Mineran Influence

by PN Burrows

  Reb and Sam entered into the original mountainside building that Sam had originally escaped from. They did so via a garage bay and Reb drove the SUV into an underground car park. There were rows and rows of similar SUVs and some domestic vehicles. Sam recognised some of them as surveillance vehicles from his brief stay in the B&B. As Sam passed the Astra, he looked at the back box – it was shiny and new. He had childishly watched the camera footage of the vehicle returning to the hamlet after Billy had performed his little prank. Although it was not for the comedy value, he actually wanted to see and mentally measure the people who had been keeping an eye on him.

  Reb led him through a stout wooden door and along a series of hall ways until they came to the office of Staff Sergeant Timon.

  ‘Reb. Didn’t expect to see you here.’ He gave Sam a dirty and annoyed look and then blanked him out.

  ‘We have a small recon job at a farm an hour or so from here. It’s probably nothing more than a Member having an illegal presence on this rock, but its close proximity requires a look. Fancy tagging along? I was going to take Pat, but she’s not available.’

  ‘Ah, I suppose Sam can’t act as your official backup,’ he said with a slight sneer, obviously holding a grudge for Sam throwing him into the cell. ‘Not up to scratch, as they say.’

  ‘Officially Sam is attending as an observer until he has completed his training. He is more than capable of defending himself should the need arise.’

  ‘Ok, but I’m not taking those puny toys Reb. If we get into trouble you’ll be glad of an MPAR. When do we leave?’

  ‘Grab your gear, we’ll bring the Toyota to the exit garage and wait for you there.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emliton watched as Reb and Sam finished off their meal. He sat down with a wary sigh and absentmindedly played with the torc around his neck. He looked at his old rifle hanging under the bar and brushed an imaginary speck of dust off the silvery barrel. No Mineran is ever far from his weapon. It becomes part of your very being. He could no more leave it than he could leave his leg or arm. Lifting it out of the cradle he polished its full length with his bar towel. It still felt natural in his arms after all of these years on inactivity. True, he had to fire it every month to qualify for the mandatory range proficiency, but unlike the majority of his comrades he always chose the harder distance range without the fancy scopes or the barrel extender. Ten shots with perfect accuracy accrued him more points than half an hour on the shorter ranges and enough to qualify. He didn’t even have to try hard. He had gained such proficiency with his MPAR that he could have performed these shots all day with only one arm and riding a unicycle whilst inebriated. He’d never admit to the level of customisation he had performed on the weapon, ranging from altering the weight and balance to suit his arm length, to a plethora of enhancements to increase range, power and accuracy. The MPAR was such a versatile weapon and hardy, even though it was issued for life, it often outlived the owner. This particular rifle was passed down to Emliton by his dying great-great-great-grandfather and it was still in pristine condition. Besides the modifications, a few parts had been replaced over the years but the body was original.

  He still had the original barrel which was still in serviceably condition as payload was propelled via a contactless, friction-free propulsion field. He could, and had, frequently performed accurate long distance shots with the basic weapon setup and he rarely used the sniper barrel extension, as he found it unbalanced and slightly cumbersome. He had secretly replaced it with one that was a fraction longer as the field nodes could produce a tighter riffling effect, adding the extra gyroscopic stability for long-range shots. The rifles on board computer determines and alters the nodes power output depending on the projectile, type of target and its distance.

  He found his hands were field stripping the weapon without him even thinking about it, his muscle memory taking over as he had downtime and a weapon in his hands. “A clean weapon is an efficient weapon” was the mantra that was drilled into him at the academy so many years ago. He learnt how to strip and fire the MPAR even before he needed to shave. With nimble fingers he reassembled the rifle and placed it back under the bar, He hadn’t done his for a long time. Sure, he cleaned it after every range session, but he hadn’t cleaned it without thinking since… well, for a long time.

