The day had started well enough. They, perhaps the worst sort of people to have been candidates for this, stood on a stage at a graduation. This stage was attended by masses of people, but a lot of them weren’t quite people like those on the stage. Indeed, aliens existed, it was the year 2801, and they were graduating from space Academy, beyond all belief, because they came from a curious year of 2016.
They wore our pride on our sleeves, as new Protectors of the Terrane Protectorate. They were to go forth and represent the values of dear old Mother Earth. This class of all-human volunteers were prime (for the lack of a better term) candidates for this initiative. They wore their uniforms, clean and pressed. Their new standard-issue matter manipulators, the greatest tool ever invented, on their hips. They shone in the artificial light of the place.
Their thoughts were turned to the future, not only for themselves but for mankind as a whole. They would be the ones to patrol the stars, to turn these wild lands into suitable sites for colonies to be founded, although the majority of humanity chose to stay on Earth. In all honesty, the thought occurred to a few on the stage as to wonder why they were being shipped out, as the interests of most civilized peoples in this day and age is to just stay on Earth and enjoy the 500 year period of peace that had been granted by the Protectorate. The logical thing to have been done would just be to patrol Earth, not jump ship and go wherever.
Nevertheless, the opportunity to go on an adventure in space was a temptation none seemed to be able to resist, given their presence at the graduation. The words of the aged woman at the podium were all but lost on this group of individuals, as they were rather generic. The graduating class all looked at each other. In lieu of their real names, which would cause quite a controversy when their names were listed as “Missing - Presumed Dead” from almost a thousand years ago, they used new callsigns to address each other. Some were pet names. Others were borderline insults. In the end, these nicknames became their new names, and their new identity. It was imperative, the general consensus was, that their secret must not be discovered by the natives of this time.
That was when all hell broke loose.
Without warning, and without a modicum of reason, massive, red-pink tentacles burst through the floor of the place. The elderly speaker was all but instantly killed as the slimy appendage squeezed hard. The audience, including a not-insignificant amount of non-humans, didn’t fare better. Panic spread instantly, causing many to stampede. After the initial shock wore off on the graduating class wore off, a synthesized voice rang in the ears of the class.
“Proceed to the evacuation ships in an orderly manner.”
The human’s definition of “orderly”, however, might differ from the voice’s.
With their boots thudding the sleek, white and gold metal of the floors, the Graduation Class of 2801, otherwise known among the other members of the school as Humans Adventuring Company, or HAC for short, made good use of the Joestar final technique. That is to say, they each did their level best to get out of the facility faster than the final battle in the infamous prank war between HAC and the Avians of the Avian Musketeer Corps. All those fun days were behind these people, now, as was the facility, should their feet move faster.
As they could see through the windows, the city that they resided in, New New York, was currently being destroyed by tentacles that were of similar sizes to the skyscraper that HAC was trying to escape from. This motivated them further to the ships. As they got there, their dismay at the general state of disrepair was emphasized because this was the place where old shuttles went to die. The disrepair of the once-gleaming ships was obvious. There was no way they were space-worthy, but HAC had little choice.
With no small amount of screaming, HAC boarded the ships. Having done so, they skipped the pre-flight checks and all decided on a random destination far from Earth. It was clear that Earth was done, if the AI voice was any indication.
They made their escape with baited breath, as the bright blue skies of Earth gave way to the twinkle of the starscape. As the FTL drive spooled up with noises no FTL drive ought to make, one thing was clear to the individuals who made up HAC.
They were not in Kansas anymore.
It had happened so fast. The details blurred together any time Warking thought back to that fateful day. He adjusted his red ballcap. The man from Malaysia was so very far from home, yet... here he was, in deep space. Warking’s current quarters could not have been more different, and yet... familiar. It was quite cramped, as was everything on a starship, and yet it was his.
He had his bunk, and his foot locker underneath. They shone with a similar silver sheen as the walls and the ceiling of the quarters. He had his desk, and his personal computer. It was far more powerful than any other computer Warking ever owned, and... well. At least Warking had all his games. Scratching his nose, Warking thought that he might get some shuteye before they reached their destination. However, it would seem that fate had other plans.
“We are now nearing Kaprinas II,” the shipboard AI announced without any emotion in its voice. ‘So much for that,’ thought Warking. He stretched, got up from his admittedly comfortable office chair, and got his gear on. Warking thought back to the ship he was on and the sister ships in the HAC. It was a curious things, these ships. Once upon a time, they were due for a decommissioning. Then, the HAC came along, and they were given a new lease on life, as they were refit and remade ready for whatever their new owners desired.
