QVQ
From SSDC, Inc.
“Oh, don't get me wrong, John. Human women aren't bad looking, not at all. Well, except for the deformed hands and the big, round, funny looking ears.”
The human merc, John Kohn, grunted.
“In fact I tried one once. She was taller than any Orion woman I'd ever seen, with flowing golden hair, bronze skin and huge blue eyes, plus a set of bombs I wanted to wear my tongue out on.” The Orion sighed wistfully as he and his partner carried out their poor imitation of a perimeter sweep.
“So what happened? ” The human muttered in irritation a moment later.
“Well, my boy, I'll tell you She dropped her pants and the stench nearly made me gag. I could not believe anything could smell that bad without being dead a week! Fehhhhgg! I wonder how you human men manage to reproduce at all. You must have strong stomachs or dull noses.” The little Orion grinned from pointed ear to pointed ear.
“Huh!” The human sneered. “Like Orion gootch doesn't smell!”
“Not bad enough to knock knock over a Ram Python at 50 paces in the middle of a swamp, it doesn't!” The little merc japed at his lumbering companion.
Had Ro'ghal-ikar possessed less discipline, he may have allowed himself to sneer in contempt. But sneering was a waste of effort when it could not be seen and reflected poor self control. One did not reach Ro'ghal's level of achievement along the path to Rota Makibi without developing superb self-mastery and no one rose to command a respected mercenary unit by wasting effort.
So his face remained impassive despite being contained within the all-enclosing helmet of a fully sealed suit of combat armor as he listened to the stream of crude, braying vulgarities that passed for conversation between the two fools who passed themselves off as professional soldiers. Even tho he was crouched under the surface of a small, dirty lake the sensitive antenna microphone that extended from his helmet picked up the inane and offensive prattle easily, just as another acoustic sensor had moments ago, giving him more than enough time to slip beneath the surface of the water to avoid the patrol.
Being submerged in water did not affect his respiration as he could no more or less breathe the water surrounding him then he could the oxy-nitro atmosphere above it. His armor supplied him with a measured amount of methanated gas that was an acceptable substitute for the air of distant Eridine.
Despite his rigid discipline, the Eridani warrior permitted himself a moment of private amusement by imagining it had been unnecessary to hide from the enemy patrol. He envisioned himself instead grabbing a pair of tree branches and holding them upright in his armored hands, causing the oafs to mistake him for a tree as they blundered by jabbering their disgusting blather.
To make the time spent hiding from the patrol spent as efficiently as possible, Ro'ghal voided the waste heat stored in his suit's thermal dam into the surrounding water, which easily dissipated the heat his armor had been storing in the dam to help obscure his presence from infra-red sensors. The thermal dam was nearly full and venting it in the air would possibly have been picked up by a sensor, assuming the enemies equipment was at least marginally less stupid and incompetent than the men it served.
Rising from the water as silently as a snake after a moment's silence indicated the patrol had moved on, the Eridani continued his task. His eyes and ears (with the help of the suit's sensory gear) scanned for a follow up patrol. Sometimes, a wise or clever commander ordered a pair of loud fools to carry out a sham patrol and had them followed by a competent team who used them as distractions. Even tho the enemy was unlikely to be wise or clever, Rho'gal's own discipline forced him to maintain a watch for the unlikely followup while his fingers deftly found the catches that held the pack he carried on his back secure and silently unfastened them.
Catching the pack as it began to slide free, he opened a specially made silent, waterproof seal and extracted a a complex looking assembly of metal parts that, after a few seconds of well-practiced manipulation became a small mortar unit.
Placing the mortar took nearly a full minute due to the need for finding a spot that met 3 criteria: It had to be flat and firm, and there had to be no significant foliage along the arc the mortar rounds would describe en route to the target.
Range was also a factor, of course, but he knew he was within the weapons effective range.
“Subvox map.” He sub vocalized and the suit's AI promptly displayed a transparent image in the upper left quadrant of his visor, his own position and facing indicated by a circle with a short, straight line poking out of it.
