Ave, peoples!

Below is the beginning of a random short story project I imagined recently. There isn’t much I need to say about it, except that it’s subject to change and currently unrelated to any other of my former, present, or future works. (Note: There is slight profanity in it, and you will see more in Pt.2, thus why I’m placing this short story in “Restricted”. Just a quick warning here.)

Basically, I wanted to put something out there I was comfortable sharing, to show that I’m still writing! 🙂

 

 

Observer sat placidly on his work stool, crafting a sculpture of solidified cerulean light utilizing a simplistic carving nail and hammer from a block of the material six feet high and two feet in diameter. The Hardlight glowed faintly and white filaments inhabited its mass.

Its shaper turned the nail in his six-fingered, ghost-pale hand to the correct angle for his next cut, and impacted the peg’s rear with a deliberate hammer blow; a thin shard, separated from its body, flew from the to-be sculpture and fell to the ground by Observers feet. Weakened, it struck the ground and shattered like feeble glass.

Observer cut again, and again, every blow perfectly executed. The carving took shape. A towering spire of immaculate design, characterized by smaller barbicans jutting from its slating sides, windows, balconies, and grooves etched from its base to pinnacle. After a spell, he stepped back to inspect his work, and found it pleasing. ‘Two billion, seven fifty six million, one hundred four one thousand, nine three eight hundred.’ Noted the craftsman.

Time had no basis with Observer, but he could have estimated the carving of this creation consumed a mere four hours. He retired his nail and hammer to their resting places in the stool’s compartments, and looked about him to refresh himself.

His surroundings comprised a white environ of great expanse; there existed no skyline, only an atmosphere of eternal pure-white. Observer called it his “work habitation”; one of three sections in his semi-pocket dimension hidden in the universe.

‘That should do for the moment.’ He decided, referring to his latest creation. Following this decision, he walked to the right and set both feet on an invisible trigger. A square of ground before him separated into equally-sized steps as thin and flat as blades that formed a straight, descending staircase. Observer went down these steps to a chamber forty feet below the “work habitation”.

The chamber was dedicated to a multifarious collection of every sculpture and construct the craftsman had ever made. Every imaginable shade of Hardlight material illuminated the chamber halls. As Observer continued forth, he glanced indifferently at his reflection in one of the many glass windows that encased the carvings.

He was lanky, with long arms and gangly legs, six fingers and six toes on each hand and foot. His skin was ghostly white and had the texture of sandpaper. His face, like that of a human, held black and green eyes, and a mouth which was never opened. He possessed no hair, and wore a simple robe of the selfsame white as most else in his dwelling.

Observer did not tarry long in the Collection Chamber, walking along a forward row of sculptures to a nameless door on the far end. He touched its surface with three fingers and it promptly dissipated to nothingness. He entered the zone beyond. Once he was in, the door reappeared, barring the entrance once more.

He now stood on the plateau overlooking an immeasurable ocean several dozen feet below. Behind him, the great expanse of white dominated, but for a small crystalline device three meters from the plateaus end. This “device” was the Deathsum; it retained the arcane ability to sense all sentient life in the universe. Whenever a being perished, when life’s withdrawal seized them, the Deathsum released a droplet of water from a miniscule spout that then fell into a small basin. From the basin, the droplets were diverted along a groove in the ground running from it to the plateaus end, where they plummeted down to assimilate with the incalculable ocean. Presently, it dripped consistently, though not quite a stream.

Observer managed the Deathsum, and had witnessed for a time so vast he could not recall its full length, the water droplets that solemnly represented every death wrought in the wayward universe…

 

* * *

“If this doesn’t count as an obstruction of general maintenance code,” mumbled Creain Crosspiece, “than I could get away with murder.”

He stared, infuriated, at the remnants of his Entrant H.A.-Ver.55 Mech, which was now a heap of heat-blackened metal armor, weaponry, and sophisticated components. Creain had piloted the once-proud war machine in the 7th Altercations Skirmish three days ago; the battle was fought in and around a canyon on Destitute (a partly terraformed moon orbiting the inhabitable planet Ezinth) and transpired over a grueling period of approximately two weeks from 22:00 hours on April 19^th to 6:00 Hours on May 3^rd (Earth time). Creain had been given orders to position his mech on the edge of the canyon and rain explosive hell on the enemy below. Two other Entrant H.A.-class mechs had accompanied him, and for the better part of the first week they carried out their task without major incident.