  He knew why. Even if he was trying to deny it. The winds of change were all around, he could feel them. Taking on Sam to help investigate planet side infractions shouldn’t have caused any ripples, but for some reason it had. His presence had caused a hitherto unknown foe to announce themselves and probably earlier than they had anticipated judging by the ill prepared and prototype soldiers they had encountered. He might only be a barman and brewer these days, but he still kept abreast of the situations going on throughout the Universe. More so now as he had more free time to delve deeper into the archives and perform research. What he had grave suspicions about was slowly bringing him back. He had always put others before himself in the past and core psyche was slowly forcing him out of his self-imposed melancholic reverie. There was more investigating to do, of course, he couldn’t prove anything or even point the finger at any particular race, but there was a pattern forming.

  He felt the band around his neck again. Many thought it was a device he had built to prevent his narcolepsy and those who knew the truth helped to propagate this illusion. It did act in this fashion but he didn’t build it. He was awarded it a long time ago and every time his chin falls upon it, the ice cold sensation it produces awakens him from his nightmares. He doesn’t have narcolepsy, sleep is the last thing he wants. Even when his body is crying out for it. The dreams, the horror of events long gone, the faces of those he couldn’t save. Not this time, not again, he could perceive a pattern, he had to heal. Not now, not at this moment, these thoughts were too new. Tiny glistening speckles of light amongst the darkest thoughts in his head, offering redemption. A chance to be whole again, a purpose. Soon, he thought. Soon!

  Screech would understand. He and Emliton had stood on so many planets back to back facing overwhelming odds, only to come out unscathed. He never could pronounce his name and was frequently reminded that his limited hearing could not back out all the sounds, tones or nuances inflected as it was pronounced. So they called him Screech back then. Only when Emliton had become ill did he also leave the battlefield. He took up medicine and phycology to try and heal his friend. This was something Emliton would never comprehend, but it showed a bond of friendship that he was eternally grateful for. No Preialeiac had ever studied medicine before. If they got hurt they healed themselves or died. The concept of interfering with the natural order of things was alien to them. To study the physiology of alien races in order to heal them was also an abhorrent concept to the Preialeiac. Prior to them turning reclusive, they only studied others to be able to kill them effectively. Doc, as he was known now had never given up on him, realising after many years of study that only time would heal his wounds. That and a new sense of purpose. Is that why he had helped search through the archives and arranged for Emliton to meet and interview some of the wounded as they returned from the front? Did the doctor know, or like himself, did he suspect, or was he humouring Emliton’s secret obsession? No, not that, the doctor was to honest for deception like that. He needed to talk to him soon. Not now though, not just yet.

  He glanced across at the two patrons who were busily eating his BBQ Rib special and jacket potato. He’d known Reb long enough to realise he was stocking up before action. He quickly scanned the current mission roster and intriguingly found nothing for Reb and Sam. Emliton shook his head. It didn’t bode well when you had to keep secrets from your fellow Minerans.

  Both Reb and Sam wore the BEE suit. Sam clearly wasn’t used to wearing his yet as he unconsciously fidgeted within it. For a highly secret and rare piece of equipment, Minera had four suits stationed here. Was this an omen too, a gathering of forces for troubl
ed times ahead?

  The BEE suit doesn’t come with a manual. Each wearer uses it differently from the other, depending on their abilities, experience and largely their dialogue and partnership with the controller. He fondled his torc again. Only the doctor and Captain Sophus knew that it was the dormant BEE suit that he used to wear. Not everything was in the Mineran public domain as Sam had been informed. Even Reb was unaware of Emliton’s full history as he’d burnt out a long time before they met. He hadn’t spoken to TESS for a long time. TESS was his acronym for how he thought of the suit, The ExoSkeleton Suit and what he called his contact. TESS had explained in the early days of his exploratory wearing of the BEE that their race had no concept of gender, but if Emliton preferred to think of it as a she, then he may do so. For some reason he felt better having the suit and life controlled by a female, albeit a voyeuristic one and he would never know privacy again. Reb only scratched the surface of what the suit could do. Minerans were not very inventive and could take things at face value. Being told the suit can do X does not mean it is restricted to X and cannot perform the rest of the alphabet as well. One just had to enquire with one’s controller.