At first, it was very run-down, and the living conditions would not be enviable to even the medieval-obsessed Glitch cybernetic race. As time went on, however, the HAC gained access to the resources that would enable the creature comforts that they enjoyed. With these comforts, though, came new risks, such as the one they were taking now.
Warking grabbed his rifle from his bedside and went to the main area. It was the same silver as before, but had a few creature comforts that would be found in many a living room. A sofa, a few beanbag chairs, a television, a console, and some controllers. There was also a fridge, a fancy cupboard with all the rations that Warking and his mates owned, as well as the booze.
Booze was always nice.
Warking saw his fellow squad-mates already on the teleporter platform, eager to get this mission over with. The eagerness in the eyes of his squadmates unnerved Warking a bit, but then remembered what they stood to gain from this. It was not only a raid against an enemy of HAC, but it would net them and their friends a lot of loot. It was nice to be a good bandit. Instead of robbing civilians and cooperating with pirates, as regular bandits would do, the HAC raided pirate bases and helped civilians where they could. This would make them many powerful enemies, to be certain, like the Apex Establishment. They existed as a testament to the evils of Orwellian thought. That’s why the HAC made a habit of aiding Apex Rebels with arms stolen from the Apex government.
This raid would be the first of many in a new series of punitive actions against the oppressive government. Of this, Warking was glad the more hostile human supremacists of HAC could agree to these raids. He was one of the few who could hang around with these elements, which is why he was currently in their raid team. Of the team, Dominatus Imperator was one of the more vocal anti-nonhumans amongst HAC, along with Kelly. These weren’t bad people, Warking knew. They were just... odd.
“Fucking apes,” said Kelly. “Sub-human scum,” concurred Imperator. Finally, ClassyGeneral added, “Except for their women.”
Odd... people.
Brandishing his Ka-Bar knife, KaBar cut some potatoes into slices and threw them into the boiling pot. The American was alone on Kaprinas II, the ocean-dominated planet, as was his lot in life as of late. Scouting for HAC wasn’t easy, but it did mean he was busy. KaBar looked around. The sand was cool and quiet, the gentle rushing of the ocean threatening to lull him to sleep. Scouting may have been a tough job, but it did let him see the sights.
Including something that would cause KaBar to call in the cavalry.
The first part of the Scout’s job was to explore distant worlds. The second job was finding resources and settlements. In the case of the former, he would have called in a team of diggers and movers. The latter...
Well. The assault team would have a new thing to shoot up.
The target they would be going after that day was an Apex research facility. ‘An incredible find,’ KaBar thought. Capturing the facility and pilfering the secrets within would give the think tank inside HAC such a field day. That, and the think-tanks could potentially reverse-engineer what they had captured, and then turn that capture into better guns and armor.
While KaBar felt plenty safe in the nanoweave combat vest that kept him safe and warm, he still wondered if the think tanks could still really give him Spartan armor or something. Relaxing against his seat in the folding chair, KaBar looked around. The scene of the place was almost idyllic, the waves, the sand, and even the trees and brush cast in a gentle light of the fire...
And the majesty of the stars. For most of his life, KaBar had been living on a far-distant Earth which had rampant light pollution. Admittedly, this was a minor problem, but... on an alien world, almost untouched by human or alien hands... KaBar finally caught up on the view that he had missed out on for so many years.
It almost seemed to KaBar that the sky itself was a bowl of jewels. It may have been the alien atmosphere, and it may have been KaBar’s own imagination, but the stars twinkled and danced. Taking a moment off his admiration of the universe, KaBar took the small pot off the impromptu campfire, and let it sit. The smell of his meal was a wonderful companion to the free show that KaBar was getting. As dinner cooled, KaBar reached behind him and withdrew his pack from the green, one-man tent behind him. His secret recipe for the perfect mashed potatoes: salt and pepper.
Oh, and the cream cheese. As he worked his ingredients into the soft potatoes, KaBar let his mind wander. The wind was gentle, as was the waves that lapped the shore. He couldn’t see it, for KaBar had pitched his tent behind a sandbank just before the shore, but KaBar could still see in his mind’s eye the waves coming in and out. As he finished his meal, KaBar thought, ‘I could build a house here.’