“Subvox calculate arc for mortar.” He had previously fed the small computer the ballistic data for the weapon he had designated 'mortar';. Likewise he had given the computer map cordinates for the intended target of the mortar's ammo. A flashing red “64' “ appeared under the map for a second. He set the mortar's angle to 64 degrees and aligned it to the target, then set it's timer.
A few seconds worth of final check satisfied the Eridani warrior that all was as well as he could make it. The mortar was set and not obviously visible from the path that the enemy mercs used for patrol due to it being the easiest way thru the jungle, there was no sign of any enemy being near enough to see it until it fired or, hopefully, immediately afterward.
His inner voice told him all was as it should be.
With a mixture of speed, agility and silence that testified to years of practice, discipline and physical training, the tall, broad, armored warrior loped thru the jungle towards his next assigned place.
Altanza Vre sensed the approach of his employer thru the jungle and signaled the assembled mercs with a hand sign. Then he tapped a button on his left forearm that produced a chirp almost indistinguishable from the local wildlife, but was digitally encoded to be a signal to any AI with the right acoustic sensors and programming.
“All clear” appeared on Ro'ghal's visor in green lettering. The font style told him it was an encoded acoustic transmission and a small image of a Zen Rigellian face told him it was from his medico. He slipped into the meeting spot -a large depression in the jungle floor- and was relieved to see all his team in place.. Their body language told him none had bad news.
“Ready?” The question was a formality, but good leaders observed certain formalities. A second passed without response, silence signifying the affirmative.
“Assault positions. Remain on plan A.” A dozen beings of various races exited the depression with the precision and silence of warrior ants exiting the hive.
“So you think the companies gonna pull us out now?” The young merc asked his squad leader.
The older man laughed without interrupting the long, deep drag on his marijuana cigarette. “Helllllllll no, you dumb kid. We got it fixed so there's noooo way in helllllll they can pull us outta here. We got us a good ticket for a while, why you wanna get outta here anyway?”
“Well, sarge,” the youth replied, taking advantage of his superior's stoned state to ask questions without being yelled at, cuffed or assigned some pointless menial task to shut him up. “I mean, after we killed all them locs the rest ain't gonna bother the company or refuse to bring in the wax, so why they need to keep us here and keep paying us?”
The sergeant took another deep drag and smiled, the THC in his blood making him tolerant, even benevolent. Turning his head towards the newbie as he lay in his hammock and pursing his lips he blew a long stream of blue white smoke the kids way, then followed it with what he felt to be profound wisdom bestowed upon an acolyte by a sage adept. “See, kid, the company wants the wax that comes off those big leaves on those plants that look like short palm trees right? Now, the guy running the company, he thinks he's god, see? He doesn't want to deal with no petty little locs or anything, so he sends his suits to tell 'em he wants the wax and they'd better start giving it over.”
The vet turned his face back towards the ceiling of his squads barracks, took another slow drag, held it, then vented it and went on. “So they tell him to go cop a 'rachnid because he's such an asshole. Well, the suits don't like being told to go cop a 'rachnid because they're assholes, because they ARE assholes.” He chuckled at the 'clever' remark. “So they send us down to explain it to the locs.
“So we come down and tell the locs that each village has to hand over so much wax a week or else. Then we have to kill some to get the point across.”
He paused, then shrugged and went on “Way of the universe, kid, way of the universe.”
“So we stay a while, then pull out. The locs try to toss out the workers at the shipping port where the wax gets shipped off planet, so the suits call us back. Now we massacre a lot of them and they'll behave, for a while.
“But, see, here's the thing. Now they're madder then ever. It might take a while, but the first chance they get, they're gonna attack again, and this time it's gonna be a whoooole lot worse, yersiree, sure as shit they're gonna pull something someday. So we gotta stay here, waitin' and getting' paid to sit around waitin'.”
The speaker smiled at his audience. “Sweet deal, kiddo, ain't it? We got it set so they have to pay us to stay here eatin', smokin', wachin' vids and circle jerkin'. Ahhhh, the life of a professional soldier.” He chuckled for a moment and took another drag. “If only the slobs back home knew how suuuh-weeeet it was, we'd be hip deep in newbies.”
