User:Red Blizzard/Xenocide
Xenocide
One kills a man, one is an assassin; one kills millions, one is a conqueror; One kills everybody, one is a god." - Jean Rostand
Log Date: 02:57:45 a.m., Second Season, Fifth Day, Year 4337 Location: Echo Base
I emerge from my dormitory somewhere halfway between sleep and wakefulness. I had been awoken by the man next door, who had tossed and turned all night, muttering something indecipherable. Human dreams are something that I have yet to understand. I pull my black hood low with one hand, push up a muffle of the same color just a little, leaving my face completely covered, except for two glowing pinpricks that hinted at eyes of an alien nature. Then again, I’m not exactly human. I make my way towards the mech hangar, tattered cloak swishing gently. Another day, another mission.
I have no name. Not because I don't want any, but because nobody can think of anything suitable to call me. So they call me by my rank. Captain of the Black Ops Kappa Division, Commanding Officer of Echo Base. I’m part of a mercenary group that hides itself deep within the underground criminology index, a buried half-known name that few know and even fewer understand. We do not fight for money and power, as most mercenaries do, making a few credits only to squander it away the next day. Instead, we trade our services in exchange for technology, be it a pair of thrusters or a more efficient bread-toaster. Our goals are unclear, even to me. Nobody in the chain of command was told why they were fighting for technology. Some suspect that nobody really knows. Rule number one: don’t question your superiors, you might not wake up the following morning. A door opens on my left-hand side. A sleepy man, around twenty years old, emerges, rubbing his messy black hair as he looked around. He peers around through half-open eyes, then sees me. He managed a groggy salute as I swish past him.
“Morning Captain…”
Hello, Jeral.
Jeral jumps, then remembers. “Don’t scare me like that. I don’t like to have voices bouncing around my head at three in the morning.”
Morning? There is no morning on this planet.
“Yeah, well the point is, stop it. I have a mission in a couple of hours, some spice merchants offering a sweet set of thrusters in exchange for protection on their trade runs. I’d rather not have to deal with voices that only I can hear while on the job.”
Very well then, good day.
Echo Base is stationed on the planet of Galidor, home of the flamdrenites. At least, it was the home of the flamdrenites until seventy five years ago, when a outdated Leviathan-Class Human Dreadnought 'accidentally' slammed into the planet’s surface, splitting it in two and tearing the atmosphere to shreds. The flamdrenites were wiped out for the most part. Some consiracy theorists suspect that Artsugi Industries, the owner of the dreadnought, feared the flamdrenite's rapid pace of technological advancement and sought to halt them before they became a competitor in the arms manufacturing business. I personally hold them responsible for what happened.
I reach the mech hangar, which is already humming with activity as the first few pilots slide into their suits for their first missions of the day. Three o’clock in the morning, and Black Ops is already in business. One dropship, fully laden with ten suits, makes its way out of the hangar and into the air lock that separates the base from the outside world. Inside the air lock, gravity is reduced from the artificial force inside the base to the low-grav, zero-atmosphere world outside. The dropship would make its rounds around the Anderan System, dropping off pilots at their respective missions, then come back to ferry more pilots out to their jobs, each one going in alone. Rule number two, all missions are to be done solo, or you will be accused of being a coward and removed from Black Ops. As no pilot is allowed to leave the group alive, your only option left is death. I pass by a pair of young pilots, probably preparing for their first mission ever. As they see me, six feet tall and swathed in black tattered cloth, they give me a quick salute. I merely nod at them, not bothering to speak my thoughts to them lest they fall over in surprise.
Flamdrenites are simple creatures. We don't eat, instead relying on photosynthetic reactions that occur in the red "tiger stripes" all over our black bodies.We have heads, similar in size and shape to those of humans. However, we lack most of the sensory organs that humans possess. No ears, no nose, no mouth. Humans need them because they have nothing else to convey those senses to the brain. Those organs are useless for a species that can sense most things with the mind alone. When I communicate with others, I project my thoughts directly into their mind instead of using a mouth speak. At first, it was difficult for me to ‘speak’ with others, as my thoughts were everywhere. Anyone who recieved my thoughts at full blast was hospitalized. However, I gradually got used to thinking in words, allowing humans to understand the basics and no more.