  Emliton had pushed his suit beyond what he thought possible in his last battle. He had fought in depression to die and TESS and the suit had fought to keep him alive. The outer shell resembled hard ceramic for the majority of the time, saving a briefest instant to react to incoming fire compared to Reb’s style of flexible material. TESS adapted it to his fighting style as she used all she had previously learned about his fighting techniques. In close quarter combat he utilised his knife more than he should as the red mist took over. TESS sharpened the ceramic edges as he elbowed and kneed his opponents, razor-shaped edges biting deep and taking huge chunks out of the short-lived enemy. He took the head clean off one soldier with a forearm to the throat. His whole arm had become a living sword. He and Screech were deep behind enemy lines, the city they were in was littered with the fallen populace. Emliton had to tell himself they were children’s dolls scattered about, broken and bloody. Looking back it obviously hadn’t worked as he broke down shortly after.

  The Inchethslar were brutally strong. A new unknown race from beyond the perimeter, their particle ray weapons shredded unshielded flesh off the bone like a hot knife through butter. The Shock Troops, encased within their armour, were immune to such devices and soon racked up a series of quick victories until the enemy replaced their futile armoury with a variety of explosive projectile weapons. They also reinforced them with acid throwers, armour dissolving gas and gels, and for a brief period they used a bizarre vacuum bomb which sucked nearby troops and any loose items, into the epicentre. No one knew what was meant to happen to the troops that were caught in the centre. Whatever the secondary payload was meant to do, the Shock Troops armour provided immunity to it and they simply got up a little embarrassed and ran for cover.

  The Shock Troops had seen all kinds of weapons before and were equipped for such scenarios. It just took longer to clear an area and the body count mounted. That’s where he and Screech came in, deep behind the lines, looking for the head of the beast.

  Two weeks with little rest and even less sustenance he endured. Screech simply ate whomever he killed; apparently normal body fluids didn’t affect him like pure water would. Emliton realised at the beginning of the second week that the suit must be transferring sustenance to him as he was not hungry, thirsty or as tired as he should have been. The blood and flesh of the opponents that inevitably splashed onto his armour was quickly absorbed into the organic material. It simply wasn’t getting enough energy from the few weapons that managed to hit him. He felt godlike, invincible and fought with a masterful savagery and precision that even impressed Screech. However, for every soldier he executed he saw twenty small fragile bodies torn to bits on the floor around him. He fought like a Berserker that couldn’t die when all around him lay death with its cloying, ever-present odour.

  He collapsed as he slew the last warrior in an underground bunker, the head of the preverbal beast. He didn’t consciously notice it at the time but the commander of this invading arming was subtly different from the rest and mostly he was silent as the twelve inch friction free blade eviscerated him. He also hadn’t previously noticed that none of the combatants had uttered a single word. Not that you normally swapped pleasantries as you slew a guy but war cries were frequent, normally along the lines of ‘Die you…’ followed by various profanities about your lineage.

  Later on as he was recovering in hospital on home world Minera, apparently a decorated hero, he learnt that Screech had called in back up. With the intel they found on the command bunker computer systems they soon cleared up the now disorganised foe. It was never discovered how they intended to exit from the planet as no spacefaring transport ships had remained with the vast army, and looking back at it, it was possibly a one way mission from the start. It was also never discovered where they had come from or why they attacked a seemingly insignificant planet full of a highly intelligent, baby-like populace. It was written up, and possibly incorrectly Emliton thought, as an unprovoked territorial invasion. As the expansion of the outer perimeter is an excruciating slow process, that information might not come to light for many generations.

  As Emliton mulled these memories over, he watched Reb and Sam leave silently. They too were enshrouded in their own deep dark thoughts.

