The Runners

[Qwerty 42]

Both my friends and the teacher in charge of the creative writing magazine both say that they hate this, so I decided to bring it here before sending it to the scrap pile. If the scene transitition seem a little awkward, it's because the story was originally broken up into several sections. I added three asterisks to try to break up the scenes a little better. I will add the italics tags around ship names a little later

February 1st, 2100

Space is a decidedly dull and uninteresting place. Asteroids, planets, and even stars are but infinitesimal specks in the endless void of the universe. In a galaxy known by some as “The Milky Way,” and by others as “Haupturm,” there was one particular five hundred meter long chunk of alloy drifting through space at a slow crawl of three million miles per hour. Inside this chunk of alloy, named the TRS Monitor by its inhabitants, those same inhabitants were flitting between computer consoles.

Communications officer Amanda Lemos had the most stressful job on the ship next to Captain Sanderson and Lieutenant Andreason. She was constantly in a state of checking scopes for the alien Interceptors. Every time that she came up empty she knew it was just leading into another scope check until she saw the deadly profile of an interceptor and she and the Monitor would be ended in a fiery flash. Such was the way of life for the Runners.

Eleven years ago the Sol system had been invaded and almost immediately overrun by hostile aliens known as the Veraner. For six years a makeshift army had held the Veraner off of the Outer Planets, and despite fearsome casualties had held while the more industrial Inner Planets began a massive military buildup, but they knew that even the most powerful space fleet ever would not hold against the massive Veraner assault fleet. In 2095 the military had begun to take action, and it soon become obvious just how outclassed they were as time and again ships were reduced to highly expensive flying wrecks as they tried hopelessly to pierce the blockades. The war-weary citizens of the Terran Republic lauded their dead heroes- Enterprise, Liberty, and many more. The crews were conferred post-humus honors. At each funeral as another casket was added to the growing pile, the humans felt proud of their species.

However, if morale alone won wars, the Earthers would have already won.. The Veraner had established a stern blockade around every planet in the system and had destroyed almost every space station. Casualties among the Runners were running higher and higher as more and more ships, crew, and cargo were lost to the particle cannons. The desperate Terran government in Vaduz was pleading with its citizens to take personal ships and replace the depleted navy, but the refitted freighters and yachts were even more cannon fodder than the Monitor class. The outlook was bleak: the actions of the ships could only prolong the inevitable- the total surrender of humanity, the reduction to slaves on their own planets. So they fought.

A light blinked on Lemos’s console, identifying a ship approaching. Lemos looked up at her captain and delivered the news.

“Captain, we have an object approaching. Vessel matches flight characteristics of a Coffee-class Interceptor.” The crews of the Republic had created names for the deadly war machines, and the Veraner name for the lethal Aufaenger-class (which ironically means “benevolent” in the Veraner language) had been butchered time and again until the name Coffee was arrived upon. It suited the Republic: easy to say, slightly derogatory, and it sounded like the sort of term the roguish Runners would come up with. However, the crew of the Monitor was far from amused. When a Coffee-class Interceptor wanted you dead, there wasn’t a whole lot of room for debate.

“Change course five degrees to starboard, maybe the haven’t seen us yet.” The captain said in barely more than a raspy whisper. Monitor tilted, but he barely felt it as the rudimentary acceleration compensators kept him safe. Unless Coffee-class suddenly acquired the tendency to fly unescorted through hostile territory with sensors disabled, they were good as dead. Lemos gave the dreaded report.

“Interceptor is changing course to compensate.”

“Tactical, what choices do we have?”

“Well, we can’t hit them with a rocket from this range, and once they’re in range it’s child’s play for them to stay out of our firing arc, such as it is,” Commander Aurey Clinton said, “and unless you can think of some way for us to go ‘Kiloton level weaponry? Have at ye, sir!” we don’t have a lot of choices defensively either”

“Doesn’t matter. All hands to battle stations” Red lights and klaxons all across the bridge unleashed a cacophony of sound and light, embellishing the danger with which the crew was faced. Some were trembling with fear, others impassive with resignation. The lethal, blade-shaped interceptor continued to close; it’s hard gunmetal edges and single engine glinting in the starlight. A small barrage of rockets burst from the end of the Terran vessel, passing to the Veraner’s port. The projectiles detonated once they got as close to the Interceptor as they were going to, the odd piece of shrapnel scratching the dark hull. The engines of the Monitor flared in preparation for evasive action and the Veraner did likewise, preparing to close the distance. Their huge cannons swung about to target the Monitor, and the Republicans’ pathetic arsenal targeted their own adversary. A big scrap was shaping up, and the humans were prepared to go down fighting. Just one thing was on the mind of every single one of them.