The young man's brow creased slightly. “But sooner or later, then...”
A trace of annoyance cut thru the sarge's mellow fog. “Yeah, yeah, sooner or later they'll try again. Most likely we'll kill a bunch of the ones who wanted to fight, then the rest go back to being nice little slaves.”
He turned to spear the newbie with a hard look. “And maybe they'll kill some of us, or all of us. If it happens it happens. You wanna live forever, kid? You're in the wrong line of work.”
He was also in the wrong line of work if he wanted to live to see sunset.
Ro'ghal felt a sense of satisfaction as he received the last micropeep that told him his men were in position and on plan A. The millisecond long radio peeps would likely be dismissed as normal static, sunspot activity, distant lightning or some other natural phenomena by even competent forces due to the time and effort spent on studying local natural EM activity and disguising the peeps as such.
The forces occupying the 'fortifications' he was preparing to assault were extremely unlikely to have even noticed a single one, or to even have any sort of comm sensor system running.
He studied the base one last time: 4 ramshackle barracks that, on Eridine, would not be considered fit to house mudig served as home for 50 mercs apiece. Another building of similar design but better construction serves as quarters for the 'officers' and the minor execs assigned to run the base. A last one housed technical and maintenance staff.
There were several storage sheds, mostly made of sheet metal and ionic bonding tape, that contained various supplies or held the wax extorted from the locals. Two were marked in black and yellow banding, one serving as a fuel depot and the other was apparently the bases arsenal.
A dome shaped prefab of dull silvery metal that emitted a constant plume of hot air visible as a rippling band of distortion as well as a neon pillar on IR was the bases main powerplant, situated near the center of the base. EM viewing confirmed high levels of electrical energy was inside. Another prefab, shaped like a blockhouse, sported an antenna array, making it the command and communication center.
Several light, all terrain combat vehicles sporting various antipersonell weapons were parked near what seemed to be a service center.
The whole base was surrounded by a 4 meter tall wall of barbmesh, the cables leading to the powerplant were clearly visible and it showed heavy electrical potential when viewed on EM. The barbmesh was topped with a coil of razorwire. A gate in the front served to allow vehicles passage and there were several metal doorways at various points that only opened from inside and swung outwards. Each was armored and had a viewslit and firing port.
The ground was covered with concrete from the base of the barbmesh to 10 meters in all directions. The jungle had been leveled by heavy movers for a distance of 100 meters originally but the edge had crept back nearly halfway, and grass grew thick right up to the concrete. There were coils of razorwire along the edge of the concrete and when one looked carefully one could pick out various sensor packages and mines in front of and behind the coils. Some lengths of the coils were mounted on retractable platforms that allowed them to be pulled in and swung out of the way if needed.
Even incompetents such as those in the base had to have buried at least a few mines in the ground between the concrete and the jungle.
An errant gust of wind stirred the foliage around him, and Rho'gal felt a moment of concern. If such a gust occurred as the rounds from the mortars were in flight it could affect their impact points in unpredictable ways.
Still, the Eridani knew there was nothing he could do about the wind, so he wasted no time or mental resources worrying about it. He would deal with the situation as it was presented to him, and a gust of wind would not deter him from fulfilling his contract with his employer. If the mortar rounds came down slightly off target, then he and his followers would adjust their attack accordingly.
A robot could follow a program and win a battle if all went as expected. True warriors distinguished themselves from automata by the ability to succeed when things went in an unexpected direction.
Rho'gal committed to plan A with 60 seconds to go until the mortars fired, and signaled final commitment with a coded micropeep. A hail of silent replies told him all his team had received and acknowledged the command.
He twisted and pressed a stud on his armor, triggering an auto-injection unit that sent a supply of a complex methane laced hydrocarbon into his bloodstream thru a surgically installed port. For roughly 6 hours he would not need to breath, which would be a good thing in the event his armor was punctured and the deadly, oxygen tainted atmosphere of the planet he stood upon seeped in. Likewise the other methane breathing members of his warband were doing the same, he knew.