  The newly kindled fire within wasn’t burning bright enough to eradicate Emliton’s depressive shadows yet. Thoughts and ideas continued to tumble around and parts of the puzzle would rematerialise from previous research. He didn’t understand how to piece them together yet, but he would if he was given enough time. Each thought fanned the embers of the fire, each one promising to make it roar, each one making him angry.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  They exited into the Minera hamlet via a discreet garage door attached to one of the rear business premises. None of the lorry drivers who saw the vehicle leave, took any notice. Sam looked into the café and saw another young female assisting the matronly Aunt Mae. The lorry drivers all had huge platefuls of steaming food and more than one turned their head as the waitress passed by. Sam didn’t have a watch any more and he realised that he had lost track of both time and date. He gauged that it must be getting close to closing time as the sun was behind the rock face and producing long shadows.

  ‘It serves as a catchment for curious wayfarers and the drivers by giving them a place to loiter while we control their movement. Don’t let Aunt Mae’s friendly persona deceive you, she’s lovely but she is as tough as any of us. There’s a body scanner hidden in the heater above the door and you would be surprised at what some drivers carry.’

  The journey was uneventful with Timon periodically speaking to Reb in another language. Reb ignored this by replying in English or, as he had phrased it previously, bastardised Unilang 1. Besides this, the journey’s silence was only punctuated by the satellite navigation unit describing route directions. Timon sat in the front with Reb driving, having pulled rank over Sam and he pushed the seat as far back as it would go to restrict Sam’s leg room. He simply changed seats to sit behind Reb, which gave him more opportunity to study the only discourteous Mineran he had met.

  They drove past the closed farm gate with its long meandering drive, the roofs of the farm buildings could be seen in the distance, and it all looked quiet and peaceful. Reb had decided to park on a lane two miles behind the farm and walk cross country to the rear for his reconnaissance. They followed a public footpath for the first half a mile and then deviated into a small gulley created by the swift-flowing stream of mountain water. At certain points they had to move within the stream itself as the gully sides became narrow and steep. Sam developed another appreciation for his BEE as the built in boots kept him dry and warm in the chilly water. He didn’t really care how Timon was feeling, the man’s rude demeanour was starting to irritate him now. Humans might not be
to the same intellectual or physical level as the Minerans, but that didn’t give him the right to be bitchy all the time.

  The gulley broke out into wide sections as the now shallow, fast-moving stream caressed the pebbled bed. Reb indicated for them to settle on the gentle grass covered slope. Pulling out a small pair of binoculars he slowly eased his head above the embankment. The long grass this side of the electric fence, out of reach for the bovine in the field, shielded his face from view.

  ‘It’ll be sundown at 6:30. If we wait till dark we can follow the hedge on the left to prevent us from being silhouetted and make our way behind the silage pit towards those old billets. They’re probably just chicken houses now. If we’re careful we should be able scope out the farm from there first.’ He passed the binoculars to Sam. Timon had his own and having seen enough gently squirmed his way down and out of sight, his left hand keeping the MPAR close by and ready to bare at all times.

  ‘Why would aliens, and I mean no offence, need chickens?’ Sam looked at Reb for the answer.

  ‘Bear in mind how difficult it would be to initially get onto this planet without setting off the cordon around your system. It also means they have to be pretty self-sufficient. It makes sense if you’re settling in for the long haul to produce as much as you can yourself. The less interaction you have with the natives, the less chance you have of being exposed.’

  ‘How can they get past the cordon?’

  ‘Well, it’s old and not really a military grade cordon. Initially it was set up to block incoming signals and warn off the odd ship that passed by. There was nothing here in those days and you are in the middle of nowhere. All of the satellites were upgraded at the turn of the century, but as a non-spacefaring planet you have not been annexed because of your current aggression. It’s more political pressure and laws that keep the ISPAW members out, this type of incursion should never have happened.’