Attack Planet: A Space Opera Novel Read online

  I march through Fortuna’s fields,

  ripping apart your perso shields

  my rounds pound you in pain,

  rocking my market value gain

  and when all is blown and done,

  I chillax under the Fortuna sun

  schmoozing with my deity,

  a damn fine galactic baby

  until the next killing spree,

  ‘cause love is forever free

  but if you need a gun for hire,

  you pay for my selective fire

  call me greedy, call me profit rider,

  fact is, I’m one hex of a Frontliner

  Frontliner™

  Profit over pride™

  Attack Planet© 2015 by Mars Dorian

  1

  No matter how many times Flint faced the beasts, a wragg’s stare still scared the bajookas out of him. Didn’t matter that he was observing this mid-bulk specimen from the blind. Almost forty-five meters away. The glow from the creature’s menacing eyes pierced through darkness and distance alike.

  Laser-eyes, eww.

  “Come a little closer, will ya?” Flint said.

  His finger hovered over the trigger, ready for the squeeze.

  Thanks to his rifle’s dayVision tech, he could see through the dimly-lit forest with ease.

  “Closer.”

  The wragg circled around the carcass which Flint placed as bait. But instead of eating or even dragging the corpse away, the wragg moved around and raised its teeth-infested mouth. It hadn’t noticed Flint yet, but these beasts had some kind of sixth sense. Flint could tell the creature was on alert by the stiffness of its movements.

  But why?

  Maybe it was his smell? Nah, couldn’t be. He had camouflaged his scent with wragg coating and even used its excrements to mask his human scent. Besides, he was almost fifty meters away, so what could it be?

  He didn’t know.

  But he knew he needed to stay alert.

  Flint zoomed in till he got a clear visual on the wragg’s head. When the creature stopped for a sniff, Flint pulled the trigger. The lance-shaped bullet whistled through the air. Impact, right next to the beast’s ear. The bullet ripped through the wragg’s head.

  Wragg, no more.

  He smiled, but stayed in the bushes and kept looking through the scope to make sure no other wragg was in the area.

  He waited one minute, two and then five. When nothing happened, he jolted from cover and snuck toward the target, rifle raised. Inspecting the area while moving forward with determined steps.

  Safe and secure.

  “Bloody-o.”

  Flint knelt next to his prey and drooled over its massive body. That beast was triple his body size and would feed his family for at least a week. He pictured the many ways Ma and Pops would prepare its juicy meat.

  Wragg stew. Wragg goulash. Wragg meatballs and pasta…

  Oh, the possibilities.

  Flint was about to disinfect his capture when a whistle rattled through a bush five meters away. He froze and turned dead silent.

  No way.

  He closed his eyes and choked down his salty spit.

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins and hammered his heartbeat.

  Yes way.

  He had fallen for their trap.

  2

  They say desperation makes for bad decisions.

  Well, so does hunger.

  Flint should have waited ten to fifteen minutes more in his blind before approaching the corpse. But hunger drove him into the danger zone.

  Stoo-pid.

  He knelt next to his kill as wraggs launched from the bushes.

  Ambush.

  Bloody-o.

  Flint immediately understood the trick.

  The wraggs had sent a single vanguard to check out the bait Flint had positioned to lure them in.

  Cannon fodder.

  Flint fell for their deception, shot the vanguard and left cover to become their target.

  The master-baiter became the bait, how ironic.

  Flint aimed his rifle and shot the wragg flanking him from the left. The bullet entered the beast’s shoulder and immobilized it. A limping wragg was a lame wragg.

  Slanked that flank, bloody good. Still four wraggs more to go.

  Flint bolted, reloading his rifle on the run.

  He took another shot. Miss.

  Of course.

  EagleEyes were rifles designed for stationary long-range use.

  They were rubbish for run ’n’ gun fighting.

  Flint sprinted as fast as his scrawny legs allowed.

  Run. Run. Run.

  No matter how fast he blitzed over the forest vines, he couldn’t outrun wraggs. Those creatures were the unofficial kings of the chase. Four legs and massive muscle builds made them so. One of the wraggs took pole position and leaped forward to attack from behind. Flint punched the creature’s face with the butt of his rifle. It spiraled down and shook its yap. That would buy him at least seconds of survival. Three and a half wraggs to go. Flint altered course for a low tree and wrapped it monkey-style. He climbed up with his spiked gloves and hoped the creatures couldn’t follow. He hoped in vain. One of the wraggs anchored its claws into the bark and caught up fast. Flint sighed, reloaded his rifle and aimed meters below of him. The creature bit his barrel as he pulled the trigger. The projectile ripped through the wragg’s innards and the beast tumbled to the ground—Flint’s rifle still lodged in his mouth.