Truth be told, he very well could. This planet, as well as many other planets around, were now considered wild space. It was a period of relative anarchy in the galaxy in the aftermath of Earth. Back at home, KaBar would have to do paperwork and pay money in order to even get the permission to get the building started, nothing to say of the material gathering and the work labor required.
But here...
KaBar took out his matter manipulator. The device was slightly gun-like in nature. It resembled an old earth pistol, but the grip and the trigger was where all similarities ended. The slide and the underside attached to the grip and trigger were metallic and of a faded yellow color, the same colors of the now-dead Protectorate. The slides were joined at the far end of the device with the business end of the matter manipulator. It could suck up whatever existed in the world, storage it, and even spit it back out in a controlled manner again.
The think tanks back at the HAC fleet called this device “the greatest tool known to man”, and they would be right. This tool would let him build the house without so much as a sweat broken. He could build anything, do anything. He could build a metropolis on this island if he so chose, or he could build a skyscraper, a castle...
Or he could just build a cozy little house. KaBar would have to get a teleporter unit inside to link it with the rest of the fleet, but... then again, KaBar thought, he could make a little bit of money. He could see it now. A little tropical resort, complete with hotels and tourist attractions. He could do it. Instead of having to sit in the sand and spy on hostile aliens with his binoculars, KaBar could sit behind a nicely carved desk, raking in the dollar dollar bills. Or golden square pixels, as was the currency of the day.
Leaning into his seat, KaBar fell asleep, thinking of beach babes and the surf.
“‘Sup, edgelord?”
A kick to his chair, along with the crude greeting woke KaBar as he fought to right himself. He looked at the horizon, and dawn was just creeping up around the corner. Yawning, KaBar impatiently mumbled, “Good morning, faggots.”
He looked up, and nearly flinched when he saw the familiar visage of the HAC Assault Team 2. They had chosen to wear, of all things, black spacesuits with white skulls etched into the visor for their choice of uniform. Even now, it was rather spooky to behold. The one in front, Classy, if his voice from within the helmet was anything to go by, asked, “Where’s the xenos, KaBar?”
“Over on the next island,” replied KaBar, as he pointed to the east. “The Apex had patrols on their island, so I pitched my tent the next island over.”
The helmeted figures nodded, and moved out, their broad spacesuit-boots sinking slightly in the sand. KaBar then had the thought to say, “Hey, guys. The think-tanks want this place intact, so don’t shoot it up, eh?”
A chorus of laughs was the reply. “Oh, we know,” said Kelly, as he drew his short sword.
Eddie was tired of this job. As he ate a banana on the short, the only such provision he would get in the month, he pondered on how he got here. The Apex was hired as part of the standard Miniknog procedure. He was a security guard for Complex #33BC. While Eddie did not understand hexadecimals, he doubted that the Miniknog had that many such facilities throughout the entire galaxy. But his was not the place to question. He didn’t want to experience first-hand what the Great Ape did to rebels.
Eddie was a simple soldier. He stood at the spot where he was allowed at the time he was allowed for as long as he was allowed to. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it wasn’t an ideal world. Nor was any other world, for that matter. At times, being a rebel appealed to Eddie. Being able to do what you do when you do it was an... intoxicating prospect. At times, the only reason Eddie didn’t defect was the lack of opportunity, or the risk involved with running away. They would brand him a traitor, and he and his family and everyone he knew would be suspect or even forfeit.
Having so many knives at his throat kept him in line. Eddie just hoped that one of these veiled or otherwise obvious threats to him and his wellbeing didn’t spontaneously come true. He had heard of “surprise inspections” which then turned to surprise executions. He doubted any of the indicted apex were guilty of any crime, but he also suspected that the Miniknog wanted to keep a sense of order, and a sense of the word of law being enforced, hence the executions.
If only things were different.
Then, as he sat, something emerged from the surf. As Eddie looked, he saw something that terrified him. It was as if the dead rose from the grave, and were coming to get him. The walking suits had a dread visage about them, as they draped themselves in the rotting flesh of animals and the occasional seaweed. They carried on them jagged swords and rectangular shields, with visages of various kinds of skulls on them.
Eddie dropped his banana in panic, and lifted his laser rifle to bear. The sound not unlike the cracking of a whip filled the air, and Eddie fired straight and true at these new adversaries. To his shock, the shields these space phantoms carried were enough to deter the red bolt of light Eddie had fired at them.
