The air was harsh and scrapped down Mor-oik’s throat as he forced his legs to move, one in front of the other. The loose earth did not help, offering his feet little more support than sand. What little vegetation there was did not reinforce the soil in any way, instead draining what little life it had left, leaving it washed out and colorless. The wind blew hard, pushing a cloud of dust before it, straight into Mor-oik’s nose and eyes.
He pulled his elbow across his mouth and nose, shutting his eyes as far he could and still see, blocking the worst of the dust. The wind dissipated, but it would not be gone for long. Here on Aldron 5, the wind was always blowing. The plain did not offer much in the way of shade, or shelter of any kind from the blazing sun. There was no water to be seen, and the only change in scenery was an outcropping of mountains in the distance. That was where Mor-oik was headed.
It was part of his training. A Swrun soldier was expected to possess the skills needed to survive in the most hostile environments, and on their own, if need be. Well, the Wastes on Aldron 5 were a good place to learn those. The planet was one of the more inhospitable in the galaxy, completely devoid of life above basic plant level and small animals. That made it a prime candidate for a Swrun training camp. No one to interfere with the training and nowhere for the recruits to run.
When a recruit reached a certain point in his training, when the Drill Sergeant deemed him ready, they were sent out into the Wastes with little more than the clothes on their back and a simple pack. If they survived, they would graduate from Basic and continue into Advanced Training.
Mor-oik had not been deemed ready. He had been sent out to die. Kri-lul fully expected him to die out here. Mor-oik could still see the Sergeant’s face, purple with rage after Mor-oik’s last fuck up. “You call yourself SWRUN, Tuskless? You are not fit to be called SLAVE! I would beat you to death with my bare hands, but I find I do not want to expend the effort! In fact, I find I do not ever want to expend any effort towards you ever again! You will face the Wastes tomorrow. I will allow them to take you off my hands! Consider yourself lucky, Tuskless. Should you survive, I may consider your status as a living being. Survive, and you get a second chance.”
Mor-oik was going to survive. He may be weak and physically undersized compared to the rest of the Swrun, but he refused to die out here, in the middle of nowhere, for no better reason than a Drill Sergeant hated him. A dust cloud appeared in the distance, approaching fast. Mor-oik stopped walking and knelt in the dirt, digging through his pack. Finding his spare shirt, he pulled his knife from his belt and cut a wide strip from the bottom of the shirt. It was warm enough in the Wastes that he would not need it.
Twisting the ends of the strip into thick ropes, Mor-oik placed the wide cloth across his face, covering from his eyes to his chin. Tying the ends behind his head, Mor-oik resealed his pack and stood. The cloth was thin enough to see through, even if just barely, but thick enough to block most of the dust. It was just what he needed. Now the dust did not bother him and he did not need to squint and breathe through his arm.
Mor-oik was not strong, or big, or fast, but he would survive. He always did. When his house had gone up in flames when he was a boy, killing his parents and sister, he managed to survive by crawling through the burning hallway with his older brother. The fire had left Mor-oik with a fire-scarred right leg and a lifetime of trauma. He got over it.
When he was caught in the crossfire between the Watch and several criminals, he had been shot in the chest with a plasma bolt. He got over it.
When his personal transport vehicle had malfunctioned and had collided with the guardrail, he had been in a coma for six months. He got over it.
Mor-oik had been drafted into the Swrun Military, placed in boot camp on one of the most dangerous planets in the galaxy, beaten near to death multiple times, had his tusk sawn off, and was now trekking across the Wastes, where he was expected to die. He would get over it.
He could not change the fact that he was small, or weak, but he could refuse to be beaten down. Mor-oik might not be able to outrun, outfight, or outthink any of the other soldiers, but he could outlast them. His grandfather had always said that was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, that Mor-oik was just too damn stubborn for his own good.
The mountains grew closer and the suns climbed higher as Mor-oik made his way across the Wastes, the wind still howling in his ears and dust blowing in his face. He just had to make it to the mountains and he would be out of the worst of it. There would be shelter, water, and sustenance. There was water and nutrition pellets in his pack, but they would not last forever. He just had to make it to the mountains.
Really, this wasn’t so bad. There were no pointless drills, or mock battles, or any of the hundred other demeaning and punishing tasks the recruits were forced to go through. Here, Mor-oik could travel by himself, set his own pace, and enjoy the time alone. Back at the camp, some hundred miles to the east, there was no escape from the other recruits and the endless rules and regulations.
The ground lifted in a narrow row some ten feet in front of Mor-oik and he stopped abruptly, nearly falling over as his momentum attacked his balance. Slowly kneeling, Mor-oik pulled his boot off and laid his pack to the side. He might need speed and the pack would only slow him down.
