Praise be!
Yea, the first official retcon of Gunmetal Chronicles, and it is a doozy. I've felt for a while the precious metal in the galaxy, turgite, was kind of just, ehh...one of those throw-away ideas. I'm paying it much more attention, this time around, and hopefully, add another little cultural dimension to the world.
Without further ado...
“Teresk plate,” says Instructor Martes, holding up a four-inch-by-four-inch square of deep black metal in front of a training squad of four, “Toughest metal in the galaxy. Named for the Ruskie who first discovered how to forge it, Areka Tereskovna; this armor plate and all others like it are forged by the power of a sun-plasma smelters and high-yield lasers fed from fusion reactors the size of small buildings.” He flips the small piece of metal in his hand. “It will protect you, when nothing else can.”
He cannot see their faces, protected behind inches-thick layers of camouflage-normalized, flat gray armored helmets; covered in visible cameras, sensors, laser devices and dozens of unseen micro cameras; only a thin, horizontal strip of green-tinted, hardened gel plastic serves as a window into their TICA power armor shells. A ‘backup visual system’, as the joke goes.
Martes paces back and forth in front of them, holding the plate up still, holding their attention. They are young men and women, fresh out of their safe, warm homes; fitted into a tactical infantry combat armor system, designed and in constant state of upgrade and refinement for a war of survival against a merciless, alien enemy over their heads, upon the surface of their world, Galdon III.
Miles of barely-inhabitable but mineral-rich earth separate them: Reevor and Human. One above ground: dominant, frightening and implacable; the other, below ground, in manmade cities and tunnels of grand size, design and engineering feat; surviving, biding their time, fighting their own wars, and improving themselves until the time comes for their resurgence and revenge.
Volunteers, all, and professional killers he will make them; Martes has overseen this training batches initiation into the Valhallan mercenary service to this point. They have passed all the necessary neurological compatibility and synchronization tests to interface and handle MANMAC man-machine hybridization systems, and have proven themselves disciplined and capable enough to be trusted with a heavy, plate-armor system capable of individual destruction on a scale unmatched by anything previous than a combined arms platoon. It is still not enough; for the Reevor-the black armored, enigmatic aliens whom have wiped humanity almost clean out of the galaxy-remain far more powerful.
But the human race, and the young humans stood in front of Martes-eight-feet tall and weighing half-a-ton in their form-distorting armor-have not given up. They have learned from the Reevor. Observing and adapting their enemy’s systems, the TICA is but one of many Reevor-influenced systems. Humanity slowly becomes like their enemy, to fight their enemy on a more even ground.
Martes, unarmored and smaller than them, moves swiftly to stand in front of a trainee, staring into their helmet where he knows the biological eyes to be, he holds the teresk plate up in the man’s face. “This,” he says, managing to look down on a taller individual, “is your life, your blood, your new flesh.” He turns to the side and extends an arm out and up, motioning across the open bay. “It’s the only thing keeping you from a whirlwind of residual fire out there, on a battlefield upon which mortal flesh is an afterthought; cooked, flayed and torn apart by mere proximity to a weapon fired and missed overhead.”
Martes leans his head in closer, moving the plate aside, and stares into the green strip of the trainee’s helmet. “Do you trust your armor to protect you? Are you-are any of you-men and women of faith?” He looks across them all. “We may have lost our faith in a God,” he says, and holds up the plate for all of their inspection, “but let this be your new God.” He looks back to the man he originally posed the question. “So, do you have it? Faith?”
“Yes, sir,” the man answers, his vocalization filtered through crisp, emotion-dampening filters.
“Oh, really?” Martes asks with a smile on his face. He looks at the others. “Is anyone here not a fan of Teresk, then? Speak up now, or forever hold your peace.”
No one shakes his or her helmeted head.
“Fine.”
Behind Martes, a light-refracting tarp reels off, revealing an automated defense gun on tracks. The trainee’s full-system locks release the moment the gun comes online. Martes clasps his hands together behind his back, standing still, unfazed, as the gun opens up on the trainees, firing over his head.
The gun is an eight-millimeter heavy machine gun, and it peppers all four of them, caught flat-footed and surprised. Their armor takes multiple hits as the automated gun continues, mercilessly, focusing upon and knocking one of them into a backwards stumble.
Martes does not move. One of the trainees-their identities lost in the shuffle-pushes the stumbling one out of the line of fire, and gains the attention of the gun. They do not stop moving, however; sprinting away, outrunning the gun’s ability to track it. The remaining two rush the gun, flying past on both sides of Martes with enough speed to leave behind a rush of wind pushing his shoulders back.
The gun tries to track back onto new, critical dangers, but the first trainee to reach it, grabs the muzzle and holds it up, still firing, while the other one punches through an inch of steel and destroys the electrical power cell at the core of its case. Out of spite for their trainer’s dirty and dangerous trick, the one holding up the quieted gun yanks the weapon off its turret base, bends it in two, and flings it across the bay.
Martes turns his head, looking over his shoulder. Their plated armors are full of bullet holes, but not one has pierced through their shells. The two TICA behind him stare back at him, hateful, even if he cannot see the expression on their faces, he understands the posture.
