by Dark Knight
He envied the humans greatly. Their clients were somehow willing to die for them – without any hesitation whatsoever, and singing songs while walking into their graves! How they could command such blind and unwavering loyalty, was something that his classmates and teachers could not fathom. But Omasa knew. They too were willing to die for them, and in droves they did during Mahimm’s invasion. He’d spent a lot of good decats purchasing the secret holo-files of this, and other battles, censored and hidden from the prying eyes of even the higher-level Fleet commanders. For him, it was painfully evident why the Terrans fought so hard, and why they never flinched before death – it was that disgusting and illogical love they had for one another. Moreover, they reinforced and viciously protected their cultural cohesion and civilization’s values. The more time that had passed with them free, and able to expand, the more their strength would grow, until their cultural influence swept his Empire into the dust, where the failed Galactic star states lay broken and rotting. Taz’ara’s glory would become but a memory echoing through the dead silence of space.
One of the holo-files he’d purchased was recent; some starship navigator who was part of a Slaver crew and suffering from a severe case of PTSD, sold it to him for just few, measly decats. High on dust, the man was snorting his life away, and minutes after Omasa had paid him he was already dead of overdose. Of course he’d spent the money to buy more drugs so Omasa couldn’t get his investment back. He didn’t care that much though, because those decats were well spent.
The battle in question was short and bloody – the Terran colony under attack was tiny, and only a few adults were still alive. Their children were wounded, weak, and disheartened. Then one of those blasted Kil’ra arrived! A full-fledged Terran morale officer, that righteous do-gooder easily motivated and rallied all the colonists, forming an actual fighting force out of that bunch of kids! With awe and disbelief, Omasa watched how the children fought together as one, and survived the three attack waves of professional armed to the teeth slavers.
In the end they even charged the enemy, armed with empty weapons, sticks and stones. That Kil’ra was fighting like nothing he’d ever seen, each movement calculated, measured, each sword strike deadly and precise. He was a skilled shot as well, his aim peerless – the Kil’ra shot nearly half of the slavers, who were all but crawling forward. It was obvious that during the battle he was heavily wounded, the children were hurt and tired beyond measure... but they did not only win, they killed virtually every attacker! The end was as disheartening for him to watch as was the rest of that holo-vid; a group of small Terran clients, with tactical mastery unusual for a race that young, viciously struck from behind the slaver battle lines decimating what was left of their numbers. Even the chief slaver’s exoskeleton assisted battle armor was not enough to help him defeat that abominable Kil’ra, as the deadly vibro-sword neatly chopped his head off. The battle was a glaring example of how overconfidence, and underestimating your opponent would certainly, unequivocally, lead to your doom.
His stomach always felt like a tied up rope after watching those holo-slides and vids. A most peculiar and strange feeling, as he was in top physical shape. Omasa chased away any thoughts of defeat. He was different than the rest of his peers, destined for glory and fame! Where those idiots had failed miserably, he would WIN. The title of border Count would soon be his, if only he can achieve victory against the Terrans! Tirelessly working every station cycle to perfect his plans, Omasa, in typical taz’aran fashion plotted to exchange the ineptly built Pion dropships, that his starship was equipped with. He duped a passing corsair ship’s captain. In exchange of his “brand spanking new” craft, he got some older, pirate made dropships.
The time Omasa spent roaming around the base was not in vain though. He quickly learned of that “Pion lottery” and utilized it to his advantage, rigging it and squeezing out a couple thousand decats even. He also used the whole thing to weed out the idiots hiding among his dropship pilots. And then – another lucky strike! Omasa found that one of them was somehow connected to Nedal; the fool tried to unsuccessfully kill both of his dropship pilots, but that one managed to survive and was all too eager for a payback. In exchange for his loyalty Omasa had promised him revenge. He was to always stay close behind Nedal’s back, ready to strike, should the coward try escaping again. And as for those pirate dropships, they were old, scratched here and there, hulls covered with patches but they flew and most importantly did what they were designed to. Anything was better than those Pion coffins, really.
In preparation for his new flagship’s departure he ordered the engineers’ families executed to prevent any future vendetta’s against him. Then he wiped out all relevant holo-files and quickly disembarked from Pion base. This way, he was the sole captain in the Frontier Navy with an actual, working prototype. All the other captains who followed would most likely either fail, or spend too much of their time in the field trying to fix their ships. Any captain who failed to notice his given starship’s design flaws, was an idiot and deserved to fail. Even die. The competition between taz’aran navy captains for prestige before Fleet command was a ruthless, never ending battle. Not that they didn’t help each other... if it suited them, and was of mutual benefit. Taz’aran Imperial Navy lower command ranks were already overpopulated with all sorts of over ambitious, inept fools, who thought that only because mommy and daddy were big-shots back on Taz’ara prime, they had all the stars in their hands.
