Cosmic Dash: Silver Spiral Stories

The Trench - Part 4

"We gonna grab anyone else, Captain?" Bradley asked.

Razaal stood up from the table and ran dexterous fingers through his thick, waxy strands of hair. "I don't want to risk more people than we need, and the more people to coordinate the more chances there are for a screw-up."

Caltu glanced at Razaal. "Are you certain we shouldn't bring at least one more person? Surely an extra set of hands would help with the work of modifying the trencher..."

Razaal grunted. "Alright, sure, let me ask."

Razaal climbed onto the bench that sat in front of the mess table. He glanced around the tent, and already a few eyes had landed on him, confused. His lack of visible insignia, as his armor rested on the floor, drew some sharp stares from an officer a couple of rows down. Razaal scanned the tent for any of the other soldiers from the 45th, hoping to land on one of his trusted men, but it seems most were probably catching up on some rest or out on patrol.

He shook his head and stepped down from the bench. "I can't see anyone to spare for this OP. We're better off that way."

Bradley leaned forward, funneling a spoonful of food into his mouth. "When are we heading out, Captain?"

Razaal scooped up his armor from the floor and started unlatching the chest plate. He looked at Bradley and smirked. "How about after lunch?"

Bradley nodded and shoved one last bite into his mouth. "Let me grab my rifle, Sir."

Razaal had met his fair share of Terrans, but Second Officer Carlos Bradley stood out among them. If they were as half as talented as he was, they were more than entitled to some space in the Silver Spiral. Bradley fought like Hell, as though half the galaxy wanted him dead, and for all that it mattered, he was right. There were rumors the Blassnauts were paying bonuses for Terran teeth, a grim welcome to life in the galaxy for the aliens from a distant star system.

The war wasn't as petty as a "fark you" to Terrans, though. The Alliance had serious issues and conflict was inevitable, since he was a kid back on Ocia. By day he'd help his father fish and trap the bounty of the sea, but by night he'd serve the elders who would sit around drunk, full of food, and comment about how prescient they were about the state of the galaxy.

Razaal never bought that crap. The Terrekin had their duties, after all. "Elder statesmen" he'd heard them described. The foundations of The Alliance came from the joining of the Terrekin Empire and the Oonooan's own dominion. When war broke out, Razaal had stolen his father's boat and sailed off to the nearest spaceport, ready to do his part. His people had been far too absent in all of this and should have worked to soothe the Blassnaut.

But they didn't. They retreated to their colonies and the Blassnaut grew more and more enraged by the Oonoans. Soon old wounds would open up and the galaxy would come apart at the seams. That's why Razaal found himself now leading for 45th on Cor 3. A relatively worthless world, honestly. No world compared to Ocia, of course. Cor 3 was valuable for the space it occupied: a launching point for the aid of more unique and valuable planets.

For Bradley, it was different. Razaal's war was for honor and making up for lost time... for Bradley, it was a fight for a place to belong. Terra was long gone and there was no way back in the meantime. Fight hard for a place is what it all boiled down to. Bradley was the first of the new generation of Terran, born into a temporary arrangement until the galaxy tore itself apart. Now here he was, working with Razaal, to make sense of this all.

Razaal flicked the switches on his Artis-300 pulse rifle. The 350s were supposedly on the way, but he has grown very comfortable with the 300. The switch arrangement on the forestock made engagements clean, allowing for fast switching between slugs, pulses, and volts with just a slight motion of the thumb.

Caltu watched Razaal fiddle with the switches. He spoke up, "It's a nice gun, right? I was in the peer review group who helped design the prototype."

Razaal turned to look at the Grey, one of the Oonooans, but everyone simply called them the Grey. Razaal nodded, "it's a good gun. The switches overheat sometimes, though."

Caltu fished through his equipment bag and pulled out a small bottle of oil. "May I?"

Razaal glanced at the scientist, nodded, and hit the safety. He handed Caltu the rifle and the Grey nearly fumbled it, unprepared for the weight. He steadied himself and held the butt just below his armpit. He plucked the cap of the bottle with his teeth and dropped some dots of oil on the three switches that controlled the fire functions. He rubbed the oil into the switches to lubricate them and handed the rifle back over.

"The switches expand when heated after heavy fire, so a simple heat dampening lubricant does wonders for that." He capped the bottle and offered it to Razaal.

Razaal took the bottle and tucked it into his utility pouch on his hip. "Thank you."

Bradley approached from camp. He carried his rifle over his shoulder and his barrel segments were slotted into loops on his hip.

"Alright, Captain. I'm ready."

Razaal nodded and slung his rifle over his shoulder. Caltu scurried over to his bag and followed suit. Bradley stepped ahead of them both, taller than either of them.

"We're heading twelve kilometers out, Bradley. You take point and sync your TM to the coordinates I'm sending you now."

"Yes, Sir," replied Bradley. "By the way," he continued, "Third Officer Morlin would like to make your acquaintance."

"Hm?"

Razaal turned and saw the Repton from earlier, the one who delivered the message from the General, approaching from the rear. His face appeared overly serious as he soluted Razaal.

"Sir, Third Officer Morlin, reporting for duty."

To be continued...