The wind gusted again, hard and from the southwest.
The last few seconds ticked by as Rho'gal waited to assess the effect of the barrage and prepared his mind to quickly react to the outcome of the mortar's work.
The wind died down, slowly, fitfully.
The timer in Rho'gal's visor flashed as the final 5 seconds counted down.
Less than 1 second ofter the digits “00:00” displayed themselves the acoustic sensors within the Eridani's sophisticated armor amplified the sound of distant weapons fire loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to distract him.
12 seconds later, the first salvo impacted.
Sam Cline cautiously reached for the reefer sticking from Terry Harris' fingers. The sarge had apparently dozed off and the joint had gone out, sticking up invitingly from between the digit of his right hand where it lay on his sternum.
Just as his thumb and forefinger gently pincered the blunt, the lights went out and the air conditioner went off at the same instant a loud “KRAK!” was heard, followed by a scream of metal on metal.
Terry Harris had been a 'professional' soldier for most of his adult life, given that he had had no other option to escape from the rape conviction that was otherwise likely on his homeworld than finding a way off it, and the only way he'd found had involved joining a merc unit desperate enough for bodies not to ask questions or set standards.
His reaction testified to some actual combat experience. He rolled from his hammock, staggered under the influence of THC, then got to his feet an a massive adrenal surge neutralized the soporific effect of what had been his last cigarette.
“Shit, sarge!” The rookie Cline bleated “What the shit was that?!”
“Shuddup, kid!” Harris barked. “Maybe we got lucky and it was an accident at the generator shed or maybe-” Another KRAK! sounded, killing his hopes for an accidental explanation.
Rhogal was satisfied with the effects of the barrage so far. The generator was dead, its smoldering corpse screaming for a few seconds as the turbines ground against their casings Some of the barracks had been hit, but some errant wind or miscalculation or manufacturing inaccuracy had left one untouched.
Still, the mortars had 6 rounds apiece, and only 2 had fired. So far, all was going well. Discipline, patience and skill were yielding their usual dividends.
The third salvo landed a round atop the undamaged barracks. The exploding payload of crystallized, high density explosive shattered the roof and sent fragments of metal shrapnel downwards at murderous velocity. Of the 8 occupants only Sam Cline remained relatively unscathed.
A roughly triangular fragment of jagged metal had punched thru the back of Terry Harris' neck as his head was lowered forwards to don his helmet. The dark end of it protruded from the front of his throat. 6 other mercs had been hit by other fragments.
A well made and properly assembled barracks would've had a layer of mesh fixed to the ceiling to reduce the shrapnel produced by light explosive rounds landing on the roof.
Cline saw his sergeant drop and the blood pool under his face, and heard him gurgle once. As the vet's helmet rolled his way the newbie scooped it up.
It was lots better than his and had some cool gadgets in it. Harris obviously didn't need it anymore. Slapping it on he wondered what to do next. Going outside was bad, so was staying inside. “SO WHAT THE SHIT DO I DO NOW???” part of him screamed in his mind.
Men were spilling out of the barracks, many injured, some partially armored, some unarmed. Not one showed a trace of discipline or competence. The occupants of a guard tower engaged the rotary motor of their heavy gatling cannon and, after the barrels had reached maximum spin, began firing in the direction some of the mortars were firing from. Apparently at least one occupant of the tower had acute enough vision to track the incoming shells or some decent sensory gear.
Their firing produced a great deal of noise and a plume of ghostly fire in front of the spinning barrels. It did nothing whatsoever except chew up some jungle, kill a few animals and attract a missile, fired, Rho'gal was certain, by Gorgar, one of a pair of Ram Pythons in his unit. Gorgar could wield a heavy, multi round missile launcher as easily as as most troopers carried their assault rifles, which was nothing special for a Ram Python. He was also able to understand and follow orders carefully and use the weapon with good effect, which was something rather special for one of his breed.
The 6 pound missile sizzled towards the tower on a flawless trajectory and the resultant explosion sent 4 bodies flying from the center of the dirty yellow flash. The gatling cannon was pitched forward to land on the concrete beneath it, smoking from the barrels and shattered rear. A gauntleted hand clung to one of the weapon's twisted grips.
