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.

Ave, peoples!

The next part of Of Light and Metal: The Droplets Fall is here.

Pardon me if it turned out as scrap. :/ My heart isn’t really “in” this project as with others; not to say I’m not putting any effort into it, but that because I’m not particularly passionate about it, the writing is inherently not as good compared to workings I really enjoy.

Note: This does contain more language in it. The reason: I’m experimenting. 😉

Nonetheless, I give you, Part 2!

 

 

“Creain Crosspiece!” Sevent Graves called out from his vantage point atop the formidable Entrant in Bay 5-3. He promptly descended the access ladder and stepped onto floor level.

“Sevent Graves,” Creain replied in kind.

“How have you been fairing since the… incident?” Sevent inquired.

“As well as I can be. My machine is definitely irreparable and I haven’t been assigned a new one yet.”

“Well, it looks like you’re stuck with me for now. Maybe our combined wit can keep us from encountering another bombshell, eh?” said the other Pilot, chuckling.

“Maybe.” He responded, though no trace of a joking mood was in his voice.

“That aside, my Entrant is about ready for deployment. The engee’s are completing the load up of the rocket pods, then we do a quick stats check and we’re set.”

Creain nodded, observing a Bay crane and two engee’s as they inserted rocket pod missiles into the Mech’s second left 8-C. Rocket Pod Units. (“Engee” was an informal nickname for “Engineers”.)

“Shall we proceed to our seats?” Sevent asked, gesturing to the hatch on the Entrant’s hull.

Creain noiselessly agreed and they ascended the access ladder to the primary entry hatch. Sevent opened it with an ID code and dropped down into the pilot section. Creain followed and was greeted by a smell he hadn’t experienced in years—the “new Mech” aroma, which was something like the “new car” aroma. He coughed at the unexpected assailment of his nostrils.

“The smell hit me hard the first time I boarded this thing too.” Sevent commented, flipping a switch on a panel near the hatch to seal it. The round portal shut and locked.

Aside from the “new Mech” smell, the interior of Sevent’s Entrant was semi-dark and as Creain recalled his machine’s pilot section to have looked like, minus the personal touches. The blast shield was obviously engaged, as the forward viewing window did not admit any light into the cabin.

Creain seated himself in the rear of the two Pilot chairs and attempted to become situated. It didn’t feel like his machine, but there wasn’t anything to do about that. It wasn’t his machine, point and simple.

He gripped the two joystick-like control devices on both armrests. He was somewhat anxious. How would he operate in this new vehicle? Command would have acquainted him with a newly-assigned Entrant H.A.-Ver.55 if time had permitted it. Unfortunately, this new development had occurred too soon after the last Altercations Skirmish for a new machine to be processed and sent. The reason Sevent had his new vehicle was because the Entrant belonged to a “spare” selection of war machines the Mother of Operations IV carried onboard.

‘After this, I’ll inquire about obtaining a new machine.’ Creain told himself, donning the Pilot helmet from the hair’s headrest, which held the general communications, intercom, HUD visor, and the necessary ear protection (the combined sounds of the machine’s weaponry discharging and typical combat noise made the ear protection mandatory).

“You are set and clear for departure.” The voice of Bay Control announced through the integrated headsets in the Pilot’s helmets. “Proceed to initiate systems for pickup via transport gunship.”

Sevent had seated himself in the forward chair and was already running systems checks in preparation for the coming fight, and, more relevantly, the aircraft pickup that would carry his Entrant to the designated drop zone. Readouts flashed across Creain’s HUD, a solid indicator his fellow Pilot was doing silent checks.

The roar of transport gunship engine’s perforated the Bay and the metallic sound of clamps securing the Entrant to the aircraft’s underside resounded through the hull, accompanied with a brief jostling. As was regulation, the blast shield remained in place over the forward view window; it would disengage once they arrived at the drop point.

Both Mech Pilot’s safety harnesses fastened around their waists and torsos. “We are all set in here.” Sevent informed the pilot of the transport gunship consigned to their Mech.

“Copy that.” The pilot replied.

“Arm of Judgment,” The Unit Commander said through the Mech unit’s separate linked communications channel, using their official title. “Sound off!”

“Entrant 1, reporting in.”

“Entrant 2, here and set.”