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Now, sitting on the command throne of his new and improved warship consumed by thought, Omasa came to a sudden realization. How did the Terrans win against such odds? Preparation! They trained every day, and they trained effing everyone! Terran children were spending time on the shooting range from an early age, and while the taz’aran kids were trying to scam each other out of their pocket change; the humans and their clients were working together. Instead of forming friendships, taz’arans formed rivalries from as early as first grade. Omasa knew that was ingrained in their DNA, and if need be any change would cost his race most dearly. Perhaps there was a need to instruct the youth better, and as he looked around his bridge it became painfully evident to him, that there weren’t, and never will be, any true friends that he could find among his peers. Supportive rivals mayhap, but nobody who would walk into the fire for him – not one genuine helping hand. His ship’s XO glanced at him with an ill concealed gaze, full of malice and seething hatred. It was clear to him from the start, that this man had a dagger behind his back with his name engraved on it. He was truly alone, but that did not scare him nonetheless – this was the taz’aran way of command. Omasa was ready to twist and turn each and every one of them against themselves, and each other, so that HE would succeed in the end!
Gripping the arm support of his throne, Omasa again carefully examined all of the scan data-streams, displayed one after another on the main viewing holo. The debris field spanned a couple thousands klicks in diameter, and to any apt commanding officer was worth more than the decats that those slagged hulks were to be appraised of. He smiled and began slowly formulating a plan in his head. First, he would lay in wait here, leaving his dropships and other small craft to prepare multiple ambush positions, and then send the space mecha squadron to occupy those spots. Deploying mobile turrets at the obvious choke points naturally created by the debris, ’Empress Throne’ would then move and rearrange the bigger pieces, forging dependable cover to shield herself from long range weapons fire. He would also make use of his new ordinance; the torpedoes could be armed and launched not only during the heat of battle. Omasa raised his gloved hand and the whole bridge instantly went silent:
“This place, this graveyard will be where I will forge OUR triumph! There will be glory here, plentiful, and more than enough for all, if only you would follow my orders to the letter, faithfully, and without fail!”
Omasa looked at his XO and squinted his eyes, n
odding at him slightly, indicating who the following words were addressed at:
“Some of you think that the Terrans cannot be beaten, nor outsmarted! I assure you, soon you will discover that the very opposite is actually true! A chance for all of you who were part of a failed crew or a destroyed ship – this is the time to fashion your revenge against the Terrans!”
Omasa lowered his hand and began quickly issuing one order after another, noting that the air of mild confusion, so prevalent since they left Pion base, was slowly being replaced with elation. There was a gleam in most of the young officers’ eyes and he allowed himself a hidden smile. Taz’arans could be well motivated too, albeit their ultimate goals and fancies lay elsewhere. If only he could find and recruit for his retinue a follower of the Throne! He was a good orator and could probably inspire his troopers better than the average officer, but a Throne Voice would fare better than him. Imperial Throne regiments had in their service dozens of those skilled war psychologists, and were often motivated to such a degree that they fought perhaps as bravely as the Terrans.
Omasa knew that the Voices were credited with victories and feats, impossible for the lower force-conscripted ranks, and as such they had a certain aura of allure amongst the troops. The young Lord Captain saw one of them in action during his time in the Academy – the woman was full of unflinching belief in ultimate taz’aran victory. Her gaze was emanating fanatical zeal to such a degree, that he flinched for the first time in his life after looking at somebody’s else’s eyes. He chased away the memories and concentrated on the here and now. Three pirate armor clad figures of Clan star marines were standing right behind his command throne. With open faceplates those hardened space warriors were calmly gripping their rifles, throwing intimidating, heavy looks at anyone who even accidentally moved their hand close to a weapon. The Lord Captain felt almost safe with those three protecting him, those highly paid warriors were mercenaries – although a loyalty paid was not a loyalty earned. He aimed to have theirs someday in the future.
“Commander Vala!” – Omasa called for his pirate mercenary Star marine leader – “I want you to take your warriors, board the dropships and hide there,” – he pinpointed some coordinates, a group of medium sized debris at the very center of the field – “wait for my coded transmission and be prepared for a boarding Op! Whatever forces the Terrans should send here, I need you to get inside their flagship. Since you’ve had the pleasure to both engage the colonials and defeat them, I will leave the decision to you; either you capture the vessel, or sabotage it.”
Vala, was probably not the most articulated pirate in existence, but she and her marines could fight. Not once, but thrice her troops had defeated the colonials and looted their weapons and equipment! She nodded complying with her orders and whispered on Omasa’s personal link after sliding down her faceplate:
“Lord Captain, rest assured that our skills are well worth every single decat. If we meet with heavy resistance, my warriors and I know what to do. I only ask that you let them keep their captives for themselves; they need to have their fun and games after battle you know.”
“You can have every single one of them for all I care commander!”
Quickly walking away from the command throne and entering the lift, the alien woman noted the satisfied, calm facial expression of her new Boss. Vala was using the link between her and the two warriors, whom she left behind with strict orders to guard him with their very lives. Vala was a Clanner, a true pirate of the Fringe; she knew that good, generously paying employers were hard to find, and even harder to keep alive. Somehow they had the tendency to die the most sudden of deaths, and she was beginning to wonder. Perhaps they needed yet another Telepathic screening, just to be on the safe side. She and her Star marines needed to know that their ranks weren’t compromised by the enemy – even a couple of Terran agents were more than enough to cause massive casualties and effectively ruin their cozy arrangement with the taz’arans. That had to wait though – ’Empress Throne’ had no telepaths on board but she expected that soon, Lord Captain Omasa would rectify this.
