Christopher Nuttall: A Learning Experience

Fnfian Horde WarcruiserShadow Warrior

Earth Orbit

“You are sure this is the correct planet?”

Alien Savant Cn!lss barely refrained from clenching his clawed maniples in irritation at his superior’s doubt. Subhorde Commander Pr!lss wasn’t remotely qualified to serve as anything other than an expendable warrior, at least in Cn!lss’s opinion, preferably one sent to charge over barren ground towards an enemy plasma cannon nest. It would have improved the genetic reserves of the Fnfian Horde considerably if Pr!lss got himself blown away before he had a chance to sire children. Unfortunately, the universe being what it was, Pr!lss happened to be related to the Supreme Horde Commander, a qualification that had ensured his promotion to Subhorde Commander. It wouldn’t have galled Cn!lss so much if he hadn’t been convinced that his superior’s arrogance would get his entire crew killed one day.

He hastily bent into the posture of respect when his superior’s claws started to twitch, threatening immediate violence. Cn!lss was one of the few Hordesmen to understand, on more than an abstract level, just how far advanced the rest of the universe — or at least the significant part of it — was over the Horde. Indeed, one of the reasons for his commander’s near-constant irritation was the simple fact that Shadow Warrior had been designed for creatures of a noticeably different build. The Tokomak Warcruiser had had most of its original furnishings stripped out, but most of its bulkheads and internal passageways couldn’t be replaced. If the Hordesmen tried, it was unlikely they would be able to put the ship back together again.

“The data we recovered from the Varnar was precise, My Liege,” Cn!lss said. “This is the origin world of their damnable cyborgs.”

He allowed himself a faint smile. Years ago, the Varnar had started deploying a whole new force of cyborg warriors onto the battlefield. Their enemies had been driven from a dozen worlds before they had finally realised that the cyborgs were derived from a whole new race, rather than any of the known Galactics. And it had taken months before the Horde had been hired to track down the homeworld of the new aliens and kidnap samples that could be turned into new cyborgs.

“This is a primitive world,” the Subhorde Commander snarled. “They don’t even have fusion plants, let alone a proper space program!”

Cn!lss shrugged, clicking his forelegs together. There was no law against trading technology to primitive alien races — it was how the Horde had acquired their first starships — but it was clear that the Varnar hadn’t bothered to share anything with their human slaves. Indeed, it looked as though they’d never attempted to make open contact with the humans, even though they’d taken humans from their homeworld. But then, given how effective their cyborgs were, it was quite likely the Varnar wouldn’t want to do anything to draw attention to the human race. If the laws against genocide hadn’t been the only laws to be universally enforced, he suspected that Earth would have met with a fatal accident years ago.

“This is their homeworld,” he repeated. He could have pointed out that the Horde was still primitive and yet they flew starships, but it wouldn’t have impressed his commander. Like most Hordesmen, the Subhorde Commander sneered at the Galactics, rather than admitting that the Galactics were centuries ahead of the Horde. “All we have to do is capture a few samples and take them back for study.”

He looked down at the torrent of information flowing into the computers. For a primitive world — and one that seemed to be caught in a socio-political trap that had prevented them from settling their solar system — there was an impressive amount of electronic noise flaring away from the planet. The computers could translate the signals, but the tiny fraction Cn!lss had reviewed made absolutely no sense. It seemed as though the human race was completely insane.

“This section of their homeworld is the most developed,” he commented, tapping one large land mass on the display. “It will serve as a rich source of educated slaves.”

His commander clicked his maniples in disgust. Education wasn’t something that most Hordesmen took seriously, not when they could be drinking and fighting instead. And besides, most of them had an unspoken inferiority complex when they considered what the educated races had done. It didn’t stop them taking and using educated slaves whenever they had the opportunity. Indeed, Cn!lss had to admit there was great potential on Earth, once they taught the humans who was boss. A few strikes from orbit and the humans would be forced to surrender.

But, for the moment, they had other priorities.

“Find me some humans,” the Subhorde Commander ordered. “And then dispatch an assault shuttle to take them onboard.”

Cn!lss bowed his head in obedience.

It honestly never occurred to him, or anyone else on the Horde starship, that the information they’d obtained had been rather more than just a little incomplete.

Montana, USA

“Absent friends,” Steve Stuart said.

His friends nodded in agreement as they sipped their beer. It had been a long walk from where they’d left the van to their camping site, but Steve had to admit that it had been worth it. Instead of going to one of the state parks, they’d chosen to walk out into the wide open spaces of Montana and set up a campsite of their own. Now, they sat around the fire and watched the flames flickering as darkness fell over the land.

“Absent friends,” his friends echoed back. “May they never be forgotten.”

Steve sighed, feeling — once again — the pain of loss. It had been seven years since he’d quit the Marines, seven years since he’d put his uniform away for good, but the memories refused to fade, no matter what he did with his life. Death was a part of military life, for good or ill, yet there was a difference between losing a soldier to enemy action and losing a soldier because politicians had tied the military’s hands. It would have been easier to take it, he suspected, if the enemy had simply killed his friends in honourable combat.

He forced the depression away and looked around the campsite. His brothers Mongo and Kevin, both taller than him, but possessing the same fair heads and facial features as himself, almost to the point where their faces could have been mistaken for triplets. Beside them, his oldest friends Charles Edwards — another former Marine — and Vincent Hastings, a retired Navy SEAL.

Military service ran in the family. The Stuarts had served the Kings of Scotland, then migrated to America and joined George Washington’s army, then fought in almost every war since the United States had won its independence. Hell, there had been Stuarts fighting on both sides during the Civil War. But now… in truth, Steve wasn’t sure if he could advise his sons — or his daughter — to go into the military. Defending the United States was important and there were few higher honours, yet… was it worth making such a commitment when one’s political leaders were worse than the enemy?

“He’s brooding again,” Mongo said. “Someone poke him, please!”

Steve smiled. He could always rely on Mongo to cheer him up. “I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it,” he said, quickly. “And I am not brooding. I am merely thinking deeply contemplative thoughts.”

“A likely story,” Edwards said. “Don’t you know contemplative thoughts are strictly forbidden in the Wolfpac?”