“Entrant 3, ready to go.”

“Entrant 4, reporting in.”

“Entrant 5, raring to move.”

“Entrant 6, we are awaiting launch.” Sevent answered.

“We got number six?” Creain asked.

Sevent looked back and replied humorously, “We got blown up last time.”

The linked communication crackled to life again. “Good! Now let’s go meet the opposition!” The Commander ordered. “Launch!”

Outside their Mech, the Bay’s ceiling, floor, and walls slid away on their frames, exposing the attack force to the semi-hostile environment of Destitute. Several thousand feet below, the moon’s surface appeared as a massive plain of green and ruddy tan, as though it had a strange, gradually-increasing skin disease. The process of terraformation was still ongoing, and it was yet a while off until the moon would be prepared to safely accommodate human life.

The transport gunship’s engines were set to max thrust capacity, emitting a teeth-jarring wave of artificial thunder. Then, with a lurching sensation, the gunship and Mech launched from their home ship. Creain was used to these launches after approximately eight years in the armed service, but it remained an irking experience every time his stomach went into his throat.

“ETA is approximately three minutes, Pilots.” The Commander announced. “Unfortunately, aside from radar scans, Command was unable to gather Intel on what we can expect to find when we arrive. The radar feed—which should be appearing on your HUD’s now—tells us that a composition of the enemy’s bulk land and air forces have assembled in the Veridep sinkhole. From the feed, we can identify that this composition includes their Mechs, tanks, ground troops, portable offensive operations systems, and the variable grouping of their air forces. Our attack group consists of the Mother of Operation IV’s marine brigade, multiple air-support wings, a contingent of support tanks, and Mech units L1 through H10, which should prove to wipe out the opposition in good time and have a minimum casualty number if we do our jobs right.

Arm of Judgment has been specifically assigned to deploy around the edge of the sinkhole and provide artillery support. We have had no contact with the generator base’s personnel since the enemy moved in, but watch where you shoot; we don’t want to end up killing our own people. That is all for now. Our ETA is now one minute. Commander out.”

“I may just be paranoid,” Sevent said over the Entrant’s intercom after the linked communication was silenced. “But it seems like we’re going in more blind than informed, as if our enemy wasn’t already a mystery of sorts.”

“I’m not keen on it either, but the radar clearly tells us where the opposition is and what they have, at least most of the way down the sinkhole.” Creain answered, steeling myself for the coming fight as the gunship descended to their drop point.

“I’ll be more consoled when we land. It isn’t top on my list to get a missile up my ass.”

The Mech’s powerful legs touched down on the moon’s rugged surface and a great pneumatic hiss could be heard as it momentarily supported the weight of the gunship that had carried it and its full weight combined. Then the clamps released and the aircraft lifted back into the sky. “May fate favor you.” The gunship pilot said as a parting phrase.

“And you.” Sevent replied.

The blast shield folded into the Entrant’s hull and light from the nearby sun flooded the cabin interior. Before them was the massive sinkhole Veridep—over a mile in diameter and at minimum two or three times that in depth. It was a natural wonder of Destitute. Openings to ancient catacombs perforated its uneven sides to the very bottom and dozens of outcroppings protruded here and there throughout. The remains of four outposts which had been established on the edge now smoldered in ruin, but the fires were small and struggling; the oxygen there was barely enough to sustain flames. Built into the ruddy rock were elevators that had—up until recently—taken personnel from the outposts down to the generator base far below. It was a silent, depressing scene; foreboding to what destruction may be discovered as one traveled into Veridep.

Further down the sinkhole, any light was swallowed in thick darkness, obscuring what lie in the bowels. None of the artificial illumination typically produced by the base was visible.

“No greeting party. Nothing.” Sevent observed. “You’d think they would leave something up here to initially attack us.”

Creain felt the same. Overall, it disturbed him that the opposition hadn’t shown any of themselves, expect on the radar. The ruins of the outposts were proof someone had come and inflicted damage on the base’s operations, but otherwise no indicator of the enemy’s presence was there.

“Arm of Judgment, set yourselves up around the edge according to your drop point. Two scout probes have been sent down to assess the situation and until they report back, we are ordered to remain on standby.” The Commander informed.

“Understood.” Sevent confirmed, followed by the five other Pilots verification of understanding the information and orders.