  Good bye EagleEye.

  Good bye self-defense.

  He clung to the tree, rifle-less. The two remaining wraggs scratched at the roots and tried to spider up to him. His sweat mingled with the resin of the tree and made for an extra-sticky experience. Flint peered around the tree and saw his rider two hundred and twenty-one meters away, near the forest clearance.

  That gave him an idea.

  He activated the gizmo around his right arm to launch the auto-ride.

  The trees were densely packed. It would require a small miracle to auto-navigate his landrider through the forest maze, but he had no other choice.

  Rider > activate.

  He steered the vehicle via the gizmo’s display. The rider entered the forest in slowmo and even scarped the trees on its right. Normally an easy task, but when two bloodthirsty omnivores were three meters down below you, scratching what the wragg mother gave them, not quite. When his rider came within ten meters, he tooted its horn. The noise echoed through the forest and caught the wraggs’ attention.

  Purr-fect timing.

  Flint jumped from the tree and landed in the bush below. The impact hurt but the adrenaline pushed back the pain—for now. Flint ran for his rider and jumped inside. The two wraggs stormed after him. Flint floored the gas pedal and took aim at the wragg closest to him.

  Hood, meet wragg.

  Wragg, meet hood.

  Killer creature or not, it stood no chance against the permasteel-plated front of the rider. Flint could even hear the squishy sound when it flattened under his wheels.

  “Sorry baby. Nothing personal, just survival.”

  He was so busy worrying about the wragg he just ran over that he didn’t notice his rider charging right toward a nearby tree. Crash ba-dang. Flint felt the impact energy shaking up his body like a meat puppet.

  Bloody-o.

  The hood remained somewhat intact, but now he was stuck. Worse, the biggest of the wraggs was still alive…comin’ to get him…

  Another day of war. Another day of life on Fortuna.

  3

  Flint reviewed his situation.

  He…

  1) Rammed his rider into the tree

  2) Carried no firearm
br />   3) Faced the wackiest wragg of them all

  In short, he was in a wragged-up situation.

  But maybe not.

  Because just like the killer creatures, Flint knew many predator tricks. Okay, only a few.

  Well, actually just one.

  He called it the Dead Ocelot:

  1) Close your eyes and flatten your body.

  2) Lower your breath and focus on some distant spot in your mind.

  3) Reduce your heartbeat till it becomes inaudible.

  Sounded easy, but required years of daily practice. Flint learned the trick from a commuting eRap messenger. It was supposed to slow down aging but also confused the crap out of wraggs.

  The creature crawled into Flint’s rider and inspected the human ‘corpse’. It sniffed at the lifeless body and spat out hissing sound effects.

  Because to the wragg, Flint was deadmeat.

  4

  No heartbeat, no commotion. Just stillness with zero emotion.

  The wragg licked his arms and drooled. Its spit burned like watered-down acid, but Flint kept his cool.

  He was a deadman.

  Fumbling around the seat which harbored a hunter knife. When the wragg licked at his feet, Flint jammed the permasteel blade into the wragg’s mouth.

  Man versus wragg.

  Back to basics.

  The wragg tried to bite through the knife, but its laser-sharp fangs couldn’t penetrate the permasteel, thank Fortuna. Flint thrust the hunter knife into the rear of the wragg’s mouth. He cut along the mouth wrinkles and advanced to its face. The beast waved its paws in vain. It squeezed its mouth muscles and swallowed Flint’s blade.

  Blessing or doom?

  Blessing for Flint.

  The beast choked and released shrill noises.

  Flint grabbed the beast’s body and tossed it over his side doors. He left his rider and stormed toward the one wragg that tried to swallow his EagleEye rifle.

  Well, it didn’t.

  Flint extracted his long-range baby from the wragg’s blood-soaked mouth and reloaded it. He ran back to the wragg mother choking in front of his rider. The creature spasmed as the hunter knife stuck in its gamut prevented air from coming in. It looked as if it slit its throat from the inside out.

  What a sucky way to suffer, Flint thought.

  Even though it tried to kill him, he felt compassion for the creature. It was after all a hunter, just like him, trying to survive in this harsh world. It was time to give it a hunter-worthy death. Flint aimed his rifle at the wragg’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Over and out.