I arrive in front of my mech: Shiva, a small, sleek machine with wide-set legs that give it the appearance of a crouching animal. Some humans thought it looked like a panther standing on two legs. I thought it was beautiful. I had it colored black, with red stripes, mirroring the color of my body. I step towards it, and a small barrier of lasers emerge from the ground. I stick a clawed hand through the wall, allowing the security AI to check my DNA. Then proceed. Shiva rotates to face me as I step onto a retractable dock, standing motionless as the dock extends to reach the front of the mech. I reach out with my mind, grasping all the familiar systems of the mech, opening up the mech’s chest to allow me to enter. Unlike human mecha, I can control Shiva with my thoughts alone, though I have to be in close proximity to it in order to use it efficiently. I step off the dock and into the mech, strapping myself in and pulling down the headrest that analyzed my mind. I take a quick look around to make sure that nobody is looking, then take off my cloak and hood, putting them off in a side compartment, then quickly close the mech’s chest up.
The battle suit was created a century ago as a weapon of war, meant to replace the foot-soldier with a larger, more survivable self-contained unit with the same level of mobility and flexibility. What resulted was a twenty-foot tall monstrosity, complete with armor six-inches thick and a pair of guns that could tear holes in mountains: the Goliath, the very first mech. Since then, it has evolved into the principal unit of combat, replacing tanks, infantry, hovercraft, speeder-bikes, and even atmospheric flyers. The battle suit grew, some models towering as high as fifty-feet tall and weighing several hundred tons. Technological advancements proceeded at a pace befitting the popularity of the new weapon. Armor grew to several feet thick, ion thrusters enabled flight, legs were altered for better ground mobility, energy shields gave protection against energy-based weapons, blades were added for melee combat, lasers for longer range. Remote-controlled mechs were experimented with, though the lag time between remote pilot input and mech reaction usually left mechs at a disadvantage in a heated firefight. Eventually, artificial intelligence removed the pilot from the cockpit for almost all mechsuits, reducing the loss of talent that went with each fallen pilot. Today, only pilots who can outmatch ten AI mechs or more are allowed to climb into the cockpit. And once at the controls, each pilot found themselves at the helm of the premier fighting machine. One that, instead of sating human desire for war, made their lust for battle that much keener. Killing became so convenient with the advent of the mech. Instead of calling up several hundred footsoldiers and a column of tanks to put down a civil rights protest, ten mechs can achieve the desired effect. And I would know. Under my control, Shiva has put down several of them.
Shiva, unlike human mecha, lacks a camera head to view the outside world with, though I don't need one: I can view my surroundings through sensors set up throughout the mech that could detect sight, sound, smell, and even touch. My mind leaves my body as the sensors in the headrest integrated me into Shiva’s system. I now see the mech as if looking from a third-person point of view, seeing all directions at once. No artificial intelligence can match up to me on the battlefield in this state, making a war of attrition against me futile. Once in a while, a piloted mech gets lucky and takes a chunk of armor off, but they never get a second shot. You could say that I’m cocky on the battlefield, if that’s even the right way to describe flamdrenite personality. Shiva runs the system warm-up, rotating various parts of the suit to make sure nothing was out of place. At the end of the hangar, I see the dropship coming back from its first round of ferrying, preparing to pick us up for our trip to work. As the dropship lands, the system warm-up finished, and I could hear the photon reactor powering the mech humming happily behind me. All systems go, and we’re ready to roll.
