This is the prologue to The Dark Horse, a science fiction story I began writing back in high school; my very first foray into literature. No, this isn't the original version, as I did an edit a couple years ago, the original being too scary and embarrassing to post. If you want to read the prototype
, ask me for it and I'll PM it to you.
It's old work, this one, but interesting maybe. Perhaps I may revisit? I have a lot more material that goes into the story, but for the most part it's hideous, to say the least.
I'll spare you the pain....for now.
"The Dark Horse"
The morning dew beaded off the old man's flight jacket like autumn rain as he rested in his underground lair. Traversing along the worn cracks in the dusky leather, a single drop coalesced at the tip of the sleeve, dripping ever so softly to the cold earth below.
His slumber rigid and brittle, the faint sound of the droplet snapped his senses awake, the old man jerking upright and quickly reaching to the weapon at his side. His wrinkled hand clasping the grip of his pulse lance tightly, his heart pumping arduously, the panic soon passed, as it always did, and he again closed his eyes and resumed his exhausted repose in the darkness.
Unnerved by the sudden jump, he bit his lip and moved his head to the side, glancing over to his display screen: no uninvited guests present on his perimeter cams. Satisfied, he rolled over and faced his back to the panel, hoping it would stay quiet...even though he knew it wasn't going to be one of those days.
The panel flaring up with a softly beeping signal, the old man quickly curled back to the screen and eyed the details: shadows flashing across the screen with short trails of blue following behind them as they closed in.
"Scerti." The old man mumbled under his breath. "Some never learn."
Gently reaching out with his right hand, he powered down his energy cells and the display, hoping that a power trace hadn't outlined his position to the enemy. But somewhere, deep within his subconscious, he was begging for one more good fight with his former masters.
Keeping steady, he reached down and again gripped his pulse lance, the other hand silently removing the rusty buttons that kept the ancient tool of war within it's troubled sheath. Content with the feel of the weapon, he eases back against the rocky wall, using a protruding rock to rub out an itch in the center of his back.
He could hear them, his would-be-captors, thundering down his cave entrance with their armored boots. Fierce screams and grunts in alien tongues echoed into the dark, but the now calm beating of the old man's heart gives them no pride. He's been here before, more times than he could count. He just wished that one of them would have the skill to finish what they started all those many years ago.
He could smell them now, the aliens being upwind from the old man's position. Like a pungent sulfur mixed with whiskey, the foul odor that the Scerti gave off was unmistakable. His thoughts wandered to the first time he ever met a Scerti, back in his youth. He also remembered the scar on his chin for saying something about it's scent ti it's face.
The pounding footsteps drawing near, the old man leaned forward and set a keen eye on the entrance to his burrow. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he removed a thin tactical HUD and placed it around his ear, swiveling the view screen over his eye. The dimly-lit combat sensor softly booted up and gave the old man some targeting reticles; thirteen to be precise.
The old man grinned to himself. Always brash, proud, and foolhardy, the Scerti were always the first to charge into a situation, guns firing, and generally were always the first to die.
Scratching at the dark with their elliptical pupils, the Scerti scoured the underground for their prey; the one who got away; the one who destroyed so much; the one who broke the back of the Dark Horse.
The old man watched eagerly as his masters were scattered into the wind, a fair trade for the lifetime he had endured. He left them broken, lost, and despaired with little or no recourse. Even the ability to return to their home-world had been snuffed. Just as he watched himself fall into shambles.
They were close now, within thirty meters of the old man's position. Brazenly, the aged one fumbled in the dirt for a small rock and flung it outside his door, the Scerti responding with a hail of plasma fire.
Ready, the old man shuffled backwards on his hands and knees and placed a hand on his display system. Waiting for the gunfire to cease, he then padded across the screen with his fingertips and activated his flood-lamps, blanketing his guests in blazing white-light.
Rasing to his tired feet, the old man removed his shock lance from the holster. Letting his left eye adjust to the light, his right was entrenched in his HUD display, reading the exact movements of all the Scerti in the next room. Satisfied with the results of his flood-lamps, he flagrantly stepped forward to the threshold of his den.