“Praise be to Teresk,” he says, and smiles. “Blessed art thou all.”
Without further ado...
“Teresk plate,” says Instructor Martes, holding up a four-inch-by-four-inch square of deep black metal in front of a training squad of four, “Toughest metal in the galaxy. Named for the Ruskie who first discovered how to forge it, Areka Tereskovna; this armor plate and all others like it are forged by the power of a sun-plasma smelters and high-yield lasers fed from fusion reactors the size of small buildings.” He flips the small piece of metal in his hand. “It will protect you, when nothing else can.”
He cannot see their faces, protected behind inches-thick layers of camouflage-normalized, flat gray armored helmets; covered in visible cameras, sensors, laser devices and dozens of unseen micro cameras; only a thin, horizontal strip of green-tinted, hardened gel plastic serves as a window into their TICA power armor shells. A ‘backup visual system’, as the joke goes.
Martes paces back and forth in front of them, holding the plate up still, holding their attention. They are young men and women, fresh out of their safe, warm homes; fitted into a tactical infantry combat armor system, designed and in constant state of upgrade and refinement for a war of survival against a merciless, alien enemy over their heads, upon the surface of their world, Galdon III.
Miles of barely-inhabitable but mineral-rich earth separate them: Reevor and Human. One above ground: dominant, frightening and implacable; the other, below ground, in manmade cities and tunnels of grand size, design and engineering feat; surviving, biding their time, fighting their own wars, and improving themselves until the time comes for their resurgence and revenge.
Volunteers, all, and professional killers he will make them; Martes has overseen this training batches initiation into the Valhallan mercenary service to this point. They have passed all the necessary neurological compatibility and synchronization tests to interface and handle MANMAC man-machine hybridization systems, and have proven themselves disciplined and capable enough to be trusted with a heavy, plate-armor system capable of individual destruction on a scale unmatched by anything previous than a combined arms platoon. It is still not enough; for the Reevor-the black armored, enigmatic aliens whom have wiped humanity almost clean out of the galaxy-remain far more powerful.
But the human race, and the young humans stood in front of Martes-eight-feet tall and weighing half-a-ton in their form-distorting armor-have not given up. They have learned from the Reevor. Observing and adapting their enemy’s systems, the TICA is but one of many Reevor-influenced systems. Humanity slowly becomes like their enemy, to fight their enemy on a more even ground.
Martes, unarmored and smaller than them, moves swiftly to stand in front of a trainee, staring into their helmet where he knows the biological eyes to be, he holds the teresk plate up in the man’s face. “This,” he says, managing to look down on a taller individual, “is your life, your blood, your new flesh.” He turns to the side and extends an arm out and up, motioning across the open bay. “It’s the only thing keeping you from a whirlwind of residual fire out there, on a battlefield upon which mortal flesh is an afterthought; cooked, flayed and torn apart by mere proximity to a weapon fired and missed overhead.”
Martes leans his head in closer, moving the plate aside, and stares into the green strip of the trainee’s helmet. “Do you trust your armor to protect you? Are you-are any of you-men and women of faith?” He looks across them all. “We may have lost our faith in a God,” he says, and holds up the plate for all of their inspection, “but let this be your new God.” He looks back to the man he originally posed the question. “So, do you have it? Faith?”
“Yes, sir,” the man answers, his vocalization filtered through crisp, emotion-dampening filters.
“Oh, really?” Martes asks with a smile on his face. He looks at the others. “Is anyone here not a fan of Teresk, then? Speak up now, or forever hold your peace.”
No one shakes his or her helmeted head.
“Fine.”
Behind Martes, a light-refracting tarp reels off, revealing an automated defense gun on tracks. The trainee’s full-system locks release the moment the gun comes online. Martes clasps his hands together behind his back, standing still, unfazed, as the gun opens up on the trainees, firing over his head.
The gun is an eight-millimeter heavy machine gun, and it peppers all four of them, caught flat-footed and surprised. Their armor takes multiple hits as the automated gun continues, mercilessly, focusing upon and knocking one of them into a backwards stumble.
Martes does not move. One of the trainees-their identities lost in the shuffle-pushes the stumbling one out of the line of fire, and gains the attention of the gun. They do not stop moving, however; sprinting away, outrunning the gun’s ability to track it. The remaining two rush the gun, flying past on both sides of Martes with enough speed to leave behind a rush of wind pushing his shoulders back.
The gun tries to track back onto new, critical dangers, but the first trainee to reach it, grabs the muzzle and holds it up, still firing, while the other one punches through an inch of steel and destroys the electrical power cell at the core of its case. Out of spite for their trainer’s dirty and dangerous trick, the one holding up the quieted gun yanks the weapon off its turret base, bends it in two, and flings it across the bay.
Martes turns his head, looking over his shoulder. Their plated armors are full of bullet holes, but not one has pierced through their shells. The two TICA behind him stare back at him, hateful, even if he cannot see the expression on their faces, he understands the posture.
“Praise be to Teresk,” he says, and smiles. “Blessed art thou all.”