Reaching the main hangar, her bulky, two meter tall figure slipped past some taz’aran space troopers. The pitiful cowards almost kissed the bulkheads jumping out of her way in a panic. She ignored them and started shouting orders at her boarding crews instead; Vala had no time to spare dealing with the common rabble. Never mind the fact that someday soon she had to fight beside them. The very thought made her consider another way of dealing with wimpy troopers such as them – her clanmates could arrange for some random “accidents” to occur. Starship hangars were a dangerous environment; sometimes containers fell on top of people crushing them to death, shuttle engines malfunctioned activating by themselves, burning the careless to a crisp. This way she could weed out the worst of the lot, putting her in control of what the overall quality of taz’aran ship troopers was. Facing the Terrans in combat was a job that her warriors were capable of, and she did not need cowardly soldiers shitting their spacesuits, ready to break and run away at the first sight of a Gorilla, or Space forbid a wave of those accursed hamsters...
Vala’s heavy spacesuit was of her own Clan’s design, as were the ones that her crews used. Only their weapons, exoskeletons and armor plating was looted from the Terran Colonial Militia. Instead of returning to her Clan, the “Aleska”, Star boss Vala chose to use the loot in battle, a choice that was well accepted by her clanmates. Pirates, true pirates, valued boldness and enterprise in their leaders, otherwise those wouldn’t be in command for long. Compared to lowly criminals and the pitiful druggies, big pirate clans accepted only the very best of warriors. Ruthless fighters, willing to do anything and everything needed to achieve victory. For them, everything was a commodity, even other sentient creatures lives. If those could be taken alive and unspoiled, then their freedom was theirs to take. Afterward the capturing Clan pirates did whatever they wanted with their captives. If there was money to be made, they did sell them into slavery, either to the Cartels, or others. A common misconception among the ill educated was that all pirates were slavers. That was in fact untrue. Vala often fondly remembered the stupefied look on some alien face before she spaced them; the fools often thought their pathetic lives would be spared because they were “valuable”.
Clanners were a pragmatic bunch, and if they could afford taking prisoners – they did so. More times than she could count, their starships were operating on over-tasked life support. A pirate vessel’s purpose is to capture other ships, therefore the starship would be modified to carry trice the normal crew complement for her size. Dedicated slavers were a pirate breed of their own however, and even though they did belong to a Clan, they weren’t that high in the Hierarchy. A true pirate, a Clanner, lived to achieve total and overwhelming space superiority for their Lord! Capturing another starship through boarding was considered a feat, and so too were successful planetary invasions. All Clans, everywhere, and especially those who prowled Fringe space close to Imperial borders, reviled the Terrans for their defiance. Moreover, they dared infringe upon sacred Clan territory! In their arrogance, the humans considered themselves equal to the Space chosen Clanners, while in fact they were but a resource, a prize to conquer and fight over.
While she barked orders to her clanmates from behind her faceplate, Vala counted the warriors, each full of anticipation and anger. The same anger she shared with all of them, aimed towards the most reviled Terrans and their clients who dared to end the life of Illustrious Lord Mahhim. Their armored suits, vibro-weapons and rifles were covered with notches, each counting dead humans or one of their clients. Jumping inside the dropship she grasped her looted laser rifle – now overcharged and tweaked in any way possible, that weapon would soon carry her name among the Stars – “Vala, Bane of Terrans!”
Chapter 2
Dancing snails
Starshatter was safely resting, docked beside many other a spaceship of different sizes and shapes. Bristling with weapons and covere
d with a new, fresh coat of space paint, the ship looked amazing. Anit’za had ordered a new decal to be painted on its bow. Being a dzenta’rii, he had a keen sense for all things artistic and quickly found an aspiring human artist called Craytabelle – soon after she created an excellent piece of holo-art for their ship. It was a glowing blue star in the center; besides which stood a scantily clad red haired girl, smiling and holding a raised warhammer. Below the decal there was the name of his ship “Starshatter” painted in one of the Earth languages, English. Her crew soon exited the nearest mag-lift transport followed by their new companions, who had decided to join them out of necessity – at least for a short while. Whatever they’d thought now, Anit’za was sure of his force of personally – they all would be his to command for far longer than a mere, small trip.
The Plan was definitely taking shape in his mind and again after so many days, Anit’za felt invigorated. With companions such as these, no task was insurmountable, no obstructions too great to overcome. During this short mission and the days ahead, the witty Dzenta’rii craftily weaved his little plot to make his existing crew members befriend the newcomers. After all, what was the best way of making so many, and different personalities cohabitate? Why, the all mighty bond of friendship of course! Tried and tested under fire. And there will be fire, Anit’za was sure of it, because he now knew the taz’arans well. If they lost something, the sods always returned and in even greater numbers than before. Or was it smaller numbers but of greater quality? He had to read about it again in one of those old alien books that his android butler Jovos sneakily hid in the suitcases before his escape from home.