Savage

Chapter 1

Rul

I pray to Mother Moon Phanu, though her blood red countenance isn’t visible here on Rothschild. Like many of my brethren, I miss the beautiful if deadly climes of Kurse, but my duty is here.

Perhaps you have heard of me. My name is Rul, formerly a Raiding party leader, but now an Imperial Centurion. The title comes with many responsibilities, one of which his overseeing the training of our conscripted army of non Reaper sapients.

You might think this lot would be reluctant to fight, but we permitted the populace to volunteer ten percent of their number without much direction as to specifics. Thus, the men, and some women, who have reported for Conscription tend to be those of an already aggressive mindset.

Also, they have a path out of bondage if they serve for twelve years in the Imperial army. A long time, but then they will be given most of the rights enjoyed by Reapers in our Empire.

Still, they’re much softer and weaker than our kind, except for the Vakutan. I wish we had some Odex, but Coalition races are rare in Helios space due to their close association with the Trident Alliance.

I watch as my line of conscripts fires upon distant targets. I should point out the targets aren’t made of wood or sponge like gel, but the corpses of rebels who attempted a minor insurgency last week.  

Not all on this world welcomed us with open arms, of course. There has been dissent, but we’ve been nothing short of brutally efficient when it comes to squashing it.

I should also point out the corpses weren’t corpses at first, when the first squad had their target practice. They had been conscripts whose family were part of the insurgency and forced to execute their kin as a test of loyalty.

“Straighten your stance, you,” I snap, slapping a Vakutan on the back of his ridged head. I move on to the next in line. “Nice grouping. I want to see what you can do on full auto.”

I show him how to switch the setting and move on. The next man has failed to hit a single shot, so I send him to run a circuit of the training ground as punishment. If he dies of exhaustion, that’s one less headache I have to suffer through.

It’s a lot more complicated of an existence than being a raider, but yet more satisfying. We’re doing great works now, building the Reaper Empire to even greater heights.

“Centurion. Centurion!”

The adept fellow is shouting for me. I think that he must be struggling with the new setting and head over to his position.

“If you can’t hit anything, switch back to burst fire mode,” I snap.

“No, it’s not that,” he says, pointing into the sky. “Look.”

I follow his finger to spot multiple flashes in the atmosphere.

“Those are ships dropping out of super luminal speed,” I say in wonder. “The Helios Combine. At last, they are moving to retake this world.”

“What are we going to do?” he asks in alarm. The Combine has promised painful death to any and all who choose to collaborate with the new regime.

“We do what we are trained to do,” I say with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “We fight, we kill, and we hold on to this planet no matter the cost.”

I turn my gaze skyward. At last, a chance to spill some blood. Let them try to take this world.

They shall not have it, Mother Moon. Your child Rul will not let them. 

“Conscripts, report to your assigned bunkers,” I bellow, my voice cutting through the din of their panic. “You pledged your fealty and your lives to the Empire. The time has come to honor that promise. Or do the people of Rothschild have no honor?”

“We have honor, Centurion Rul,” the Vakutan says with respect tempering his fear. “But that is the Helios Combine World Breaker Fleet. Their capital ship Voice of Freedom has darkened the skies of many worlds before this one, just before the annihilation of any and all resistance.”

“Really?” I say eagerly, my hands rasping around the hilt of my Chosen weapon, a power sword with a variable blade length. It vibrates at a high enough frequency to slice through Class two power armor with but a wave of my arm, and will cleave through even  higher grades if I put my full strength into the assault. “That is most fortunate. There is no glory to be had facing paltry foes.”

The sword is not my only weapon. On my opposite hip hangs a leather braided whip useful for keeping discipline. I unfurl it now, and give it a sharp crack in the crisp clear air. 

“Get to your barracks. Now.”

I punctuate the command with another whip crack, and the men spring into action at once. They rush off toward the nimbus of barracks which surround our training barracks. I don’t know why they tremble so at their prospects. In all likelihood they will not see battle at all this day.

With a few bounding strides, I cross two dozen yards in an instant and leap atop the hover cycle parked nearby. I must reach my ship, which hopefully the crew has already begun to prep for launch.