Then, the opposition got privy to the Heavy Artillery units pertinence to the decimation of their forces, and sent A.L. Hybrid Pernix Mechs to dispatch them. The Pernix Mechs were several fractions smaller than the Entrant H.A.-class war machines, and what was more, Creain and his companions had their vehicles in “Emplacement” mode; thus, the team of twelve Pernix-class Mechs overwhelmed them. Even with the perimeter defense capabilities active, the opposition utilized their superior speed and agility to wreck the Heavy Artillery units. Marx’s, one of the two other Mech Pilots, had sustained enough damage his Mech’s core had nearly gone critical and he was ultimately killed. The second pilot, Sevent, escaped to fight another day just like Creain had, but also just like Creain, his Entrant was a mess of scrap.

After the end of the two weeks, Creain’s people—the New Allied Humans (N.A.H.)—had stepped from the smoke of battle victorious. Sinew Canyon, as it was called, belonged to N.A.H. forces now.

Creain’s wrecked Entrant underwent transport from its destruction site to the Mech Bay on the N.A.H. Land Invasion Transporter Mother of Operations IV. The L.I.T.’s, an odd acronym, as military abbreviations tendency is, were mobile operations platforms of formidable size. They carried troopers, armaments, ammunition, supplies, and vehicles from Command Cruisers in the atmosphere and transported them planet-side. L.I.T.’s can either land on the given planet’s surface, or can suspend themselves midair wherever is possible; the platforms themselves were intimidating movable fortresses with personal defense and offense capabilities, and were utilized as in-field Command Centers. Some L.I.T. even had I.C.B.M. Launch Capabilities.

Now, as Creain stood aboard the Mother of Operations IV inspecting his ruined war machine from a scaffold, someone shouted up at him.

“Hey, Crosspiece!” Creain turned his attention to a lone man on the bay floor below, who promptly waved his arms to further beckon the distressed Mech Pilot.

Creain strolled down to floor level, and was greeted by the upbeat persona of J. Gerrisan, Tactical Strike Pilot of a K.Z.R.-98 Jet. Gerrisan typically used Frag-ballistics missiles as his payload; strafing the enemy side of the combat zone with exploding, napalm-packed shrapnel was a hallmark he made whenever cleared for a bombardment run. Moreso he was ordered in for Tactical Strikes, as was his designation, but salvo runs had always been his true style. Creain would have sworn he was a hyperactive killing machine when immersed in the adrenaline of combat, judging by his flight techniques, maniacal stunts, and average kill rate; and who would be the wiser on that subject? They were lifelong friends, after all.

“Creain! It’s good to see you in one piece!” the Jet Pilot said enthusiastically, having met his friend at the scaffold’s bottom. “Can’t say the same for your machine there, though.”

“Thank you, Jirrn. I would’ve never come up with that diagnostic.” Creain returned irritably, using his friend’s first, rarely-mentioned name. Almost everyone referred to him as “Gerrisan”, minus Creain, a Gunship Pilot both knew as a friend, and occasionally their superiors.

Gerrisan frowned. “Your sarcasm is blatantly obvious, friend.”

“Well, what of it?” returned Creain.

“Come on, your machine got busted—I get that. But lighten up, man! We took the Canyon!” Gerrisan threw up his arms to emphasize the excitement. “Those bastards will have to leave Destitute if we keep this up! After the 8^th or 9^th Altercations Skirmish, the statistics say we will hold the entire rock.”

The Mech Pilot grunted. “The statistics have been wrong before.” He noted begrudgingly.

“Yes… but we’ve been gathering data for weeks. How likely is it—”

“Very likely.”

Gerrisan crossed his arms and sighed. “You are never optimistic, Creain.”

“It’s a war, Jirrn; don’t expect anything to have changed.”

“Specifically, your attitude or the lives we’ve lost?”

“What?”