And it was opening fire behind them.
***
“Brace for impact!” It was a decidedly pointless order. Firstly, there was no point in bracing onto anything if it was going to be a cloud of gas moments later. Secondly, the incoming cannonades were approaching at a relative speed of twenty times the speed of sound. Explosions rocked the Monitor, and huge pieces of the hull designed to resist reentry were blown into fragments the size of postage stamps. The first shot blew a huge hole in the starboard side; the second melted away the rapid-fire particle cannons on the bow. A smaller burst struck the engines, causing the Monitor to lose its rate of acceleration. In a vacuum, there is nothing to stop a ship, so its speed was kept. The engines still burned, as if in defiance of logic. With damaged engines, there was no way they could outrun the Interceptor any longer. The nimble ship zipped across the hull, launching surgical strikes that blew away particle batteries and rocket ports, and occasionally just firing off a shot for the heck of it.

On the bridge, chaos reigned. Communication officers were checking on engineering panels, only to be chastised moments later by engineering officers who were returning from weapons panels. Only the captain, Commander Clinton, and Lieutenant Andreason seemed to have some control.

“We have partial depressurization on decks 1, 2… umm… all of them. Airtight doors sealing now.” Came the report from Internal Command.

“We only have three particle cannons still operational, and they are pointing in directions completely useless to us,” said Clinton, “and once the backup power is online for the rocket launchers, they’d hit some piece of debris on the way out and detonate, which certainly wouldn’t help the situation any.”

“Primary and secondary maneuvering thrusters are offline. Tertiary thrusters are not responding. Forward engines needed to be shut down to prevent an antimatter leak, aft engines at 30%. We’re going to be going forward for a while.” Came Andreason’s sullen report.

But they were alive. This was not a particularly helpful thought when an Interceptor was eyeing them as if they were a large hamburger, but they were alive. And they shouldn’t be. This was curious, but more pressing mysteries were afoot, such as how they were going to stay alive.

“Captain, recommend immediate and total evacuation of Monitor” Came a request from some officer Captain Sanderson could not see through the cloud of smoke and the bustle of people.

“We’re not going to leave,” he said with an air of finality, “There is no way we’re going to let ourselves get captured. They’ll kill us. We’re going to fight.” Some crewers looked at him curiously, but they knew that the only way they were going to get out of this alive was to trust him.

Outside the ship, the Interceptor suddenly slowed and hovered over the dorsal docking port of the Monitor, still spewing the occasional shot. They were suddenly within range of one of the three remaining particle cannons. An intense barrage hammered one of the Veraner particle cannons, causing it to explode. The Interceptor unloaded a single shot, blowing the cannon off the hull of the Earth ship. The Veraner slowly descended.

On board the bridge of Monitor, everyone went quiet when Lemos gave a solemn report.

“Captain, they’re preparing to board.”
***
“Medical emergency, Room 1Q. Medical Emer- Room 6DY. Medmergecalency Roemerom 4gencyW.” Anthony Myles picked up his communicator and turned it off. Yes, people were dead or dying all across the ship. However, he saw no reason for the medical teams to continue to announce when they found someone apart from those “regulation” things. After all, one could simply throw, say, a grapefruit and hit three prone bodies in the chaos that had enveloped the ship. The biggest question remained why he was receiving the medical notices at all: as a Marine, the most he could do was shoot them. Despite their despairing condition, they were still disinclined to that course of action. He glanced down at the communicator and saw it was set to the medical frequency. He quickly changed it back to the Marine frequency. Most likely he was going to die when a cannonade hit the mess hall he was in, but he’d be darned if he was going to be turned into an improperly prepared cloud of gas. When the frequency changed he instantly heard a report.

“Marine teams Green and Blue to the Central Dorsal docking port. Prepare for boarders. Teams Red and Gold assume defensive positions around vital areas of the ship. We’re counting on you.”

Myles tore off down the hallway to the Central Dorsal docking port, scrabbling and clawing at the pistol holster to get said pistol loose. As soon as it came free he fumbled with it before it went sliding down the corridor. He glanced down at the Monitor emblem painted on his body armor sleeve with the Team Green border and told it exactly what he thought of it, but we can only assume he was speaking metaphorically. He picked up the pistol, switched it on to begin charging it, and pulled on his airtight battle helmet, and tore off again.

