Focused
Vanguard
By: Yolanda Yasin
Focused Vanguard Copyright © 2019 Yolanda Yasin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews.
Disclaimer
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This book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone, and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands. The reader is responsible for his or her own actions.
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Chapter 1
Three towering structures glittered blue high above the battling forces below. They shuddered, then went thoomp, their rectangular masses slamming down into the ground, glowing green energy shooting out of their tops, blasting apart the enemy forces on impact in a blinding fury.
The battle had been long and gruesome. The enemy had lost their entire infantry and artillery and the allied forces were down to only a few, yet key, artillery units, and a single, lone infantry battalion. All the enemy had left now were a few of its armored tanks and limited hovercraft. It was a favorable matchup for the ally forces. Tanks and hovercraft were powerful, but slow. The enemy would fall, that was certain. It was only a matter of time.
The sweet exultation of impending victory was crushed moments later, as three well-placed missiles from remote hovercraft took out the key artillery, grey and burning heaps where they once stood. Now it was infantry against machines. Speed would be their only advantage. They needed to get to higher ground before the enemy found them.
The captain of the ally forces, undaunted by the odds, waved his troops forward, fire and explosions burning all around them as they moved to a more effective position. The regiment moved forward on the black battlefield, which was gridded with glowing white lines. They crested an embankment and suddenly saw a large, red enemy tank—all three of its cannons aimed directly at them.
The captain frantically tried to move his forces back, but it was too late. Entire lines of his command fell as the tank fired, their blue bodies turning to grey as they died, fading into the darkness of the warzone. As he attempted to regroup his remaining force at a safe distance, another red tank appeared right behind them, firing its deadly cannons, ripping apart the captain's last battalion.
Within moments, all that was left was the glowing white body of the captain, flanked by the two red tanks. Another moment passed and a large red aerial craft chopped through the air to glide over the embankment, sidling next to the tanks. A shimmering black man, the enemy's commanding officer, suddenly appeared next to the aircraft and moved to stand mere centimeters from the white captain.
"Surrender," A female voice sounded. The scene stayed perfectly still for a moment, the two officers surrounded by the red machines of war, flames all around them on the perfectly black battleground. The captain would not yield. He charged the enemy, only to be struck down with a single shot from the quick-fire pistol of the enemy commander. His glowing white body faded into a wisp of smoke before he even hit the ground.
Sailing through the dark expanse of interstellar space, in the Earthling starship, Stasis a father and son sat in their living room, the entire previous scene of holograms disappearing and the smooth chrome surface of the living room table becoming visible once more.
N8 slammed his fist into his palm in frustration. He never won. He sat in a comfortable albeit sagging lounge chair that was clearly not designed for someone over eight feet tall, let alone over five hundred pounds. Across from him on the other side of the low table sitting upon a large cloth sofa was Dad, his adoptive father. Dad cradled a small glass of brown alcohol in his darker left hand as he smiled sympathetically at him.
Dad leaned forward slightly, the metal of his rank insignia clinking against his glass. Even on leave, he never dressed in anything but his uniform. It sent an unspoken message—he was always ready for war. Though the message was slightly marred by the alcohol in his hand and the stubble along his jaws and chin.
"That was much better than usual, Captain Nathaniel," Dad said with an encouraging smile, his wrinkled, liver-spotted ebony hand keeping a firm, slightly tipsy grip on his drink.
N8 had a hard time understanding Dad, but the things he did to change his face from mad to sad to happy helped a lot. This is why N8 never spoke to Dad on the communicator. His voice was too mono—mono—boring. N8 could not understand boring.
"Thank you," N8 signed with fumbling hands, settling back into his chair, the metal frame screaming in protest.
"Want to play again? We could play the computer together," Dad asked. N8 shook his head and Dad leaned back with another smile, sipping his drink.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Dad continued. "You never choose the option to surrender— I understand why, but I have taught you better. Why do you continue to do so?"
N8 stared at Dad's sable yet freckled face. He wanted to know… something. N8 did not quite understand and his head began to hurt as he guessed at what would be a good reply.
"Quitting is good?" N8 finally signed, shifting uncomfortably in his comfortable chair, which screamed shrilly at the jostling movements. The squeaking was beginning to make him mad.
Dad's eyes began to shine tiredly and he looked exasperatedly excited.
"That's exactly right—if we don't surrender, if we prefer to go down fighting, that helps no one. But if we are wise enough to surrender to our enemies, we can live to fight another day and our options become many and varied. The dead have no such luxury. Wonderful insight, Nathaniel. You are learning."
N8 returned Dad's smile but had no idea what he was saying. He knew the words and could sort of understand the meaning, but he could not… he did not know.
Dad's smile faded and he looked at N8 with a strange face. N8 thought about it, then guessed it was… worry, he was worried.
"Nathaniel, the time is coming when I won't be able to protect you from this universe of ours.
"This war we fight is getting worse every moment." Dad paused, taking another sip.
"Just four hours ago I received a transmission from Admiral Jung. Treeth and Mynor have fallen. Our common enemy is tearing our fleets apart."
