MILDRATAWA

by Nigel Clayton

  John lifted his dagger and brought it down hard towards a balai timit that had gripped his thigh with its deep penetrating claws, clamping down hard with its mouth full of razor sharp teeth it commenced its frantic gnawing towards the groin. John thrust the dagger into the balai timit and let out a scream of agony as another went for his throat.

  He lifted the dagger again, this time thrashing out at nothing but pain, piercing his own leg and bone before finally collapsing to the floor. The King was already long gone and lay in a pile of excretion as his flesh was taken with zest from the area around his neck, and his intestines lay around the floor of the glassed enclosure.

  The eyes of the other tied men were naturally averted in sickness and only a few braved a look to the view of blood dribbling down the tombs’ walls. It was going to be their turn next, surely. Here they were now, all cramped in and attached to a single rail by way of different lengths of rope. They couldn’t get over the scene which they just lay witness to. Within just a few seconds both men had met with a most painful death.

  The guards inside the arena now opened two side doors and a firing squad of two men entered. Muriphure sat comfortably, undisturbed as he watched. He knew he was in plain view of the men to his front; he smiled and waved sarcastically. The officers halted and turned to face those about to die. Mind scans were brought up into the shoulders and both men aimed at the targets twenty metres to their front.

  The order to fire was given and one by one the soldiers slowly fell to the reality of the mind scans. Their collapsing nervous systems and uncontrollable thrashing of bodies put shame to waste. The weapon hit each soldier, freaking the man next to him, individuals seeing first-hand what the outcome of the weapon was. The spasms and convulsions, epileptic fury at its worst.

  It took time, but the last of the bodies came to a standstill, the blood of all bodies retracting, leaving that pale white skin look; the look of death, the mark of the mind scan.

  The show was over for Muriphure in a matter of minutes. He returned to his newly acquired quarters and ordered another bottle of red wine.

  PLANET NOUGSTIA.

  PLANET SURFACE.

  Rain dropped at a steady rate, a downpour over the entire face of Nougstia. The only way of escape was to stay low under the large Elephant-Tree leaves that formed a reasonable shelter, as each soldier did this very minute. But puddles of stagnated water had soon mingled to become pools, and it was these pools that were creeping up around the ankles and buttocks of each as he sat, sitting upon bare ground, or for the lucky few, on anything that might bring several hours of relief.

  Nakatumi and his men maintained their security by remaining at fifty percent stand-to along the small perimeter which they now formed, eyes fixed upon the sketchy outlines of the jungles depths, watching for the slightest movement. The weather brought with it the memory of the last mission, whilst standing on the deck of the Nemo and awaiting the aircraft from the submarine, and journey to the meeting of the Mildratawa. The storm that had presented itself then had seemed to follow him across the galaxy to Quadrant Three of the Milky Way.

  Nakatumi’s shuttle on entry to the atmosphere of Nougstia had been exposed to the dangers of a large pinnacle that showed no remorse upon the thick shell of the ship. The damage was irreversible as it plummeted to the surface below, coming to a crashing halt upon a body of water that happened to be one of the largest lakes on the planet’s surface. The force of twenty men was enormously lucky to escape with nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises shared out between them.

  It was an appalling sight as they reached the shore, to look out at the sinking hulk. All weapons and food stuffs – apart from what each individual was carrying on his person – quickly taken to a grave far below the surface.

  Nakatumi had remained silent for many hours after their remarkable escape and swim for the shore. The rain hadn’t helped. No maps or compasses were plucked from the wreck on the initial crashing of the spectre as water had flooded in around them far too quickly for any clear thinking. All they could do was free themselves from the safety harnesses before being trapped and drowned.

  Twenty-four hours after their ordeal and the rain was still falling heavy. Although they were incapable of viewing the skies above, and the falling rain shielded much of the surrounding signatures of sound, it was reasonable to suggest that the Vertons had landed on the surface of the planet due to a few faint booms from above, each sounding remarkably similar to that of powerful engines entering the atmosphere from outer space. Nothing else could have broken out over the noise of the monsoon that they were now experiencing.

  But even with the slightest possibility of Verton invasion, Nakatumi remained defiant, ignoring all suggestions from the team. Until the rain had ceased they would remain stationary. So they sat, hour upon hour, day after day.

  This catastrophe born had now been their home for near-on four days when a break in the skies brought promise of sunshine and warmth. Slowly it came, the downpour to a shower, a flurry to drizzle, and then the glory. The birds around came out to play and sweet song burst from the branches all around. All those that were sleeping soon woke, and all man shuffled around on the ground in search of a stream of sunshine. A few rays, remarkably enough, seemed to throw open holes within the canopy above, so that the warm rays could seep through, to pay homage to the moss filled grounds below.

  The time had finally arrived to consider a move. As best as they could figure, from their known point of entry, and estimated line of flight prior to collision and rough landing, north should be: “That way.”

  Nakatumi’s second in command looked out in the direction. “Are you sure?”

  “No; but any guess is as good as the next. Gather the men for quick orders.” Jorgne obeyed and moved from pit to pit along the perimeter of the platoon, and in no time at all, Nakatumi had around his person, one man from each of the pits.