“Or maybe even the growing conflictions back on Earth, eh? The innocents massacred?” Gerrisan said, his emotions mounting. “And dare I say it—the plague. What about all that?”

“Jirrn…” Creain began, realizing he may have gone too far with his last comment. J. Gerrisan’s persona was inherently upbeat, but it wasn’t as though he couldn’t be a serious man.

“Things have changed, Creain, and a whole lot of them. One blasted Mech,” he pointed a reproving finger at the ruined Entrant. “Is nothing compared to what humankind has endured in the last several years. We’re looking to create refuge on a moon called Destitute, for heaven’s sake!”

Gerrisan put his arms to his sides and shifted with contained fury. He directed his attention to the floor, avoiding Creain’s stare.

Although the information was neglected before, it shall be noted now: J. Gerrisan joined the N.A.H. Air and Space Forces six years ago, after finishing his military school term and passing the tests and regulations to pilot a K.Z.R.-98 Jet at age 20. He was sent off-world soon after obtaining his Jet; his mission was to reinforce a brigade of defenders on the (terraformed) planet Mars who were combating an opposition of renegade human warmongers. The mission was successful, but it was shadowed by a terrible event—the plague hit Earth. Millions died from this previously unseen pandemic with no cure to cease the spread of its terminal illness.

J. Gerrisan was not there when the outbreak began and he, as with the other human forces there, was ordered to remain on Mars. However, his pregnant wife was on Earth during the plague’s premiere and was one of those unfortunate souls who were infected. Gerrisan managed to secure a com line with her, and they talked to her last breath. Millions upon millions of miles away, Gerrisan watched helplessly to his wife die with child in womb.

Approximately one week following, the contagion was identified as a biological terrorist attack. An act of war.

J. Gerrisan knew the pain warfare could cause and fought ever harder to end it.

Creain had surmised his crazy style in combat and his optimistic, buoyant personality was a cover up to hide the scars of his torn being.

Silence hung in the air. Then, “I’m sorry, Jirrn.” Creain apologized. “I didn’t mean anything by it… and, you’re right. We should be thankful just to be alive. A single scrap heap is replaceable. People aren’t.”

Gerrisan looked up hesitantly and attempt to regain his former posture. An uncertain smirk appeared on his face. “Thank you, Creain.” He said, clearing his throat.

The Mech Pilot exhaled and released a slight smirk of his own. He knew they were all right again. He was about to suggestion something, when a blaring alarm resounded through the L.I.T. Red warning lights activated, brightening the dull grays of the walls, ceiling, and floor with spinning color.

Through the L.I.T.’s interior message relay system, the Captain of the Mother of Operations IV announced, “Our scanners have discovered that opposition forces are deploying for what appears to be an all-out final offensive. They are presently on course to a primary generator base the New Allied Humans established in the massive Veridep sinkhole. Your Unit Commanders will be with you momentarily. Prepare yourselves. We return to combat in ten.” Then the speakers deactivated, leaving way for the repetitive sirens to dominate the sounds of the L.I.T.

The blast doors to the Mech Bay slid open, permitting the Pilots and Unit Commanders. The relatively quiet Bay transformed into a fray of activity in seconds.

“I’d better get moving,” Gerrisan said, starting to turn about for a run. “I’ll see you after the fight!” Then he was off running to his own designated Air Bay.

“Creain!” The Unit Commander of the Entrant H.A.-Ver.55 Company yelled, catching the attention of the Mech Pilot. The Commander ran over, otherwise he’d have to yell everything he had to say.

“Yes sir?”

“I’ve assigned you as a secondary pilot in Sevent Graves’ newly-assigned Entrant.” The Commander explained. Unfortunately, we couldn’t obtain you another machine in time for this out-of-the-blue attack, so you’re stuck as second man for now. Got that?”

Creain didn’t appreciate being a “second man”, but who was he to argue? It was a war, not a casual pick-and-choose game. ‘As long as I’m not a backhand manual core maintainer.’ He thought.

“Yes sir.” Replied Creain.

“Good then. May fate favor you.” With those words, the Commander moved on to continue situating his men and their machines to disembark.

‘Back into the affray we go.’ Creain mused, and began jogging to the zone where Sevent and his new Mech were waiting to deploy.