by Ronan Frost
The old man did not stop until all sounds of fighting died into the distance behind them.
The android lowered its weapon. One hundred percent accuracy - every bullet had found its mark. The skirmish had lasted no more than thirty seconds, leaving all the native rebels splayed on the ground. The android turned and quickly assessed the men, satisfied that none had been hit.
Wisps of smoke rose from the scarred ground like the spirits of the dead Currach taking flight. Blood seeped slowly into the humus and pooled about stiffening bodies.
For long seconds nothing moved in the small grassy clearing.
"Group Alpha, move in and investigate."
Instantly half of the troops rose to their feet, brushing leaves from their forms. Guns held at the ready they advanced. A troop grunted as he saw the extent of the damage. He idly kicked a mangled body with the tip of his heavy boot.
"That'll teach the ugly thorts," he muttered to his companion.
The latter smirked behind his face plate. His native language was harsh and grunting. "They will think twice about taking out a scout car again. Look at that, they've got weapons. I thought this race was passive."
The strike commander intercepted their conversation. "That's what the computer said. Enough chatter, we have to collect these weapons. I want this site scouted immediately."
The troops fell silent and made about their tasks. The first few flies had begun to buzz about the rebels mutilated forms. Stooping, they prised the rebels' blood coated fingers from alloy gun barrels.
The sun beat down upon the small forest clearing, a light breeze rattling the leaves overhead, the silent forest an impassive witness to the massacre.
* * *
The Vizier looked sharply up from his work as a hesitant knocking sounded at the door. The Vizier lay down his feathered quill and beckoned his visitor in with a quick motion of his four fingered hand.
The messenger stepped forward upon the Vizier's command, his soft leather boots making little noise as he advanced along the polished marble floor of the Council Chambers. Large wide windows let the full glory of the afternoon sun through, bathing the religious shrines and tapestries that hung upon the wall in a deep yellow light. The ceiling of the impressive building was so high the beams were shrouded in shadow, the upper windows seeming small and distant. A large ornate fireplace crackled with life directly behind the Vizier, its warmth driving away the chill in the air.
The Vizier sat behind a long desk cluttered with books and parchments. As Vizier it was his duty to oversee the paperwork of the land holdings of the surrounding farmlands. He had been working constantly for the past few days, his job chaotic as the creatures from the Star's invaded farmer's homes. Many a farmer had protested, demanded in half-fear and half-anger that the Vizier do something about the theft. The star creatures were a strange race, and nobody quite knew how to handle the situation.
The Vizier watched as the green cloaked messenger stepped forward.
"Yes?"
The messenger knelt to one knee, his eyes studying the Vizier in awe. He was dressed in a flowing white robe of simple but graceful cut drawn about the waist by a length of decorative leather. His large Currach eyes reflected intelligence and alertness that studied his with intentness. It was not an aggressive stare - it just seemed that the Vizier's gaze picked up and absorbed every detail and could read every motion.
The messenger stuttered a little in the presence of the powerful figure of authority.
"Vizier, I have come from Partoeon. Lord Drysor has prepared this message he received from one of the Star creatures." The messenger placed a rolled parchment on the desk before the Vizier.
The Vizier's insect-like eyes shone with quickening interest. He accepted the parchment and slipped the seal with a dexterous motion.
"The Star creatures wish to arrange a meeting," he stated, his eyes scanning over the vertical columns of writing.
The messenger nodded. "Lord Drysor believes you would make the best diplomat."
"He is a wise to bring this to me, for I have been awaiting a chance to see the star creatures face to face. Too many farms have been taken already, and the death continues. We must reach some sort of treaty."
"I'm afraid the star creatures are not in the mood for pleasantries. Lord Drysor mentioned something about one of their scouts vehicles being destroyed, by rebels, it seems."
"Rebels?" The Vizier's palms pressed on the parchment strewn table as he leant forward. "Tell me everything," he demanded.
The messenger shrugged nervously. "They tried to fight back against the star creatures. The...they attacked a scout cart. They also took the weapons." The messenger lowered his eyes uncertainly. "Lord Drysor's footmen report that they were killed in the attempt," he finished lamely.
The Vizier became shocked with messenger's words. "Such violence, surely these rebels cannot be Currach. Have they no respect for life?"
"From what I have heard the Starmen on board were hit with an axe and... decapitated..." The messenger swallowed this last word as if it tasted sour.
"We must do something. How did the king of the Starmen take this news?"
"I do not know. All I have been told is to inform you that a summit shall be had immediately. You are to be taken aboard their ship."
"The ship that sits aside the moons? I pray that the Starmen are not angry. We must leave as soon as possible."
The messenger bowed and backed out of the room.
Admiral Karthorn paced the control room of the battleship Urisa. He made an impressive figure; the flowing cape worn over his broad shouldered helicasuit billowing out gently behind him.