The platform remained, smoking atop the triangular pylon which wobbled but did not fall as the post atop it was blown to bits.
4 rounds had been fired with great effect. Rho'gal had estimated that the troops would have evacuated their barracks due to the hits they would have, hopefully, taken by now. Accordingly the fifth salvo was different that it's precursors.
Shells burst in the air some 20 meters above the base, detonated by tiny altimeter chips using solid state radar. The blasts hurled expanding patterns of small, dense metal fragments downward. While unlikely to be fatal, the wounds produced were likely to be debilitating.
In the interval between the fifth and final automated mortar salvo several of his men opened fire from the cover of the woods with long range heavy weapons. Pulse fire roared from the green walls of vegetation, followed by more missiles and some other weapons picked mostly for range and noise. Many of them seemed to find the light armed vehicles quite attractive.
Each heavy weapon operator was in a carefully picked place, covered by a pair of mercs bearing smaller arms to protect them from any patrols that might actually be tempted to run towards, rather than away, from an enemy with serious firepower.
Some of the heavy fire was delivered from weapons carried by the massive Ram Pythons, others were in the tentacled clutches of Phentari who could operate 2 such weapons simultaneously, thereby creating the impression of a larger force.
As the mercs panicked, the sixth and final salvo of mortar rounds landed on them.
The shells burst, complex reactions taking place within their payloads converted dense solid material into vast, billowing clouds of smoke. While not toxic, the visually impenetrable haze did irritate mucous membranes and eyes, not to mention throats.
The enemy, convinced the gas was toxic, began to flee in every direction. Such would not fit the plan Rho'gal had laid out with care.
“Come.” he said simply, and the 3 mercs accompanying him followed him towards the camp without hesitation. All were methane breathers, thru no actual plan but merely coincidence. A pair of tentacled Phentari and a fellow son of Eridine charged towards the nearest doorway into the compound, which was, by luck and nothing more, under the destroyed guard tower. As they approached the wire the Phentari each lobbed a pair of grenades.
The large canisters landed on target and burst, releasing clouds of Kayson gas that expanded nearly as fast as an actual explosion The metal wire was instantly coated with a thick, fuzzy layer of hoarfrost in the humid air, and the squad simply charged thru it. The metal coils shattered at the slightest touch, their temperature far below zero.
“Doorway.” Rho'gal said, and another Kayson grenade struck it. While shooting the door open would have been as easy it would have made more noise, tho it was unlikely to be heard in the screaming pandemonium the 4 warriors were rushing headlong into. Still, best to take as few chances as possible. Luck often benefits the careful and diligent, but she hates to be imposed upon or taken for granted.
“Flux shields on.” The Eridani activated his own as his companions in the assault unit did the same. The shields were effective, especially against the kind of projectile fire they wore likely to encounter, but tended to be conspicuous to even crude sensory gear and had limited duration, hence their activation was delayed till the last second.
Smashing thru the brittle armored door as if it were made of sugar, the assault unit carried on it's plan to end the 'battle' quickly and neatly, with as few loose ends and complications (survivors counted as loose ends and complications) as possible.
Active sensors in the mercs expensive helmets were activated, allowing them to see reasonably well thru the smoke. Anyone that came close to them, or vise versa, was cut down with short, controlled bursts of gunfire delivered with the care of a surgical incision. They neither sought out nor avoided the enemy but simply headed towards their goal in the most direct way possible.
It only took a dozen bursts of fire to see them to their objective, the base command blockhouse. Once there, every few score seconds some semi-competent excuse for a merc would come blundering and staggering thru the smoke in search of orders and receive directions to the afterlife.
While his 3 subordinates took up positions outside the doorway, Rho'gal used the last Kayson grenade he had available to embrittle the heavily reinforced armored door and then fired a burst from his carbine at the center. The doorway collapsed into a pile of frosted fragments and he leaped thru.