He was stopped only momentarily by a renegade grapefruit.
***
At the door that opened into the docking port, the amassed marines were crouched behind makeshift barriers with weapons trained on the door. Green Team was the primary defensive group, crouching and pointing the business ends of their guns at the door, with the support of about half of Blue Team. While the majority were in full Terran Marine Battle Armor, a handful were in regular cloth uniforms or, in the case of one poor soul, pajamas. Most were clutching the cheap, automatic Particle Rifle Mk. IIs, with a scarce few aiming the superior Mk. Is. Only officers like Myles were holding pistols. The remaining quarter of Blue Team was behind them in the hallways with their own weapons and even worse makeshift barriers, with the intention of shooting anyone who got through the chokepoint before they could cause too much damage. At this point, one might notice that these add up to the full Green Team, but only three quarters of the Blue Team. As it turns out, about half of the team was on a training exercise at the time of the attack, and only about half of those had gotten out before the room was destroyed.

The door began to slide open. Myles clutched his pistol tighter through his gray-armored fingers and took careful aim at the letter “A” on the door. The unsuspecting vowel was pulled away as the door opened. As soon as it was sufficiently wide, and the first surprised wyvern-like face was visible, Myles lightly pulled the trigger, almost as if by accident. He heard the sound of many more guns firing, the battle cries of the Earthers, and the bizarre yelps from the Veraner they had learned to equate with alarm and shock. His bright red shot joined the flood of scarlet, and the first Veraner was blown to smithereens before it could even move, and the crimson storm continued unabated, striking metal and alien flesh with an equal contempt. A second later, the Veraner returned fire with an intense salvo of their own, their shots sparking off the barriers, walls, armor, and burning holes through human bodies.

The bloodbath had begun in earnest.
***
The Veraner refused to yield. After their first confused response to the maelstrom of particle fire, they smartened up. A handful of Veraner stood as a grim vanguard, unloading endless volleys into the barricades the Earthers were hiding behind. As one fell, another would quickly step up to take his place, firing with his predecessor’s deadly determination. Behind this forward guard, another line stood, arming and lobbing antimatter grenades. Most of the explosives burst in front of the metallic trenches, shrapnel carving deep gouges in the barricades. Still others rolled down the hallway, alarming the Blue Team as the charge of the weapon burst into pure energy. However, a select few found their mark and sailed over the barricades, dispensing energy and metal into the defenders of the Monitor. Those wearing cloth were lacerated within seconds, spilling blood all over the armored defenders. Even the armor could not hold out forever, and soon they too were falling to a combination of rifle shots and grenade explosions.

Myles had found a nice little corner of his particular bulkhead/barricade, where he could fire on the door, and the aliens had only a small chance of hitting him. He watched as line after line of the invaders were neatly cored by the hydrogen bolts. No Veraner blood spilled onto the metal flooring, the heat from the weapons fire instantly cauterized the wounds. Myles took careful aim at a small metallic device hanging from the waist of one of the aliens: an antimatter grenade. As soon as he squeezed the trigger, his target leapt aside to dodge an automatic salvo from another defender. Anthony’s bolt continued, only glancing the casing on the explosive. However, it was enough. The magnetic seal coddling the temperamental antimatter collapsed, and the chemical expanded and annihilated the shell. Several of the invaders were blown off their feet, and Anthony’s target let out an alien moan as he looked at the smoking crater that had once held his digestive tract, before he collapsed on the ground. The grenade throwers, which had previously enjoyed the luxury of sitting behind the field of engagement, were now at the forefront of the fight. Most fell before their brains could even make the connection from The forward line has collapsed to Oh, crap. Those few that could grasp their weapons surged forward for just a moment before megajoules of energy were pumped into their bodies, melting armor and frying organs. Several of the Marines stood up from behind their barricades and began their slow, methodical advance toward the hatchway. Anthony put his pistol back into its holster and picked up a dropped automatic weapon from the floor, peeking his heard out from behind the bulkhead in much the same way as a rabbit pokes its head out of its to see if a fox is within the vicinity. The Marines were closing on the doorway, and the last of the Veraner were falling fast. More dropped from the hatchway, of course, but they were usually cut down before they even hit the floor. Myles saw his old friend Lieutenant Tyler Hammerson closing on one of the last aliens, pulsing energy in the Veraner’s direction. Myles quickly unloaded a small group of shots into the alien, and spoke over his communicator to Hammerson.

“That one’s mine, Ty.”

“Thanks for the help, but I had him under control.”

“Really? With aim that bad I’m surprised you hit the ground when you walk.” Hammerson let out a small chuckle that quickly turned into a yelp of pure terror as Veraner wearing armor the color of ebony dropped from the hatchway, and began to systematically slaughter every marine in the hallway through a combination of their mind-bogglingly fearsome reputation and their incredible talent.

The Veraner Hoecthovoir Commandoes. The very best of the best had taken to the field.

[Crazedwraith]

It's pretty good. Its a bit confusing at times, but deffinatly interesting.