I settle into my slot on the dropship, waiting as the hatch closes down on me. A low, distant rumble, and the dropship takes off. The air lock to Echo Base opens, and we slide out into the inky darkness of the airless surface of Galidor. I pause in the middle of suit check-ups to survey the planet of my ancestors, as I have done now thousands of times through the transparent metal porthole in the door of my slot’s hatch. The view is always the same. A great, dark expanse spreads out in all directions. On the horizon, mountains. Echo Base is located in the middle of a circular depression in Galidor’s surface, probably once a giant crater that had worn down to a bowl through erosion. I look up. The stars glow, unobscured by atmospheric dust and pollution as with other planets. Here, they do not twinkle, but stare at me, numerous and cold.
A metallic voice pops on over the intercom, disrupting my thougths. “Entering warp gate now.” A pause. “Hold onto your breakfast.” I barely have time to react before the dropship disappear through a pirated warp gate orbiting Galidor, and reappear at another one orbiting the destination of the first pilot’s mission. I muse over the AI’s words for a moment. Apparently all the chatter had gotten to its processor; now it was using human idioms. A small bump. I look out the hatch to see a suit descend from its slot on the dropship, flaring slightly orange as it entered the atmosphere of a jungle planet. Then we were through the warp gate again. At the next planet, another pilot disempbarks. The third jump, and it’s my turn. I make contact with my clients on the planet below, and the mission briefing is sent to me in raw data form, for me to pore over at my leisure.
Mission Type: War Support Description: Give 12 hours of support to Organized Mecha Fighting Group in battle against forces of Artsugi Industries just outside city of Blackwater on planet of Cato. Reward: HRX-4 Ultralight Thrusters
As I read this brief statement, the dropship doors open, revealing the yawning expanse of space, nothing below but the mottled blue-grey surface of the planet Cato. Something about this mission rings a few bells in my head, but I don't have time to think as I give Shiva a small nudge out the door. Then, I'm falling, sucked downwards by gravity. To avoid burning up, I roll Shiva into a compact ball, allowing my armor plates absorb the heat of re-entry. Cato, being one of the largest planets and a highly urbanized one at that, has the longest drop and the fewest safe landing spots. More fun for me. The sky around me starts off a deep, dark blue, tinged with orange from the friction of passing through the planet's atomsphere. Paying no attention to the sky, I look downwards, zooming in on the target point. I find the city of Blackwater waiting below. As the planet's surface rises up to meet me, skyscrapers stabbing upwards like a thicket of spears, I see patches of orange blossom here and there. Looks like the battle is already undeway. The first skyscraper rushes past my mech, a wall of glossy black glass rushing by. Half-a-mile to go. Then the next few, missing my mech by mere feet. Radar begins lighting up as I enter the battlefield, indicating streets, buildings, enemies.. I fire thrusters at the last possible moment, slowing my descent just enough so I don't make a crater when I land.
Immediately I'm under fire. A rocket misses my mech by a few feet, slamming into a building right behind me. Thrusters, now! I dodge out of the way as the building groans, then comes toppling down, blocking the entire street. Bullets whizz past me, and I instinctively raise my right arm, blindly aiming a shotgun. One blast, and a mech somersaults backwards, crashing into its comrades. My radar screams at me, sending me readings of twenty or so mechs heading down my way, all marked grey. I update my radar with the mission parameters, and half-a-dozen green dots light up on my screen, mostly behind me and to my left. Surrounding us on all sides is a thicket of red, nearly two-hundred strong. I begin to wonder if it was worth the reward fighting for the Organized Mecha Fighting Group, and who came up with the silly name in the first place.
Incoming missiles. I raise my left arm, and a massive energy blade erupts from my wrist. The missiles slam into the blade and detonate harmlessly away from my mech. The first of a stream of enemy mechs approaches me, missile racks empty. The mech suit looks up at me and pauses, in obvious doubt. Probably never saw an enemy mechsuit without a camera head. I slice the mech in half while its pilot is still gaping, my energy blade singing with the first kill. As the molten halves of the enemy mech slump to the ground, I see other mechs in the street pause in momentary shock. Curious as to their reactions, I manipulate my signal reader and hack into the enemy commlink. The background music is always the same.