Dad set his half-empty glass onto the smooth table, rubbing his old, dark hands together slowly as he spoke. "Pirates and gangsters attack our people, preying on Alliance worlds that are weak and vulnerable. We're quickly running out of food and medicine. There is an impending famine and because of the war, we can't do anything about it."
Dad picked up his glass again but paused, just staring at the golden-brown drink inside.
"I'm sorry Nathaniel, but I'm afraid I've raised you to think this war is a game. I've let you walk away when things got to be too much for you. And with how things are concluding, I was wrong to do so, despite your… limitations. I need you to understand all this, Nathaniel, and I need you to remember it. Your time is coming. And I weep for the truth of it."
Dad
's voice changed at the end, then he took another sip of his drink and sighed, setting the glass down gently on the table as a tear slid silently from his right eye down his dark cheek, absorbed by the rough, grey stubble grown from a day of not shaving.
"I'm sorry, I've just been so—I've been fighting this war for a long time, Nathaniel," Dad said softly, rubbing his eyes with the index finger and thumb of his right hand, squeezing the sides. Dad looked tired. More tired than normal. He looked out the large circular viewport set in the nearby chrome wall, the brightest stars twinkling red and blue in the black expanse of space. A pair of mismatched eyes like N8's, set in a face as black as Dad's. Beautiful warmth surrounded by eternal cold.
Yet Dad still wore his uniform. N8 wondered why he did not wear something else if he was tired. Then he would not have to keep fighting, nobody would make him go to war. Was that not the way war worked? That's the way it worked for N8, at least. Right? Though Dad was saying… that had changed. Or did he say that? N8 shook his head again in frustration.
"I think I'm going to take a nap. Why don't you go watch something, Nathaniel? I think I saw your eye in the washroom." Dad and N8 stood up, Dad retiring to his bedroom, in which he slid the door almost closed behind him, a habit that had begun in order to comfort N8 when he was a child. N8 stepped over to the bathroom. Upon the door sliding open, N8 saw his eye, made of metal and glowing blue, sitting next to the hand-basin, where'd he left it to dry after cleaning it. N8 picked it up and stuck it in the metal apparatus plating the gaping hole of his missing left eye.
The interface of his robot eye superimposed itself over N8's surroundings as it activated, whirring quietly to life. Small icons of varying colors and shapes aligned themselves around the edges of his vision. Within the options given, N8 stared at the icon that sat directly at the top of his eyesight, which began to spin. After a moment, it opened a news program and his whirring eye watched with complete inattention. With his real eye, N8 looked up and saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A strong jaw and chin, smooth lips, a slender nose and a startlingly blue right eye staring back at him. Thick black hair that covered his ears and fell to his shoulders. Under his simple cloth shirt of white, he could still make the outline of the muscles on his stomach and chest, and his arms bulged with green and purple veins.
Dad had told him his eye was like his mother's, and he had his real dad's hair. Dad had also told him his gen—genial—family tree from the Lost World was half… Caucasian, and half… Asian. He rubbed his forehead. Did all Lost World things have to be so hard to say, let alone think?
N8 continued to look at his features in the mirror, as he often did, his fingers rubbing the old tattered blue cloth he had without thinking pulled out of the black leather pouch hung around his neck. Something about it calmed him down. He got so… mad lately, and he did not want Dad to see, to think he was some sort of monster, especially after Dad told him he was growing up, which N8 now understood.
Still, as N8 continued to stare at himself in the mirror, he knew he was… handsome, but he also knew that his robot eye sometimes scared people. N8 laughed jerkily at his lie, his tongue fat, unable to speak. He usually scared people. But most people, most species were afraid of Earthlings like him.
Like Dad had said, N8 had… limitations. Dad had never said that before, even though many, many others had. N8 felt a new feeling. He was ash—asha—sad.
A chiming sound echoed through their quarters suddenly. N8 was pretty sure someone was at the door. He closed the bathroom door behind him as Dad started, his snoring stopped and he sputtered grumpily, impatiently shoving his bedroom door before it could open completely on its own. He half-wobbled, half-stomped over to the door panel, which he pressed and the door to their shared quarters slid open.
Outside their door stood a young man, a helmsman from the look of his white, disheveled uniform, who had apparently run all the way from the deck to their quarters, he was sweating so much, his groomed, sleek brown hair now out of place.
"Admiral Avery," The ensign saluted, breathing heavily.
"At ease, Ensign Yonsin. What is it?" Dad asked. All traces of his tiredness were gone, replaced with a face of stone and a voice just as cold and flat.
Ensign Yonsin took a deep breath.
"It's the war, sir. It's over."
Chapter 2
"Home, it's time to come home. It's over, it's all over now."
The pleasing baritone voice said as space fighters zipped through the black of space, firing their missiles at a large white spaceship of the Erada Empire. Explosions appeared on the surface of the ship, then a tiny marring of the image occurred, which resolved into an image of the large ship torn apart, drifting in space as the fighters zoomed away in triumph, their grey underbellies streaking close by the viewer as they headed toward the shrouded red glow of a nearby planet.