The bike plunges down a steep grassy hill and then shoots up an incline, catching air at the apex. My vantage allows a clear view of our air field, where my ship the Scourge resides. I am told that other sapients consider it to be a cruiser class vessel masquerading as armored transport. We call them Glaives in the Phanu clan. Narrow and tapered near the fore deck, they resemble short bladed knives in many ways. Rather than turrets, the weapons batteries are housed inside the hull, with only apertures for the energy to release from. 

This is because turrets can be shorn off during our favorite tactic—ramming. Our prows are comprised entirely of Trimantium sharpened to a hair’s breadth. With a medium speed impact, we can sheer entire sections of other vessels away. A slower impact provides a means of breaching their hull for a boarding party.

Not that we’ll be able to do much of that. The Phanu only have seven Glaives on Rothschild, because there are over two hundred UMakra class ships from the Sykl clan stationed in orbit. Thanks to their torpedoes, which infest enemy ships with swarming hordes of suffocating tiny insects, we likely will not get to fire a single shot.

But Emperor Brama and his human Empress are wise. They know that eventually the enemy will develop a counter for the Makra, and thus the other clans have all added fleets to the Rothschild garrison. 

As soon as I run up the gangplank, my Optio—sub commander, if you will—is waiting for me.

“Centurion,” he says with a stiff incline of his spurred scalp. This Reaper is many years my elder, with a wizened cast to his ebon face. Like many here, he rankles at my youth, but has yet not dared to challenge me in battle. “We are prepared to launch.”

“Excellent, Neral. Our orders are to provide assistance to the Umakra fleet.”

His face wrinkles with disgust.

“Bah. We will float in the black while they have all the fun.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” I say, my eyes agleam. “If Mother Moon says we will shed blood, then we will shed blood. And I have a feeling She is thirsty this night.”

Neral’s face splits in a toothy grin.

“Your body may be cursed, my Centurion, but your spirit is pure Reaper.” 

He pivots on his heel and rushes off to get us underway. I nearly run into a human conscript when I go to follow, a man whose job it is to take care of hull repairs outside of an atmosphere. Our Reaper bodies tend to punch holes in pressure suits, so we enslave others to do this for us. Excuse me, Conscript. This man has different status than a mere slave.

“Forgive me, Centurion Rul,” he says, dropping to his knees and trembling.

“Rise, Gerald son of Richard,” I say. “You meant no offense, and we are all eager to be underway.”

“Actually, I was looking for you, sir,” Gerald says, falling in abreast of me as I stride down the long passage leading to the bridge. Since our ships are designed for ramming, the bridge is three decks up near the aft section. “Our Trimantium forge is on the fritz again, and it needs a new converter.”

“So put in a new one,” I growl as we ascend a metal ramp leading to the next deck.

“I can’t they don’t have any here on Rothschild,” he says. “We need to requisition one.”

“So do that.”

“I can’t.”

I pause, then turn slowly and loom over him.

“You can’t?”

“I mean, not without your approval, sir,” Gerald says, offering up a tablet for my imprint. The Empress has devised a system for allocating resources which I admit I do not understand. Many things require the approval of someone with at least Prior clearance. I slap my thumb onto the scanner until it turns blue.

“Thank you, sir,” Gerald says. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did Optio Neral say your body is cursed?”

“Fool,” I snap, giving him a hard shove and sending him down to his rump. “Can you not see?”

With that I leave him, tromping up the ramp toward the bridge. What the conscript referred to is a birth defect, one which caused the death of my mother. My bone spurs don’t grow as in others of my kind. They grow in twisting spirals, a difference more profound than mere aesthetics. Because of their shape, they were immune to the Birthsong, and would not be coaxed back under my skin long enough to escape my mother’s womb.

I shake away the bad memories and enter the bridge. These days more than half the personnel working there are conscripts. All of the officer positions are held by Reapers, of course. These men and women have yet to earn our trust or respect. Still, it’s a new change and startles me every time I bear witness to it.

I seat myself in the command chair, another new addition. The Empress discovered that ships with seating for the bridge crew performed at a higher level of efficiency, mandating their presence on all of our vessels. I do admit, I can fight longer now that I’m no longer on my feet for twelve hours or more at a time.