Pistol fire greeted him, a few rounds of laser fire and some projectiles being stopped by his flux shield or the hardened material underneath it. There were 5 men in the room, all human tho possibly some were gens, it was impossible to tell. With 4 careful shots Rho'gal killed 4 of them and advanced on the last.
The man was frozen in terror, eyes comically wide. A rank/ID badge bore the name “Lee Hauseman”. His mouth trembled loosely and drooled. Other orifices apparently were under no better control. A dark stain spread downward from the crotch of his business uniform. He raised his hands in surrender, laser pistol dangling uselessly because he'd forgotten to drop it.
Flipping the pistol from his trembling fingers with the barrel of his carbine, Rho'gal spoke in calm tones. “If you do as I say, I will not kill you.”
The man's sweating face broke into a hideous rictus as hope competed with terror on his features. He nodded madly, throat too dry and constricted to speak.
Lowering his carbine, the towering Eridani continued in a voice of reason, as if he were ordering dinner at a formal restaurant. “Use the communication system. Tell your men that a shuttle is coming to relieve them. Tell them to run towards the landing pad and they'll be safe.”
As would be expected, the command blockhouse had it's own power supply, it's systems were still fully online, as were the speakers mounted at the corners of it, no doubt.
The terrified exec turned, while keeping his face half towards the avatar of death behind him, and stiffly shuffled towards a desk. Swallowing hard to make himself capable of speech he began to carry out the commands he'd been given.
Sam Cline almost pissed his pants when he heard the crackle in the ear piece of his new helmet, followed by what he'd been praying for: Instructions, orders, someone to tell him what to do, and, best of all, what to do to stay alive.
He dashed for the door of the barracks, and ran headlong for the main exit. There didn't seem to be anyone shooting at him. The smoke wasn't so thick he couldn't find his way to the gates, which were thankfully in their usual, partially open position. Without power to the motors pulling them open would have required a group effort, and there was none of that in sight. The wire coils in front of the gate were naturally retracted and moved over to the sides, they would only have been deployed in event an attack had been expected.
The same commands blared thru the loudspeakers at the corners of the blockhouse and at the corners of the compound. Seconds after Cline had fled thru the gate, scores followed.
“Y-you said, you wouldn't k-k-kill me, if I...” the junior exec had given and broken his word as a manner of course many times in his career. Now he prayed that the tales of Eridani honor he'd heard were true.
Not deigning to reply, the warrior brushed the now useless human aside and ripped out the microphone he'd just used. There was no longer any need for it.
Looking down for an instant at the huddled wretch on the floor, Rho'gal was actually thankful for the need to wear a respirator in this planet's deadly, oxygenated atmosphere.
The stench of cowardice is an affront to the nostrils of any true son of Eridine.
He strode out the door, knowing it was secure because his men were standing at it. As he joined them one of the Phentari offered him an appraisal of the situation outside since he could not have seen the new developments from the interior of the blockhouse.
“Looks like the plan's working to 10 decimal places.” The squid rasped.
“Thank you.” his commander said simply. He could see for himself that the rabble was in full route, but still the report was properly made.
Activating a new comm channel, Rho'gal issued the final command he had prepared for the operation. “Arclight in 4 minutes.”
“Sanquinarious, Ravenous.” He used the names of the Phentari is his squad to signify the following was not actually a command or even connected with the mission, which was mostly wrapped up. “There's a worthless piece of meat in there.” His armored head inclined towards the blockhouse door once. “You might find it palatable after we've secured the base.”
As Rho'gal issued orders for the rest of the squad to converge inside the captured base, the two Phentari looked at each other for a moment. Soon, very soon, they would savor the taste of their favorite food. Tapered , rough skinned cylindrical tongues rasped the serrated edges of hard beaks, sharpening them in anticipation.
As he reached the 30 meter wide disk of hardened concrete that served as a landing pad for the supply and cargo shuttles, situated 1 kilometer from the base, Cline looked back. He was searching for signs of enemy pursuit but only saw other mercs from his outfit running, staggering and bleeding their way along the trail.
He wished for an instant they'd all drop dead so he could see if the enemy was following, but then realized if they were all dead the enemy would only have him to shoot at. He opted to try and keep the masses of them between him and the base, in case any fire came from it.