He half-stood in a low crouch and carefully made his way to the raised dirt. The raised dirt could only mean one thing, out here in the Wastes. It was a Riau, a small mammal that burrowed under the dirt in search of food and shelter. They spent their whole lives down there, rarely, if ever surfacing. They also made a good meal. The trick to catching them was waiting till they were close to the surface then smashing in their tunnel and grabbing them before they could get away.
Lifting his boot above his head, Mor-oik prepared to break open the Riau’s tunnel. He was interrupted by the strangest sound he had ever heard in his life. It started as a dull roar that morphed into a shrill whistle followed by a solid boom. Glancing around for the source of that unnatural noise, Mor-oik was blinded by a flash of light. Immediately after the flash, there was a earth shattering crash and Mor-oik was knocked from his feet by the force of the shockwave.
Landing on his side, it took him a moment to gather his breath. When he managed to finally fill his lungs with air, he pushed himself up, looking for the cause of the shockwave. What he saw was about the furthest thing from what he had expected. Lying there in the dirt was a ship. A Swrun scoutship, if he was not mistaken, but he could not see where it had come from. It had not been flying overhead, he would have seen it. Ships didn’t just magically appear, so this one had to have come from somewhere.
As he watched, he could see the hull glow with residual heat, turning the metal a dull red, like that of a coal. What had the ship been through to cause it to overwhelm its heat shields? Mor-oik shrugged and moved cautiously over towards the ship, curious but aware that something could be terribly wrong. He could see that the ship had not impacted the dirt with any excessive amount of force, because the dirt was still relatively smooth under the ship, bowed only by the weight.
If the ship had fallen from any greater height or had been driven down into the dirt, there would have been a crater, as the dirt was loose and weak. But the ship seemed to have just touched down lightly on the dirt, unharmed. Mor-oik could see the airlock door in front of him and he reached out hesitantly, tapping on the handle. It was warm to the touch but not burning. Glancing above the door, Mor-oik saw that this ship’s designation was GS-494, or Galactic Scout of the Fourth Fleet, 94th ship. That also gave him the passcode for the airlock, 49449. It was simple, but efficient.
The door slid open, releasing a blast of hot air that smelled worse than the time Mor-oik had left his boots out in the wet season for three weeks. Coughing and trying not to breathe through his snout, Mor-oik walked into the ship, fully understanding that this was potentially a very bad idea. The door from the airlock into the ship was uncoded and he just walked in.
The scout ship was of simple design, a cockpit, transport area, and an airlock with not much else other than an engine and a few weapons. Mor-oik made his way into the transport area and was greeted with a disturbing sight. The interior of the ship was covered in gore. Dried blood and bits for flesh stuck to the walls and ceiling. Against the wall was piled the remains of whatever had caused this horror. Without close inspection, Mor-oik thought it looked like it had once been a four limbed creature, with the right proportions for one of the intelligent races.
In three of the seats were strapped more bodies. These were in considerably better condition, with little to no damage visible. They were dead though, Mor-oik thought, judging by the lack of breathing and the ragdoll appearance. The bodies were not Swrun, as he had expected, this being a Swrun vessel, and so they must have been prisoners or slaves.
Walking quickly past the bodies, he made his way to the cockpit, separated from the transport area only by a simple doorway without a door. Here, he could see two pilots strapped into the chairs, slumped over the controls. But neither of these was Swrun either. That surprised Mor-oik. No one flew Swrun vessels unless they were a Swrun. One because the rest of the galaxy tended to hate the Swrun and two, the Empire would blast them out of existence if they were found out.
Looking closely at the body on the right, he could see it was a Guen, with a strange shimmering suit and an odd twisting tattoo on his cheek. Mor-oik did not recognize the crest of the tattoo, but he did know enough to know it was a crest. Other than that, there was no means of identifying the allegiance of the body, if it had one. It was entirely possible they were pirates or escaped slaves.
Glancing over at the other pilot, this one a female j’Kuine with tufted curled ears, Mor-oik could see what was clearly an emblem emblazoned on the front of her uniform, made of plain material, unlike the Guen’s. But it was obscured by the angle of her head and so Mor-oik reached out and pushed her body into an upright position so he could see it. When he did so, she shifted and groaned.
The sudden noise sent Mor-oik falling on to his back, heart pounding from the surprise. Not only was she alive, but the broken circle intersected by a lightning bolt meant she was a member of the Rebellion! He almost laughed then, at the humor of his situation. He had wanted to desert the Swrun army to find the Rebellion, and here they had come to him. Now, all he had to do was convince them that he wasn’t an enemy.
Bor My sat in the belly of Black Beauty and gripped his weapon tightly. The rest of the Bandits were either sitting by themselves or in small groups. They were in warp, heading to Kuehr to kill General Ral-dak. Which in itself would not be a hard thing, but there were also going to be several thousand Swrun army recruits in the vicinity. Not to mention the General’s guards.