Suddenly there was a scene of a terrestrial battlefield, the red soil upon which the brave infantrymen ran thrown up by hundreds of explosions about them. The image panned over to capture the violet-skinned, crab-like Erada and the green metal of their tanks, all firing upon the daring Alliance battalion, as the creatures guarded their nearby base. Smoke rose from the burning branches of the alien trees above them, the haze suddenly cut through by one of the sleek spacecraft, which dropped a black sphere onto the Eradan force.
The resulting explosion whited out the image and slowly came back into focus, the grey silhouettes of the Alliance soldiers advancing towards the enemy base, lasers blazing through the few Eradan survivors. The image contorted again, and the resolving image was of an unmasked soldier holding up the severed stalk-eyed head of Quass, the Eradan leader, high above his head as he stood upon the edge of the fortress's wall, looking down upon the celebrating Alliance contingent, letting out a silent war cry.
N8 smiled as his crew moaned and yelled… happy-like. Up in the unmanned cockpit, they were watching the videos that reported the desperate Alliance attack, resulting in the total surrender of the Erada, their great ships destroyed and their home planet burning. N8, too, was watching the same videos but through his artificial left eye, which shone a brilliant blue in the dusky light of the shuttle bay. For twenty-five years, the Great Eradan War had been waged across the universe. It was almost not believable that such a conflict was now over, the resulting peace barely two weeks old.
And now that the war had ended, the rebuilding process began. Captain N8 and his crew were traveling towards Bunker 3.0, an old Alliance base in a sector abandoned twenty-two years ago to the day after an Eradan attack. The rumor was that there was an enormous stockpile of Alliance food and medicine in this qua—quad—area of space, a possible godsend in the face of the famine. N8 and his crew all stood around eight feet tall and weighed over half a ton each; if there was a stockpile, they could retrieve it and quickly. There was also no reported activity in the sector for over a decade, so it was likely undisturbed.
N8 felt his attempted smile weaken as his crewmates lumbered back into the shuttle bay, their thick, shiny black armor thudding against the grey cloth of their seats as they sat down. N8 turned to face Lo, his best crewmate, the crash webbing across his chest rustling with his movement. Lo looked back at him, his… sad brown eyes set in his… pretty face, a sign of his underdeveloped brain.
Lo's sharp jaw and soft, pretty face were a mirror of N8's own features. They all had perfect physical bodies, which showed even though they were all wearing big pieces of armor.
Of course, they were all… limited, N8 included. They were not Earthlings, not exactly. They were Ape— physically perfect but mentally flawed; a rare mistake. Children of men who used C.E. drugs during… sex. N8 thought hard, he had practiced the words before. C.E… Combat… Enhancement. Now his head hurt.
The drugs had a nickname that was easier to remember. Gorilla Blood. The golden green solution that all Ape called father.
"N8 OK?" Lo signed with his hands, his eyebrows showing worry as he pointed at N8's sudden
, clumsy clap to his head. N8's crewmates called him so because they could not sign any variation of his real name—Nathaniel. Of course, neither could he.
N8 signed he was OK, and Lo nodded jerkily, turning around to sign with O, another crewmate. N8 leaned forward, stretching his long arms up and down the length of his longer legs, letting out a slight sigh. He was… mad. Also… sad. Which made him… mad! He gripped the knee plates of his armor tightly with his broad hands, the metal slightly bending from his extreme exertion.
Part of him screamed internally, emotions he could never truly express, even in thought—for this part of his soul was unknown to him, full of shadow and darkness. For decades now, always right there at the cusp, at the edge of knowledge, of understanding—but then his co—corru—messed-up DNA would get in the way. He could taste concepts and ideas beyond his simple understanding—but he could not swallow them.
If only his real dad had not died in the war. The enz—enzy—blood of his actual father could cure him of his… slow mind. Then his mind went dark, and he could not remember why his existence was the fault of his real dad, but that only made him more… mad!
N8 stood up and yelled in frustration, a guttural sound mangled by his inability to use his tongue the right way. His entire crew stopped signing and began to stare at him, his sad blue eye reflected in their own… sad eyes.
In a huff, N8 stomped out of the shuttle bay towards the engine room. Once he got there, his armor reflected the garish red light of the thick, cylindrical engine cells and the iris of his artificial left eye turned a deep purple. He collapsed awkwardly to the grated floor, his back slamming against one of the cells. His whole body shook from the vibration of the cell and he closed his eye, trying desperately to hide himself from his thoughts in the deafening hum of the engine.
N8's heart was beating fast and he felt… fear. Fear of himself, what he could do while he was… mad. Shaking, he put his hand down the chest plate of his armor and grabbed ahold of a small sack strung around his neck. He pulled it out and slowly pulled the bag open, dumping it's content into his open palm. A tattered blue cloth with a yellow cartoon sun smiling up at him, the only item N8 had that once belonged to his real parents. It had been part of a blanket, Dad had told him.
Focused Vanguard Page 1