A faint sound like distant, rolling thunder came to his ear, and he looked up.
A dark spot was descending. He'd seen shuttles coming dozens of times to drop off supplies and pick up wax, but had never been so enraptured by the sight as he was now.
The shuttle was on a perfect course for the landing pad, and becoming larger by the second.
Then it angled upwards, and a dozen small specks dropped from it's underside. For an instant Cline thought they must be some sort of paratroopers sent as reinforcements, maybe in heavy mechanized armor.
By the time he realized what they were the rest of the mercs were already dashing towards the cover of the jungle. As he turned to run he saw them disappearing into the green and felt betrayed that no one had told him to run.
Then the bombs came in. Each released a cloud of rapidly expanding gas that looked like a spherical heat mirage rippling around it as it fell. A second later the warheads hit the ground, triggering small incendiary charges. The flaming bursts ignited the huge spheres of explosive vapor and air.
Those mercs inside a fuel-air mix, like Sam Cline, simply evaporated in the flash of white fire. Others were either crushed to the ground or flung along it until their corpses hit trees by the overpressure of the shockwave.
11 minutes had passed since Rho'gal-ikar had given the command to begin the assault.
James Rose struggled to keep his stomach from violently emptying itself as the Eridani mercenary commander lead him on a tour of the captured base. The damn alien was wearing a sealed helmet and couldn't breathe the local air anyway, so he didn't have to smell the ruptured, punctured or otherwise opened corpses, with their loads of stomach contents, internal organs and wastes scattered about.
Nor did he have to smell the stench of charred hair and skin that hung in the air. Local creatures similar enough to insects were already swarming over the carrion banquets the mercenaries had laid out for them.
The commander finally lead him to a barracks that wasn't too badly hit. Only one corpse lay inside, and he wasn't too bad looking, yet. He was face down with a cheap kevlar helmet laying upturned next to him.
Rho'gal stepped over the corpse who's name he neither knew or cared about and knelt at it's right side, hands on his upper thighs, spine straight as a laser beam. He gestured to a spot at the bodies left side.
Rose had been ordered by his father to do as the mercenary leader told him if he wanted a chance to advance in his father's company, so he sat at the indicated place on the floor, legs folded, and looked at his own reflection staring at him from the towering Eridani's black visor.
“Now, young one, tell me what you have seen here today.” The Buddon priest's voice was strong despite his enclosing helmet which had built in vox augmentation systems.
Knowing his future in his father's corporation may well depend on his answer, Rose thought carefully, ignoring the stench of voided bowels and the tiny, writhing... things swarming in the blood along the corpses neck. “I have seen a small force defeat a base manned by 12 times it's number.”
The armored head he looked up to nodded once.
“I have seen careful planning and skill defeat great numbers of the unskilled.”
Another nod.
“I have learned that size is not as important as ability.”
“What have you learned here?” The warrior priest gestured with a powerful arm to the base around he and his pupil.
Rose was unsure how to reply, but forced one out of himself. “That it is foolish to hire poor workers, or fighters, to save money as they can be easily defeated, thereby costing far more than they save.
“I have learned that when I hire a force to fight, I will hire one that will fight, not one that is cheap.”
Rose felt satisfied as the commander's head tipped once more and he raised his arm. He believed the warrior was about to rise, concluding the lesson.
The long, thickly muscled and armored arm of the huge alien reached forward and grasped the human's wrist in it's gauntleted grip, like a parent taking a small child's. Rose did not even consider resistance. The inner hand of the gauntlet was coated with a flexible substance meant to provide good grip, it felt like firm, hard flesh in the warm climate.
Leaning slightly towards the one he was instructed to educate, the Buddon priest said “Well done, young one. Now, just one more lesson to learn.”
The Eridine's four thick digits pulled the small human hand over to just above the wound that had killed Terry Harris less than 3 hours ago. “You have seen, and you have smelled. Now you shall feel.” He pressed the limp hand palm down onto the dead flesh, the rotting blood, the bit of shrapnel still protruding from it and the maggoty things that swarmed there.