“Take us up, Optio,” I say, settling back as the yeoman places a pad in my hand. I glance at it, and find that everything in our ship is operating at established parameters, except for the forge Gerald mentioned earlier. I nod and hand it back.

The Glaive engages her anti grav drive, eliciting a lurching groan from the landing pylons as the ship’s weight comes off of them. We rise into the sky like a bolt of lightning, inertial dampners preventing us from being plastered to the floor from the sudden acceleration. Within moments the blue skies grow dark, the stars brighter, until we breach the atmosphere and face our foes.

We take up a position relatively ‘below’ the Umakra, so we will be out of their line of fire.

“Remember,” I growl to the bridge crew “we do not engage the enemy unless they come within weapons range of the Sykl fleet.”

“We are those who sit upon children,” Neral mutters.

“What was that?” I ask with a frown.

“It is a human phrase. It means—“

“I know what it means, and the term is ‘babysitter’ not one who sits on children.” I chuckle. “Patience, my Optio. I have a feeling we will know battle this day.”

“Centurion, the enemy command vessel is mass hailing our fleet,” my comm officer’s face is creased with amusement. “Audio only.”

“Of course,” I answer with a laugh. “They fear to see the face of t heir enemy. Patch it through.”

“Attention occupying forces,” comes the static laden voice from our comm unit. “This is Captain Dozunga of the Voice of Freedom. You will disperse and yield this planet back to Helios Combine control, or face summary execution. You have one minute to comply.”

“What are we dealing with here, Optio?” My gaze narrows as the holo image is brought up of the field of battle, including the enemy fleet. Their flagship is easily ten times the size of our Glaive.

“One capital class ship, the Voice, two cruiser class, named Liberty and Justice, and a Starfighter carrier with a full compliment.”

“They are fools to hold back their fighters,” I say. “See, the Umakra have launched their insidious torpedoes. This battle is nearly over.”

The torpedoes appear as globes of tapered fire as they streak toward the enemy craft. Their impact only causes minimal damage, because t hey re not explosive. In fact, their design features a tough but flexible ring which inflates to plug any atmospheric leaks in the vessel. 

This is because we do not wish our deadly Makra, tiny insects hard to see with the naked eye, to be sucked into outer space. No, we want them to be sucked deep into the lungs of our enemies, drawn all over the ship by its own ventilation and life support system to infect every nook and cranny.

“Damage report?” I say, turning to my tactical officer.

“Minimal damage to the craft, sir, but life signs on most of the enemy ships are dropping fast.”

“Most of the enemy ships?” I ask with a frown. “Who is the hold out?”

“The Liberty, my Centurion. They appear to have compartmentalized the torpedo impact points and limited their casualties to a dozen.”

“You see, Optio?” I lean forward and grin. “We will see battle. Helm—“

My helmsman turns about in his seat, awaiting my orders.

“Tear the Liberty in half.” I wave dismissively as if it’s not a major thing. Which it is not, even though the Cruiser has formidable weaponry.

We speed toward them on an attack vector, crossing over a mile of space in a matter of seconds. They fire their point defense cannon, causing a ripple through our shielding.

“Shields down to thirty percent,” shouts tactics.

“No matter,” I reply. “All hands, brace for impact.”

I hit a switch, which sets off warning lights on all decks. Another innovation of the Empress, to protect our crew Reaper and Conscript alike. It’s hard to rankle against change when it’s wise change.

Crash webbing automatically deploys over the bridge crew, settling snug against my skin. My webbing has several holes torn in it due to my cursed flesh, but it still suffices. The inertial dampeners strain to their maximum as our prow cuts into the enemy ship’s mid hull.

The Liberty splits in twain, torn asunder by our craft. Peeling away, bits of debris—some of it wriggling sapient creatures—spews out into space. Howls of victorious glee erupt from the Reapers, and even many of the Conscripts are celebrating.

“We are Phanu,” I bellow. “And victory is our life.”

“Victory is our life!” Comes the rallying cry. I note with approval that most of my conscripts join in.