“I bid you men, lend me thine ears!” Bor looked up. Heras stood in the doorway, his gun hooked over his back and a sword strapped to his side. The Fnera had a funny way of speaking, a distinct dialect from his homeworld of Ye’Olde.
“Though the perils before us doth be great, and the enemy strong beyond count, I have naught but the highest hopes of victory in our endeavor and methinks in our-” He fell silent as Louth, the large Ghurk, laid a hand on his shoulder. Bor got the distinct impression that while the two of them did not hate each other, neither were they friends. They fought together, and that was a special bond all its own, but they were not friends outside of the battlefield.
“What he is trying to say is that we will be arriving in an hour. Be ready.” The Ghurk had a strangely high voice for such a large body, but it was not humorous coming from a being who looked like he could snap you in half by looking at you. And he wasn’t even the most dangerous one on the team.
That honor fell to either Tedix Jaku or Clint Stone. Both were enormous monstrosities, towering over everyone else, and covered in muscles that Bor didn’t even knew existed. And they were wicked fast. Bor had sparred with the Captain and he had never seen anyone move that fast or smoothly. Bor was considered an exceptional fighter by most standards, hence his assignment to the Bandits, but fighting the Captain was a lesson in humility. And the Lieutenant was only slightly less skilled in the art of close combat and perhaps better in the art of ranged combat.
Both were terrifying, each in their own way. The Captain had that metal arm of his, and such an intensity about him. There was that something lurking in the back of his eyes. Bor did not ever want to know what that something was. The Lieutenant was not much better. He was a Jahen, a race famed for their cowardice and deep aversion to fighting. But not the Lieutenant.
He was perhaps one of the greatest fighters in the galaxy, able to take on almost anything. And he was a giant, compared to almost everyone else, when Jahen were usually small and weak. The combination of size and ferocity, coming from someone who should have been small and weak, was very scary. His nickname, the Jahen who fights, was a reflection of how strange the rest of the galaxy truly found him.
But none of this things mattered to Bor or the Rebels. Really, to anyone who did not fight them. To their allies, Clint and Tedix were guardian angels, protectors of the weak, the strong wall to shelter behind. They did not let anything stand between them and justice, fighting, if the tales were to be believed, a thousand Swrun, behemoth lizards, shiploads of Irgh, and a hundred other dangerous and foul things. Bor knew he would follow either of them to his doom, if he knew that they would succeed. And they would. The Strong Wall fought to the end and was victorious.
“Excuse me.” A voice interrupted Bor’s train of thought and he looked up to see Kor’keq, one of the seven original Bandits, standing next to him. Seeing that Bor had seen him, the Kantim seated himself in the spot next to Bor.
“I could not help but notice your last name when I called roll. Are you by chance related to Colr My, of Hyet?”
Bor nodded. “He’s my cousin. How do you know him?”
Kor’keq shrugged. “My sister is married to him.”
“Really?” Bor asked, not really interested, but continuing the conversation for something to do. Bor didn’t really like Colr, and hadn’t seen him for almost a decade. “That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Kor’keq. He paused, evidently looking for something to say. “That makes you…Kiwn’s son, right?”
Bor nodded. Kor’keq smiled. “How did the son of a wealthy merchant end up an elite soldier in the Rebellion? Surely your father didn’t push you into it.”
Bor thought about it for a moment, considering if he had to give the full story or just a “because”. He decided and said, “I was the youngest of four boys. I wasn’t going to get anything from Dad, nor did I want anything to do with the business. I didn’t find shops and produce all that interesting, and I wasn’t very good at numbers. I thought I still needed to make something of myself, so about ten years ago I joined the Rebellion and worked my way through till I got here. Turns out I’m pretty good at fighting, though.”
“Hmm. That is an interesting story. Better than mine, anyway.” Kor’keq paused, clearly waiting for Bor to ask him why he joined the Rebellion. Bor obliged him.
“So what’s your story?”
“It’s not very interesting. My dad was in the Kantimar Army, back when there was an army, during the Kantimar War. I was only a kid back then, around eight. We lost the war, obviously, but Skuar wanted to keep fighting, so my dad went with him. When they found New Cathun City, my mother, my siblings, and I all moved in too. When I was old enough, I joined up with my brother, figuring it was the family business at that point. Been fighting for about eight years now.”
“Where’s your brother? You said he joined up too?” Bor asked. Kor’keq’s face turned down for the briefest moment before returning to its original upbeat expression.
“He’s…buried back on Aldemere. First battle we ever fought in, if you can call a raid a battle, he took a bolt to the chest and, well, that was it.” His voice had not changed during that admission, remaining smooth and even. The Kantim’s expression grew thoughtful. “I think that was about the time I really discovered my passion for turning Swrun into corpses. It’s just so damn satisfying, you know?”