He was a burly two and a half metre tall creature, barrelled chest and a thick neck. He was what the small Currach had dubbed the Starmen. The Admiral's black eyes gleamed from deep set slightly sunken brows, his nose almost ursine. A short crop of dark hair topped his squat head and ran partially down the back of his thick neck like a mane. The jutting, wide skull allowed for a large forebrain, the result of millions of years of evolution bestowing the race with quick wits and powerful bodies. A recessed claw projected from the back of each of his six fingered hands that would extend if a fist was formed. The Starmen's knuckles and bone structure were complex yet powerful; the hands that could crush the life out of an enemy could also construct delicate microchips.
They were an ancient race and their technology far superior to any other. The race had been in space for many hundreds of years and had been the dominant force in the galaxy.
That was until the humans had challenged them. The Admiral was in command of a scarred battleship that had fought and won against the humans many times over. Now Urisa hung in orbit about a planet named systematically by Avatar as L/Cn-41a. The Urisa was preparing to accept a native from this world below.
Admiral Karthorn growled low in his throat. He would have no more rebellious activity from the Currach, for his patience was running short. A war was in process on the other side of the galaxy, and the battle ship under his command needed time to recuperate. The small planet beneath them was lush and plentiful. After using the water supplies to fill the ship's tanks they could mine the planet for it was rich in much needed uranium. It was a vital stepping stone for his ship, and he wouldn't have some rebels killings his scouts.
He had ordered the swat team to search out the offenders, and by all reports they had been successful. But the Admiral knew that there would be more rebels, and the trouble needed to be nipped in the bud.
His thoughts turned from his musing as the door hissed open, two shadows standing silhouetted in the doorway. As they stepped forward, the light fell over the figure of a Sunlord guard who held a leash. Pulling at the leash was a dark creature, its crouch looking totally inhuman. The burly guard restrained the creature as it pawed dog-like at the ground, snuffling and growling.
The creature tilted its spider-like head to regard the Admiral. Its body was plated in a flexible exoskeleton that gleamed in the pal
e light; the tough resilient skin would turn any blade without marring the surface. It crouched upon four legs, giving it panther like speed and grace, and its jaws were lined with a glistening array of razor sharp teeth. It was a Lectar, an underling race to the Starmen. The creatures were savage fighters and were ideal reinforcement to Sunlord infantry lines. The Lectars were used extensively aboard the Urisa to assist the guards in patrolling the many corridors of the great starship.
The Sunlord guard bowed.
"What is it?" commanded the Admiral.
"The Currach ambassador awaits your presence, Sir."
The Admiral acknowledged the guard. "Bring him in."
The guard nodded curtly and dropped back into the shadows and out of sight. Moments later the Vizier appeared in the doorway, his small primitive form out of place in the polished halls of the battle cruiser. He stood bedazzled by all the flashing lights about him.
Admiral Karthorn grunted in disgust. He fitted a small mechanical box to his throat and inserted an earpiece. It would enable him to understand the rich fluting complex tones of the Currach language, and also translate his speech so that the native could understand.
"I understand you speak for all the Currach," said the Admiral impatiently.
The Vizier broke off his reverie. "Uh, yes, Great One. Yes I am."
"Good. You understand the situation? I need this planet, and your people are making it difficult."
"I most humbly apologise. It is not in the nature of the Currach to fight, yet your men take our land."
"We take what we want, savage!"
"But the farmers-"
"Enough! We need your crops and harvest in processing our fuels. Believe me, we are taking only what we need."
"But surely we can reach an agreement," persisted the Vizier stubbornly. Half of his soul quivered in fear in the presence of the aliens, but his tone was bold. "Maybe our farmers could help you harvest and produce to your needs."
"To inefficient," snapped Karthorn. "We shall be gone in a matter of days, so until then you shall have to bear it out."
"You treat my race unkindly," rebuked the Vizier. "I respect your right to the planet, but please, many hundred of my people have been killed-"
He was cut short.
"I did not invite you here to talk of your rights, or of any agreements. Consider this visit as a warning to leave my troops alone. As you probably know, a scout car was taken - a costly inconvenience. Keep your farmers off my men or we will declare you an enemy of the Kingdom and systematically destroy every member of your race. Do you understand? I have brought you here so you can see the power at my fingertips. We have control over entire worlds and over the vastness of space."
The Vizier's eyes widened in awe and fear.
"Disobey us and you will bring that power down upon your people. We have the ability to destroy your entire planet with the press of a single button." The Admiral knew that the probability of such a threat being carried out was improbable. The strategic computer aboard the recuperating battleship would not accept this option; nuking the planet would destroy all the valuable resources that the ship's tanks so desperately needed. Avatar, the mother computer, had also expressed a mysterious concern in keeping the planet intact.
But at least he could scare the native into submission.
"Think about it," finished Karthorn. His sunken eyes glistened like marbles. "You shall be in charge of controlling these outbreaks. For your sake, do not let such an incident happen again. I would not normally worry about a warning, but it seems you are fortunate. You see, my ship is resting, preparing for the battle ahead, and I would like to avoid any skirmish that would merely inconvenience my troops." The Admiral paced around the room, his hands clasped behind this back. He swirled suddenly. "There will be only one warning. Next time, your cities will be levelled. You are dismissed!"