The Pilot proceeded to move the Mech into the designated position, which was highlighted on their HUDs. “Initiating Emplacement mode.”

The Mech settled down to the ground where it stood and support arms extended out, automatically securing themselves to the rock. Then, the perimeter defense system activated. Four hatches opened on the vehicle and auxiliary turrets came out; they were unmanned and would defend the Mech from close, land-based attacks. Anti-air guns were stationed on the top of the Mech to fend off air-based attackers. It was a basic defensive system, and as already proven it wasn’t even close to perfect, but in average cases it served the necessary purpose.

Next was the deployment of what truly made an Entrant H.A. Ver.-55: The mobile artillery cannon. A collapsible, single-barrel mortar capable of decimating anything within fifty yards of its shell’s touchdown point. The “Lurking Ire”, as it was dubbed, held a title of destructive beauty amongst war machines. It was originally its own separate weapon, but the design was converted into a mobile version that would serve as the primary cannon of a Heavy-class Mech. Thus, the Entrant H.A. Ver.-55 Mech was born and manufactured as a mobile artillery emplacement.

With Emplacement mode active and the standby order in effect, there wasn’t much to do but wait for the expected Intel from the probes.

Ten anxious minutes following, the Commander finally contacted his unit. “The techies lost contact with the scout probes before we could obtain any information from them. We can only expect that they were destroyed. At this juncture, Command has given Lightfeet squad clearance to investigate. Evidently, this is a manned recon mission, and we will keep in constant contact with the team as they head down. Continue on standby. When we have results—or lose communications with Lightfeet—I will inform you.” The linked communication was severed, again.

Even Creain was becoming impatient now. The situation was quiet to begin with, but he had expected a clash of forces by now. Why hadn’t a skirmish broken out yet? Why were the opposition keeping so low? Hopefully, Lightfeet squad would give the N.A.H. some answers.

Seven Ver.2 Hoppers, which comprised Lightfeet, came into view and then promptly disappeared as they bounded into the sinkhole.

‘Those men are going to die.’ Creain thought solemnly. He had an unsettling feeling that sending Lightfeet squad in, was sending them to a mysterious death. He voiced his thought to Sevent.

“I know… I was thinking the same thing.” He replied, shifting slightly in his chair. “The fact we haven’t fired a single shot or seen a single foe is getting to me.”

“Hm. Maybe that’s what they want.”

“Damn them if they do.”

The linked com ignited with the Commander’s urgent voice. “Lightfeet squad is under fire and communications with them are strained! Hoppers 04 and 07 are gone, and at this rate we will lose the rest of them. It is useless to send in reinforcements now; however, the captain of Lightfeet has sent trajectory markers back. We may not know exactly what’s down there yet, but we can sure as hell hit them now. The squad has distanced themselves from the general vicinity of the enemy as best they can and should be clear of any damage from friendly fire. The trajectory markers are on your HUDs now. Fire when ready, Arm of Judgment. If we can provide the necessary cover fire, the remainder of Lightfeet has a chance to escape.”

As secondary Pilot, it was (mainly) Creain’s task to man the Lurking Ire. Now, he wasted no time in positioning the mobile artillery cannon into the correct position as mapped out by the trajectory markers.

“Fire!”

A shell launched from the mortar, the sound and recoil reverberating through the Entrant. From there it flew in an arc and then plummeted downward towards the sinkhole’s bowels. Five other selfsame shells joined it.

“Impact points were spot-on, Pilots. Keep it up!”

And so it ensued, shot after shot into the depths of Veridep, while the attack group waited in anticipation of their comrades safe return. Updates from the Commander let them know that Lightfeet was making progress with their retreat and every shell made the difference of life or death for the Hopper Pilots.

Then: “This is Overhead 01—I have a visual on Lightfeet.” It was a report from the pilot of a Combat-class support gunship, who was hovering only a short distance above Veridep. “Gunships 02 and 04, you’re with me. We’ll move in to—”

Her sentence was never completed. A streak of fire shot up from somewhere in the sinkhole and pierced into the bully of 01’s gunship, which exploded in a shower of flames and metal. The four personnel aboard died instantaneously. It was a moment of sudden shock.

The first casualties of the 8th Altercations Skirmish.