Bor nodded, slightly concerned for the mental health of his companion, but was spared from any more conversation when Heras spoke again from the doorway.
“Stand fast, my comrades, for soon we shall descend unto the Devil’s den and face him in all his splendor. Verily, tales shall be sung of this day, and hymns written for the ages. Grip thine weapons close and prepare for the glory of combat.”
Louth stepped up next to him. “We land in ten minutes. Be ready.”
Jaein marched down the hall, her steps determined and measured. She presented a cool and collected outer appearance, but inside, she was anything but. She was busy constructing a defense for Clint, to use in the trial, of which she did not still fully understand the purpose. Jaein didn’t have all of the facts, which she would get when she talked to Clint, which was where she was going now, but she felt it was best to have something prepared.
She had never been to this area of the Rebel Base before. It was the deepest level of the base, some two hundred feet down from the hangar. Still, the City was another eighteen hundred feet down, and the Undercity was further under that, so she wasn’t that deep. It just felt like it. Here, the corridors were rough and unfinished, the stone a variety of dark colors instead of the usual smooth, polished gray. The walls seemed heavier here, thicker, but under greater strain. The stone seemed to be bowed under some great weight, ready to crack. She had checked, in a moment of paranoia, and found the walls straight and rigid.
This corridor was the only one that went down this far, making it easy to defend and guard. At the end was a collection of readymade cells and rooms that the Rebellion used as a jail, made by whoever had made this place. Jaein did not linger on that thought too long. She had once before tried to discover who that had been, but her search had been fruitless, giving her none of the answers she sought. Nothing but a single line, found carved behind a statue in the park in a language she couldn’t decipher. It was the same language as the markings in the tunnels, and so she could be reasonably sure it was from the builders of this vast complex.
The corridor narrowed, now only wide enough to allow two beings to walk abreast, assuming they were not Irgh. Or Clint Stone. Jaein wondered how it must have looked, the guards guiding Clint down here. They would have been forced to walk one behind and one ahead, in order to preserve regulations. She wondered how they had chosen who went first. Not that Clint would have hurt them, but it was likely the guards didn’t know that.
The corridor terminated, the way barred by a massive stonemetal construction that formed a door and window. It was the first of three checkpoints before you reached the jail. Whoever had built this place was serious about their security. At the moment, the stonemetal door was closed but unbarred and several guards could be seen lounging in the room behind the window, the cover of which was made of a curious material that Jaein had never seen before. It was clear, like glass, but it had a strange shimmering about it, floating just off the surface of the material.
With a squeal, a slot in the door opened at eye level and a voice issued forth. “State your name and business.”
Drawing herself up to her full five foot height, Jaein replied, “I am the Lady Night and I am here to speak with one of the prisoners.”
“The Lady Night, is it? Never heard of y-…Wait, Cerberus’ daughter?” The voice, which before had sounded bored and uninterested, grew slightly worried. Jaein sighed. She hated using her father’s name for anything other than to curse him. It made her seem dependent on him, and she was anything but. She did have to admit, albeit grudgingly, that being known as his daughter did help her in several situations when nothing else had. She still didn’t like it.
“Yes. I am his daughter.” In name only.
There was a muffled conversation behind the door, evidently between the guard and his superior or squadmate. From the bits she was able to pick out, they were debating on whether or not her being the daughter of the guy who gave the Rebellion all of the financial support it needed, and therefore their paychecks, was sufficient cause to open the gate. Evidently it was, because soon a series of clangs and rattling came from the gate and it rose high into the ceiling, revealing the corridor beyond.
A guardsman came out, a rather small Bonasi with a rather large nose, and stood before her, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Lifting a device that Jaein assumed scanned for weapons or explosives, he held it in front of her, moving from her head down to her toes before returning to her head. It must have showed nothing important, because the guard nodded and motioned with his hand back through the gate.
“Right this way, Lady Night.” She thanked him and walked through. He followed, keeping even with her.
“I do apologize for the wait, but orders are orders and no one gets though the gate without good reason. Security must be maintained.” The Banasi rubbed his hands together as he said that, his nose twitching in time with his dull red crest, and glanced nervously up at Jaein, who was a good head taller than he was. He was clearly worried she would be displeased and report that to her father.
“I understand,” she said to ease his nerves. “There is nothing to apologize for, Soldier…?”
Jaein paused, giving him time to tell her his name without her asking. She didn’t like asking for things.
“Maryn, ma’am, Corporal Maryn.” He visibly relaxed when she told him there was no reason to worry. He seemed a high strung fellow.
“Lady Night will do fine, thank you Corporal.”
“Of course, Lady Night.”
They continued in silence for a few more yards, then Jaein looked down at the corporal and asked, “I’m sure I can find the way myself. There is no need for you to follow me all the way there.”