  The move was going to be a slow one, along a rough direction that was of no real concern at present. He had contemplated climbing a tree for visual aid but they were monstrously tall, waterlogged, and had the appearance of being extremely fragile. A move towards a high feature was what they needed, but none could be seen through the foliage and visibility was down to only twenty metres. Some members tried allowing their thoughts – as to the direction of North – be known; but as Nakatumi had pointed out, unless you had precise knowledge on Nougstia, the situation would remain desperate.

  Single file was to be employed and the patrol would continue until either last light, food had been secured, or a macebearer could be contacted – hopefully before being recruited by the Vertons. The leader of Nougstia was Tara Timu. He probably had knowledge of their presence, although it was not reliable to anticipate a search party on his behalf.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. This is a strange land and the Vertons could be in the immediate area. Don’t take anything whatsoever as granted. Go around all natural and artificial obstacles if encountered. The scout will be changed periodically under orders from Jorgne.”

  All had the opportunity to ask questions but there were none. They moved back to their positions now and passed on the information to the others on the perimeter. They soon picked up and had commenced the move into the unknown territory before the hour was up.

  A few hours of patrolling was endured before they came across what seemed to be a deserted village. From their present vantage point they could see almost all of the low set huts, twelve in all.

  “What do you think, Jorgne?”

  “A guess. Well, a couple actually. It could be a macebearers camp or hide, or maybe a group of hermits living in tranquillity.”

  Nakatumi gave him a smiling stare. “Or what?”

  “God knows. We could set up an observation point from where we are and establish ourselves an administration area back along the way of our approach; maybe a hundred metres. We then sit back and watch for the next— I don’t know; twenty four hours; mayb
e a day or two.”

  “Yeah. Ok then; till the sunrises on the second day.”

  The observation point was set; two men at a time would maintain a watch, whilst the others remained far behind and rest in what sunny patches they could find. The rain had ceased well enough, but all were saturated from the sweat of humidity and arduous patrolling.

  The sun began to sink and the small clearing of the huts sank into darkness, illuminated slightly by the open heavens above. The observation was continued with throughout the night.

  PLANET EQUOTOR.

  VERTON CAMP.

  The automatic focusing lenses of the visual, two-lens, binoptics, strayed from target to target before they were withdrawn from Brad Smith’s eyes. From the high ground the palace of planet Equotor could be easily made out some five kilometres away, the home of its leader Ku-Otor Sta.

  Movement some 800 metres short of the palace was seen. It was a garrison of at least 500 Vertons, all of who were pitching four-man tents. Two men lay low next to Brad as they continued to sketch the larger features of the camp, outlining it in detail onto the coarse paper they carried – the field message note book.

  Five attack craft were seen, each capable of carrying 100 men, smack dab in the middle of the Verton camp, lined out beside each other as though on parade. The perimeter appeared to be impenetrable without the aid of a diversion. A plan was immediately formulated and this was passed along to the others on return to the small camp at the bottom of the escarpment – a treacherous position, caught between the camp and the backlash of hillside. Nothing more was possible except to keep a keen eye open on all movement. Brad had gathered the men around for a brief on the updated situation. His plan had taken the one fact into consideration. From where they were there was no escape, food nor water. Sooner or later a Verton Patrol would find and then destroy them. Even taking off in the shuttle would bring about their death sooner rather than later. So the plan was set.

  High explosive charges were laid 1,000 metres on the far side of the enemy camp by a small three-man team. The charge was set to ignite at mid-afternoon, hopefully causing a large Verton patrol to investigate. A gamble was taken to suggest that the canopy in that particular area was so thick that only a foot patrol could get anywhere near it.

  A second illusion would be painted for the Vertons as a container full of fuel would be set to incinerate the jungle around it, only two hundred metres from the garrison’s perimeter. If the wind was still favourable, as it was now, then the fire and flame should head down towards the camp itself. Once again, what actions and type of investigation would the Verton carry out? No conclusion could be drawn, only estimated. Another foot patrol was a reliable guess.

  The third illusion, the shuttle that they had arrived in would be set on automatic pilot and take off before the Vertons very eyes a further ten minutes into the plan. The decoy would ensure that once a Verton fighter craft had taken off in pursuit, that a stolen one, on their behalf, would stand a better chance of escape amongst the growing confusion – and dwindling manpower. All twenty of Brad’s men would be taken if at all possible, and they only had God to thank that Muriphure Vetty had employed the larger of his spacecraft; this meant that the spacecraft to their front were few, allowing less opportunity for the enemy to pursue.

  In a few short hours all was set and the first explosion echoed out through the hills like nothing they’d heard before. From just inside the jungle’s mouth they watched as an estimated troop of sixty men boarded an attack craft, in seemingly slow reaction, and took off to investigate. Sixty men and one less ship, better odds than anticipated, but rather hazardous in regards to the fact that the Vertons now had a ship in the air. Only minutes after this and the second explosion erupted, smoke billowing up and out from the canopy roof, dispersing nicely.