"What the..."
"What was that?"
"A headless mech?"
"Don't just stare, KEEP FIRING!!!" This one, a gruff voice coming from one of the mech suits farther down the street, had me laughing inside as I pulled out my next weapon. From my back, four curved barrels unfold, each one sporting an unearthly, dark glow from the laser crystals within. In preparation for the attack, I power down thrusters, switch off my energy blade, and set radar to semi-active. I let the capacitors build up, waiting for the humming to reach just the right pitch, then let loose. Four black beams lance outwards, instantly stabbing through the first few mechs and continuing further down the street in their deadly path. Then I spread out my lasers just a little bit, carving up the buildings on either side and sending them crashing into the street in an avalanche of broken glass and twisted metal. Over the commlinks, I can hear my clients cheering and my opponents hastily vectoring mechs towards my position. How long had they been at this before I joined in? I scan the destroyed city, noting old battle scars beneath fresh ones. I didn't envy whoever was paying the war reparations, and I certainly didn't envy the companies who owned the buildings. They will come back a week from now to find a mountain of rubble rather than a city.
Not once in my entire life did I ever question why I was doing this. Humans killed each other all the time, and for an alien like me, with no future in any other career, there was still a fortune to be made off of war. The way I saw it, if I could earn a living coming up with cheaper, more efficient ways of killing people and then put such methods into practice, who was to complain? Other than the people being killed, of course. Besides, it was the humans, under Artsugi Industries, who had initiated xenocide against my species by destroying Galidor. I turn my mind to the battle, scanning my radar for any enemies in the vicinity. One red blip close by. Out of the ruined street, a single mech emerges, apparently unscathed by the destruction I had unleashed. I lazily power up everything again and unleash a shotgun blast. The mechsuit skips under the blast and comes at me, twin energy blades flaring as it approaches. Over the comms, I hear a thin, high-pitched voice screaming, "For Artsugi!!!" I blink, and connect the dots. In my head, I revisualize the mission statement, then the Leviathin-class Dreadnaught, then the high-pitched voice. This battle just got personal. I dash forward to greet the mech, my own energy blade extending to full length. Our blades slam into each other's energy shields, and the other's blades break through my shield first, green energy coming uncomfortably close. I thruster backwards and upwards, settling into hover mode in mid-air, then rain down shotgun blasts all over. The blasts score a few glancing hits, but the other mech shrugs them off and fires its own thrusters, rising up to meet me. Our blades clash in mid-air with a fizzle of energy. For a moment, neither of us budges, and I get my first good look at my opponent.
The mech is a regulation grey, but with light blue streaks added randomly as an afterthought. It has a delicate built, suggesting its main purpose as a scout, though its twin blades, missile rack, and shoulder-mounted rifle give it enough firepower to hold its own against larger suits. While keeping the mech at bay, I run a scan with my mech's portable database, identifying the suit as an Artsugi-built Exalite model. Simple, cheap, and worthless in battle. I land a kick squarely in the mech's chest, pushing off, and counter with more shotgun blasts. The Exalite zooms upwards, dodging all my shots at close range, while letting loose a barrage of missiles. Way too many to block, and way too explosive to take head-on. Maybe this mech wasn't worthless after all. I slam thrusters downwards, hugging the ground, speeding away, with missiles trailing close behind. Up ahead, an intersection. I slam my energy blade into the ground, using it as a pivot to swing around to my right at breakneck speeds. Dashing away from the intersection on foot, I hear two missiles explode as they try to cut corners and slam into a building. The others round the corner after me, rocket engines screaming, and I fire thrusters upwards again. Exalite is waiting right above me, and fires its rifle down upon my mech as I rise. Bullets strike my thrusters, causing one to splutter and slowing my ascent. I push thrusters up to full, trying to rise faster, but I can hear the missiles closing in and know that I'm going too slow. The impact of the first missile jerks my head around, banging it against the walls of my cockpit. The others follow up with a roar that rattles my entire body. I can feel the heat from the last of the explosions reaching out, trying to strangle me with its blast. That didn't bode well, somewhere my armor was breached. I glance at the readings. Armor down to below 50%, heat levels dangerously high. Thrusters temporarily out of action, and I'm fifty feet in the air. I hit the ground with a sickening crunch.