"Looking for me?" He said gently into the thick air of the underground.
Reacting to his ignorance, the dark-armored Scerti stand tall and bellow out their battle cries for the old man to hear. They are a bipedal species, generally towering over humans by a meter or more, and have long, sinuous arms and legs. Their skin tone can vary from reds to blues, but these were commandos; specially bred with a hazy black exterior.
Normally one would cower in fear at the sight of a Scerti commando unit, as few live to tell of them, but this one had seen it all time and time again. And this one was tired of running.
The closest of the aliens, an infiltrator by the look of his light armor, was the first to react. Charging towards his target he flicked his wrists and activated his plasma shredders: claws of blue fire that could melt even the strongest of steels.
Cocking his head to the side with an emotionless stare, the old man quickly reached behind him with his left hand and produced a small repeater pistol that was tucked into his belt. Showering the Scerti with searing bolts, the alien fell backwards onto the floor, it's thick teal blood spattering all over the floor and nearby walls, glowing slightly as it reacted with the open air.
Seeing their comrade die so quickly by the hands of a withered human, all the other Scerti in the room actuated their plasma shredders and attacked, some staying behind to apply covering fire with their rifles.
Dropping the pistol on the damp ground, the surprisingly agile old man readied his shock lance and took it in both hands like a staff, the serrated end humming to life and glowing with a faint whiteness. Dashing towards the aliens with all he had left to give, he mingled amongst them to avoid the marksmanship of the shooters, dodging the branding talons as they vehemently swung through the air in the melee.
His disdain for the monsters building, the old man reached into his utility belt and retrieved an adrenaline injector, violently slamming the needle into his thigh. His senses and reflexes tightening, the burning sensation that built up in his chest only further enhanced his hatred for them.
Dodging energy blasts and swinging fists of flame that singed the hair off his body, the old man thrust his antique weapon into his foe, shattering armor, slicing flesh, tearing organs, and breaking bone as if they were bundles of wheat. To no end was the suffering he inflicted on his former masters. To him, it was all he had left.
The invaders all but vanquished in a few quick moments, the old man stood still and took in a deep breath as the let-down set in; the adrenaline wearing off and his mind turning groggy. His eyes closed, he made out the faint gurgling of one of the attackers, still trying to draw breath as it clung to life. It's body shaking from both pain and the fear of the human demon, it was trying desperately to drag itself away from the scene leaving an ardent streak of teal as it went.
Stepping back to the one he left alive, the old man stooped down and gripped the rim of the alien's cracked helmet, forcing it onto it's back and pulling it's face close to his so he could read the fearful malevolence burning deeply in the Scerti's red eyes.
"Tell your Deity, when you see her, that I'm still here." The old man said, pulling away and holding his lance over the alien's chest. "And I'm still waiting."
With the message eternally burnt onto the soul of the Scerti, the old man dropped his lance down into the alien's heart, it's body writhing for a moment but then going still.
Removing the lance and cleaning the teal blood off it's silvery surface, he replaced it in it's holster and surveyed the room. It was going to take a lot of bleach to get rid of the smell and the stains. Not to mention having to get rid of the corpses. This was the fourth team of infiltrators to come his way in as many months, and subsequently his dumpster was getting full.
"Maybe later." He said to himself, not wanting to partake in clean-up duty just yet.
Catching a glimpse of natural light from the corner of his eye, he glanced over to the main ramp that led to the surface. Wanting some semi-fresh air, he gingerly moved up the dirt slope until he came to the opening.
The blueish sun feeling warm on his face as it broke into a new day, he took in a deep breath. The smell of old was ever-present as he scanned over the towering grey ruins of Thraxis, once the most colorful and vibrant ecumenopolis on this side of the Dark Horse.
His eyes growing dim, the old man was losing focus. Falling to his knees, he gritted his teeth and stared up into the measureless heavens, looking for answers amongst the retreating starry void.
Barely conscious, he spoke as if to no one before he fell into a deep repose. "Home sweet home....but isn't something missing?"