Eddie then decided to fall back.
Today was a good day for Harris. The project was proceeding ahead of schedule, and, word along the grapevine was that extra banana rations were on the way for their good work. More bananas was a good thing. Maybe he could even have a banana right now...
Harris massaged his sore hands, and swiveled in his chair. He looked around the clean laboratory, filled to the breaking point with genetic samples, incubators, heavy-duty computers, and even a few hydroponics bays for growing test samples. It had taken a great amount of resources to get this far, but the Miniknog will be pleased that the return on investment has been high.
Few know that the Miniknog were responsible for a lot of genetic changes the Apex endured within their last hundred years. Even fewer know of the secret behind the titular Big Ape, who watches all, and judges all. While Harris was privy to the former, he was still in the dark as to the latter. One day, when he had enough favor capital, maybe he could leverage his standing to ask that dangerous question, “Who or what is Big Ape?”
Without the favors, all Harris would do is get himself an early grave for speaking out so boldly. So, Harris would have to play the part of the law-abiding citizen, and hope for the best. His thoughts, and his sense of safety, were shattered twofold when he heard both the alarms and the sounds of armed conflict. Shots rang out from behind the white, sliding plasteel door.
Breath hitching up, Harris wondered who it could be. Terrorists from the Apex Rebellion? Florans from some savage plant tribe of apex-eaters? Or was it... them? Reaching into his lab coat, Harris drew his service pistol. It was a gift to him from Big Ape, and Harris was set and determined not to squander this gift now.
Harris listened for a while, and deduced from the continued sounds of struggle that the battle was not going well. The security that was dispatched hadn’t immediately taken on the threat and emerged victorious. That might mean that the battle would be prolonged by bloody losses and destroyed labspace... or it could mean that they were losing. Harris shivered. Agents of Miniknog, losing? Such a thought was inconceivable. Yet...
The door opened, and Harris realized he might not have made the best tactical decision to stand so close to it. His fears were confirmed when he had a black-stained blade shoved into his face. Having barely been able to dodge the blade, Harris overcompensated and fell over. From the prone position, he was better able to get a look at the adversary. His worst fears came true as the wielder of the blade pressed his dripping boot onto his chest. The faceless visage of the space suit seemed to stare into his very soul, and it racked his nerve to his very core. That the infamous raiders would choose his laboratory... it could not bode well for the Miniknog, or for anyone else, for that matter.
As he stared, he noticed the signature sound of the matter manipulator buzz. He looked around, and saw more of the suited figures spiriting away his life’s work. The repainted devices of the Protectorate hummed and buzzed as they disassembled the machines he had poured many hours over on a molecular level, which manifested as a white mist. The mist was then drawn to the manipulators, where they would be stored until they would be reassembled to a place of their choosing. Harris reached for his discarded weapon. Maybe... just maybe...
“What shall we do with this one, Warking?” asked the being pinning him down. “Are we taking prisoners?”
Harris followed his captor’s gaze to another suited individual, whom was taking down one of the electron microscopes. He simply shrugged. “Probably not,” he replied.
Before Harris could say or do anything more than widen his eyes and open his mouth to plead for his life and raise his hands in a placating manner, the human raised his armored boot and lowered it again, producing a result not unlike taking a sledgehammer to a watermelon, but with a great deal more crunching.
“Damn, dude. Didn’t think you’d get it on the first try.”
“Ick.”
Payday was always a good day. Warking settled into the group couch and watched the other members of his group play some old-earth videogames. Thankfully, a complete record of those were what else survived the destruction. A surprising amount of old-earth content was still readily available to the members of HAC, and that helped with their entertainment needs. Warking shuddered to think what might have happened had his games been lost.
They might have to do something productive, for one. Cracking open a cold beer, Warking took a swig. Thankfully, they didn’t need to do that. Personally, Warking was saving up his pixels from the various jobs that HAC had them do to hopefully refurbish and redecorate the ship. The cold metal walls were nice and all, but Warking intended to make it home. He already had some flooring and walling options planned out, but he had to still consider what sort of lighting that he would install in the ship to give a more homely appearance. They lived here, after all.
Might as well enjoy it. If only the other guys would chip in and stop buying booze from Paddle Steamer long enough to pay for the renovations. Warking took another swig as Classy fragged Imperator again. ‘Oh, well,’ he thought. ‘At least I’m not paying for the drinks.’