Exalite descends upon me like a surgeon getting to work on a brain tumor. Energy blades dig deep in carefully placed hits all over my mechsuit, but I don't let that progress far. As one blade is raised to my chestplate to commence peeling away the armor there, I slam my energy sword into the mech's arm, catching the other pilot by surprise. Using the momentum from the slash, I swing my blade upwards, sending Exalite flying into the air, mechanical limbs flailing. When it reaches the top of its parabolic flight, I aim my shotgun and let loose. The first blast jolts the suit upwards about ten feet. The next four keep it pinned there in mid-air, jerking around loosely like a doll as bullets continue to pour in on it. I don't stop firing until my clip is empty as I unleash the full force of my fury upon the enemy. As my shotgun clicks hollowly, the enemy mech disappears from sight, only to return moments later in swift descent. When it lands, a plume of dust is kicked up, temporarily shrouding it from view. I check my own status, find my legs still functional, get up, and walk over to examine the mech's carcass as the dust settles.
There wasn't much left that you could call a mechsuit. The head had been half-blown away from repeated shotgun blasts, one camera eye still staring dolefully out of what was left of its face. The arms and legs had been mangled beyond recognition, loose wires crackling, no longer able to send singals to tell the mech to move. The mech's armored torso had been cracked open, revealing the chest cavity within that held the mech cockpit. That, too, had been shredded open, and I get my first look at the pilot behind the mech. I zoom in on the crack in the chestplate. All I see is a single eye staring back at me, glinting blue. Curious, I draw my still-functioning energy blade and carve open the cockpit, removing the chestplate altogether. Then I stare. Strapped into the cockpit, wearing a torn and burnt regulation pilot's suit, is a human girl no more than twelve years old, with singed red hair and blue eyes that seemed to stare straight at me, trembling with fear. Somewhere inside me, a reality comes crashing down. This is all wrong. I came here to fight, not to kill little girls. I had never realized before that there was no distinction, and that two very different things could be one and the same. I almost want to climb out of my mech and help the girl, even with the sounds of war still raging all around. The girl coughs, and a dribble of red trickles down the edge of her mouth. She looks down, pulling a shotgun bullet out of her belly and staring at it like a curio. I know that I never fired a shot her; yet I know that I've killed her with that bullet. The contradiction doesn't matter. In my head, things start moving in all directions at once. I reach out with my mind, sending one, swift little message to the girl.
I'm sorry.
The girl sits up a little, looking around, reaches up to unstrap herself. She fumbles with the straps for a moment before giving up in exhaustion, and instead looks straight at me again. She is pale now, too pale to move around much. Yet I see a corner of her mouth turn upwards, and her eyes twinkle for a brief moment. Then, her suit's engine, overcooked by battle damage, goes critical, and the mech explodes.
For the rest of the mission, I find no joy in the battle. The other enemies provide no challenge of course. It was like walking through a human museum, taking shots at statues perfectly posed to accept their deaths. And, at the very end, I don't feel like getting out of my mech to accept my clients' thanks and claim my reward. Instead, the Organized Mech Fighting Group loads the thrusters into the dropship when it arrives, and I depart without a word. Once inside the dropship, I take one glance at the thrusters, and that's enough. They're not even good thrusters, leftovers from last year's models. And for some reason, I just want to shoot them. Even with an empty shotgun, an overused energy sword, and depleted laser crystals, I just want to shoot the thrusters until they burst into flaming pieces. Then I feel like crying. Of all the human emotions, sadness was the one I understood the least. Now I feel like crying, a cocktail of emotions bubbling up inside. Two hundred lives ended, a girl's smile extinguished. All for some thrusters.