Jim Rose had never exercised as much self control as he did right then, to keep from vomiting, trying to pull away or simply fainting away on the spot.
“That is death, young one.” The Eridine's voice was quiet and cool and it seemed to coil about the young executive in training like a constricting snake, making it hard for him to breath.
“Someday, perhaps, you will earn a position in your father's business empire that allows you the choice of soliciting the services of myself or one of my colleagues. If that day comes, young one, remember this: You are causing death.
“Even tho you do not pull a trigger or spill a drop of blood yourself, still you are causing death thru your commands.
Remember what death is, young one. Remember the sight of it, the smell of it and the feel of it. Remember all this when you consider employing someone to cause it.
“Will you remember?”
“I will, I swear I will never forget.” Rose wasn't sure who said that in such a calm, level voice.
A moment later the huge, irresistible alien hand released his wrist and the Eridine warrior stood. Rose took to his feet a moment later, still numb. As he stood he wiped his palm on his pant, once and very hard. He wasn't sure if the edge of the shrapnel had penetrated his skin but wasn't going to look until he was alone.
“Now then, young one, a test. What would you recommend to secure the wax the local plants produce for your father's corporation?” The Buddon priest waited for a reply.
Rose thought for a moment, focusing on the question helped him overcome the numbness that still centered on his fouled hand. After a moment he gave his answer.
“The people here, they ought to be happy we rid them of these bastards. I mean, you and your men killed them off. From what you learned talking to the locs, they ought to be real glad. So, maybe if we just sort of ask them for the wax, and offer them some fair pay, they'll harvest it for us. I mean, they use it to preserve food. OK, we can offer them bottles and airtight plastic barrels to store stuff in that'll work a lot better. They don't need it for anything that we can't give them a better alternative too, so I say we just deal with them, not come down and spend a fortune on a garrison force to steal it from them. Hell, it wouldn't been cheaper for those stupid bastards at Cupplescorp to do that instead of coming down here like they did.”
The human was going on a bit too long, Rho'gal noted. Still, he was calm enough for one who had just first experienced so much death. “An excellent suggestion, James Rose. Your father will be pleased with my report. You may return to the starship, we will do so after secruing any useful weapons or gear there might be here.”
'To the victor go the spoils' was an old saying on Eridine before humans had written language.
The human walked calmly to the door, then paused. Half turning, he asked “Commander Rho'gal, you once said this was going to be a 'QVQ' mission. You were busy at the time so I didn't bother you by asking what it meant.
“But now, I think I understand what that talk about 'QVQ' meant. It stood for 'Quality versus Quantity', didn't it.
The Buddon priest allowed himself a brief chuckle. “Indeed, young one. Very good.”
Jim Rose felt better as he walked thru the camp and towards the landing pad where a shuttle sat that would take him to the starship, where his quarters, a shower and new clothes were waiting.
The Eridine warrior had actually complimented him. He was very proud of that. He was also proud of the fact he'd gotten thru this without vomiting, which he'd felt like very badly for what seemed like a long time.
The mercs were all over the base, and a pair of Orion Rogues brushed past him, already laden down with loot. “Leave it to them...” Rose thought with amusement. One of the 7 fingered mers smoked a large, ornate pipe, the other puffed on a thick black cigar. The smell of whatever they were smoking was nothing short of heavenly to Rose just then, the deep, rich scent driving away the stench of violently killed bodies for a moment. “Just might try one of those on the way home.” he thought to himself, imagining a cigar in his mouth.
A pair of Phentari, backs to him, had a fire going and what appeared to be an improvised spit over it. He sought to avoid coming close to the squids, they had all an Eridani's bad points and none of their good ones.
A shift in the wind brought the smoke from their fire towards him. Another fine smell entered his nostrils. Something like a barbecue. For an instant he almost felt hungry....
One of the aliens moved over to the side to begin turning the spit, giving Rose a good look at what they were cooking.
As he dropped to his knees and his jaws flew open all he could think was “Awgoddammit!!!”
CODA
