body to the left, knowing that if that lip wasn’t as solid as he hoped, he would be following that stubborn glikglik. Unlike the animal, Walish Din would not be limping away.
His fingers managed to grab the other lip, and he had to use all of his remaining strength to pull himself up. He had done it though; Walish Din had reached the summit. His hope was now that he was reasonably secure, he would be able to map a way back to his flock and his tent. He was so missing his hammock.
There was a way down that didn’t involve leaping off the top, although that thought had crossed his mind. After all, it wasn’t that far down to the ground, perhaps the height of one of the alien buildings in the centre of the settlement. Unlike the other side, where if he fell that way, his body would be shredded on the sharp rocks before what was left of him even splatted into the basin, hundreds of feet below.
Walish Din’s morbid curiosity got the better of him, and instead of looking for the handholds and footholds, which must have used to get up here, he looked over on the other side. Every single one of the shepherd’s synapses misfired at the sight of the standing bodies covering the basin floor.
“What is this?” He held onto the rock as tight as he dare without it slicing into his flesh while trying to come to terms with what this could be. He shut his eyes, counted to ten, then opened them again, groaning when he discovered he wasn’t imagining seeing thousands and thousands of alien people down there.