  The Legion Millennium, due to the short distance, had decided to send a patrol out by foot. 100 men – suspicious of ambush – stepped off into the jungle. Those that remained re-arranged the perimeter to suit their numbers.

  But against all odds the departed attack craft was now returning from its reconnoitre, coming in low and turning slightly to lay back into its resting platform when Brad Smith’s shuttle took off on automatic. The fast moving shuttle outmatched the initial take off of the Verton attack craft and a measurable lead was reached before any real pursuit had commenced.

  The time had come for the big break.

  The odds stood at seventeen to one. A weak link in the defences however was spotted and taken advantage of, this boosted the odds but still nowhere near the odds required for such a fate of bravery. The distance to the closest ship now stood at 100 metres.

  The size of these craft was quite phenomenal and this sat in Brad’s favour. This meant a larger area had to be secured by the Vertons.

  With laser machines and rifles firing they burst from the jungle like a wave of running antelope. Firing from the hip as they ran they forced themselves past the first pits in an effort to gain as much ground and as quickly as possible. The remainder of the Verton perimeter looked around in dismay. The fighter craft to the centre of the harbour position gave hide to the scene of the assault behind them, their line of sight obscured, rendering it impossible for many of the Verton force to fire at the assaulting enemy on their far right flank.

  The first volley of shots fired when the assault had commenced had unfolded to become a devastation for the Verton force and granted a miracle by the men from earth as targets were hit one after the other. The Verton forces to their direct front were now few in number and very sparse. This allowed for faster advancement.

  One of Brad’s gunners received a hit to the leg and it crumpled under him; it wasn’t a mind scan. No thought of self-pity entered his mind. He brought one of the farthest fighters into his sights and pulled the trigger hard. A hundred pulses of red light streamed out from his weapon and down into the cockpit of the Verton ship, this was enough to bring it into flame, pillars of smoke soon enveloping the immediate area. A smoke screen soon formed, his friends being able to move behind this as cover from view. He witnessed their advancement towards the Verton spaceships before he gave up the fight for life, his heart falling to his injury.

  The rush forward slowed on the left flank as smoke canisters were thrown to help conceal the platoon from view – but refrained from offering cover from fire. The Vertons fired through the billows of smoke.

  A counter penetration had started to form as some Vertons rallied together to assault from a flank, immediately grasping the seventeen remaining earthmen’s attention to the growing predicament. Another of Brad’s gunners hit the deck on seeing this and laid down accurate fire that brought the small Verton advance to a momentary halt.

  The team pushed on and knew without thought that it wouldn’t be long before the attack craft in flight would return from its pursuit of their shuttle. They had little time remaining now.

  The first of the group reached the ship and pushed on and into the wide open and airing bridge. He stopped for nothing and head directly for the controls, beginning the simple procedure in preparation for lift off. Several others had joined him now and helped feverishly.

  Two gunners and three riflemen thought nothing more of escape as they heard the engines turn over in a deafening blast. An escape had to be secured so that their team could get away with a warning to the Mildratawa. They put down more covering fire as the last of the fleeing members head for the ship. Seven of their comrades appeared to have achieved solace and the few brave men in the covering force soon met with death.

  The seven watched the ground below as they took flight, leaving the death and destruction far below them; straight up they headed, for the dark depths of space above. They would break into parsec in two minutes, regardless of whether the computer was ready or not.

  Sweat formed on their brows as they watched the dark of space approach, and then, suddenly – the ship. It vibrated slightly and then a little more. They were being fired upon. They had
time enough to peer at each other before they exploded into a million pieces, no time for second thought or prayer.

  Their escape was a complete failure.

  PLANET EQUATIA.

  THE JUNGLE.

  Tiny Ballow hugged the ground like a jungle creeper as he crawled forward in line with his assault troops. If all went well, and if statistics were correct, only a small percentage of Verton troops would be guarding the perimeter. His knowledge on tactics paved the belief that only two men in every ten would be on sentry duty and these would be an easy number for the macebearers to take care of, and at the same instant decrease the Verton populace by 100 Legion Millennium. The remaining four hundred would meet their death as they slept, in the thin-skinned tents, or cut down without mercy as they rushed for their emplacements on the edge of the perimeter.

  The battleground had been drawn and sized itself as a semicircular position of 200 metres by 100 metres. The rear of the camp rose into a wall of rock, impassable, so withdrawal was out of the question. Five fighters sat central, 40 man vessels, this being a small gift of necessary proportion from the legion to the macebearers. It was a willing shame that Tiny was the only one amongst the 2,000 warriors whom knew how to fly such a ship.

  The infrared scopes of each weapon were now turned on and the digital reading on his watch face was carefully scrutinised by his eye as to the time of attack approached. H-hour minus two minutes arrived soon enough. He pushed forward with the others dressing off him, the line of the jungle edge slowly gained on before they stopped and adopted firing positions. His eyes rolled back in rage, for he could make out a few of the pickets on the perimeter being changed by their reliefs. The Vertons were at fifty percent, 250 men wide awake and securing the perimeter to their camp.