The Vizier lowered his head and shuffled out of the room.
The Admiral beckoned to a nearby guard. "Prepare the landing craft. The Currach is leaving now. Oh, and I hope you remembered the sterilisation procedures. We don't want any diseases from these filthy savages."
The armour clad Sunlord responded instantly. In moments the small party had departed and the door hissed closed behind them.
Admiral Karthorn turned to his Adviser.
"I am tempted to send out a platoon and wipe the natives clean off the surface," he breathed.
The Adviser chuckled softly. "We must follow Avatar's explicit orders. She has something planned for this planet. Anyway, if that Currach carried out his duty there should be no more outbreaks."
"I hope so. I can't wait until we get back to the Kingdom. The Forces need this battleship, and we are doing no good out here."
"Avatar says we need to recuperate."
"I know," barked the Admiral. "But do you think we need to? We can get by with what supplies we have for another year or so."
The Adviser shrugged. "I would not question Avatar, sir. Besides, we might as well stock up when we can. We will need it later."
They stopped as a Class Two droid entered the bridge.
"Incoming message, sir."
"Put it through," demanded Admiral Karthorn.
"Immediately." The droid soon had the visiport up, and the three metre high projection of the face of the Commander appeared on it.
"Admiral Karthorn," began the pre-recorded voice. "Your ship is to remain orbited about L/Cn-41a indefinitely. I have taken the liberty of putting the commands into the Avatar mainframe to establish a permanent orbit. You are to begin a Gamma scale landing and establishment in preparation of the Royal Fleet."
"Gamma scale?" mouthed the Admiral in awe.
The recording continued. "The memory banks of Avatar have already been beamed to us three standards ago and we request all new information be immediately transmitted to us. Message ends."
The image flickered, then when out.
The Admiral swirled to his Adviser. "Gamma scale! What is the Royal Fleet up to? This backwater is of no strategic importance-"
The Adviser cut him off. "It is wise not to question orders from the Commander. It would be folly to demand an explanation."
Karthorn calmed himself. "Your words carry wisdom. Very well, I shall obey the orders." He turned to the droid. "Beam an update through to the Fleet, and then again every hour. I also want the crew and droids prepared for a Gamma scale landing."
"Very well, sir." The droid spun on its tracks and disappeared.
The Admiral sank into his couch. His mind whirled with the Commander's words. Deep in the pit of his stomach he could feel the imminent thrill of battle.
If Karthorn guessed right, the Royal Fleet had something big in store.
* * *
Councillor Orlin cast his gaze nervously over the odium where scores of Currach milled about, taking their seats. Tonight was a major performance; the playwright and actors considered the best in their profession. Looking down upon them from where he sat in the balcony Orlin could see that his people were tired and drawn as they had worked too hard and had suffered too much in these past few weeks. The star creatures had invaded their homes and taken their farms, forced at gun point to harvest their crops and load them aboard the alien's container ships. The invaders took everything, like a band raiding barbarians.
But tonight these peaceful people tried to forget their earthly woes. Play going had been a popular pastime before the invasion and now were making a special effort to bring back those old times.
Councillor Orlin was a well-respected man, ranking highly in the Grand Council. His shaven head exaggerated the elongated skull common to the Currach. It was a traditional cut and only a few Currach still persisted with the old ways. His flowing robes showed that this man was devoted to the Religion.
Orlin was not in the odium for his pleasure, for he had far too much work back at the Grand Council. He was here because of a curious letter he had received that had been signed by the Vizier. It told him to be at t
his particular performance where they would meet to discuss the planet's future.
The letter said no more. Curious to the point of being irritated, Orlin counted down the days until this meeting.
Assistants extinguished the flaming torches on the walls, dimming the surrounds so the play could commence.
Councillor Orlin became agitated. The Vizier still wasn't here.
A hand clasped his on the shoulder and a familiar voice sounded in his ear.
"Good to see you, Councillor."
Orlin turned and in the feeble light could see the Vizier's haggard face.
The two Currach exchanged greetings, the palms of their hands clasping in the age old gesture of friendship.
The Vizier lowered himself gently to the ground to take his cross-legged position on the rug next to Orlin.
"By the goodness of Abas, what has happened to you?"
The Vizier smiled grimly. The play below had begun so the Vizier spoke in a whisper. "I was confined in the Starmen's ship for eight hours. They cannot be blamed, they were being cautious against disease."
"Are you ill?"
The Vizier shrugged off Orlin's attentions. "I am fine."
Councillor Orlin was curious. "What did you find aboard the Starmens' ship?"
"I found the Starmen a curious race. I spoke to a guard on the way back down to the surface. I think they have become like the machines that surround them; they have no deity, beliefs or even emotions. They place themselves under mechanical care. It took a great deal of will power for me to step into the steel corridors. I kept thinking I was about to be swallowed alive."
Orlin was silent for a minute as he thought. "This is indeed fascinating, but is this what you have come to talk about? Surely the Grand Council would be a preferable venue?"
"No, Councillor. You see, what I have to say is unorthodox. I am not sure the Grand Council would approve."