  He carried the creature back to his rider, together with its beasty brothers.

  About time. His stomach roared a riot. It had been almost ten and a half days since Flint chewed on real meat. He was on the verge of getting hangry. So he hurried up—Flint tied the creatures’ legs, sprayed ‘em with a disinfection solution and wrapped the bodies with plastosheen planes to contain the bleeding and to protect the meat from flies. When all was packed and done, he reversed the rider and high tailed it out the forest. The second he escaped the narrowness of the woods, his field view was flooded with the vastness of the Great Meadows.

  A green ocean of grass blurred with the horizon. Flint had seen it a bazillion times, and he’d love seeing it a bazillion more. He accelerated his rider and whooshed over the emerald meadow ocean. The wrapped wragg corpses lay in the backseat, looking at him with dead, hollow eyes.

  He felt a tinge of mercy.

  “I’m sorry, lads and gents,” he said to the corpses, “if I had a choice, I’d stop hunting your kind.”

  5

  Flint roared his rider over the fields. Every bump on the grassy grounds made the corpses in the back bounce. Just one of the many downsides of tire-based vehicles—they were susceptible to the ground. If he had a glider, like those curved beauties from Airborn, he could dash over land and water alike with sonic speeds without feeling a vibration.

  Whatever.

  He wasn’t going to complain now—at least he had a vehicle.

  And he was alive.

  So, stop moaning, start cranking.

  With the chill wind brushing over him, he played his favorite band. Astroturf and their interplanetary hit single, ‘it’s a looong ride from home’. Flint knew the lyrics by heart. Probably because he listened to that song over 1,324 times. Still, it felt as fresh as the first time. The catchy rock melody, the deep voice, the jammin’ guitar riffs.

  Legendary to the L.

  Astroturf was one of the best bands his ancestors imported from good old Terra.

  Flint boosted his rider and sang in synchronicity.

  ‘Take me to the stars where the settlers have no race,

  where I conquer the farthest corners of outer space

  Man, I’m going

  far, far into the unknown

  Damn, it’s a

  long, long ride from home.’

  Flint’s real home was closer—only twelve kilometers to go, according to the display.

  Twelve kilometers before he’d unpack his catch and have it prepared by his parents.

  Wragg meat cooked with fresh herbs, served with drinkable water and satisfied smiles around the table. The thought alone flooded Flint’s mouth with saliva. He grinned and raised the volume of the Astroturf song. The band reached the last chorus, and Flint wanted to shout the lyrics. In the middle of the singin’, the drivin’ and the jammin’ beeped a call.

  A distress signal.

  —Chapter 1—

  Knock knock, who’s there?

  (a scav with too much weapon wear)

  6

  “Flintfzzzwhereffzzareffzyou?”

  Flint turned down the music.

  “Dad, I can’t hear you. The signal’s disturbed.”

  “Wherefzzzareyouffizzwefffizzunderattack.”

  “Attack? What? Who?”

  “Scavagesfizzzz.”

  Flint repeated his question. The noise swallowed it—fizz sound all the way. Didn’t matter. Flint understood the one word that did.

  Scavages.

  Bloody-damn scavages attacked his home.

  This day turned from terrible to terror.

  Maybe he misunderstood his father, but there wasn’t a single word on Fortuna that sounded like scavages. But why would they attack his home?

  They never, ever had ventured so far.

  No way.

  Hundreds of horror thoughts flooded his mind.

  Flint increased speed.

  His rider jetted a thunderous trail over the Great Meadows. Wragg hunting was nothing compared to scavage fighting, probably because he killed a dozen beasts but had never faced a scavage.

  Which was about to change.

  Unfortunately.

  7

  Flint pushed his vehicle to its limits. It was fast for a tire-based automobile, but in moments like these, he wished he’d access to an Airborn glider. Something that would float above the ground at the speed of sound.

  Wishing was whining, father used to say.

  So, buckle up and dash on, Flint told himself.

  He squinted and recognized his house from afar. The display on his dashboard calculated the remaining distance.

  93 meters.

  Almost there.

  Flint’s arm hairs erected as shots rang through the chill air. He recognized customized riders with badly-painted wragg skulls on their makeshift armor plates. The trademark look of scavages.

  Bloody-o.

  Flint decreased speed and brought his rider to a sudden stop fifty meters in front of his home. He drifted the rider sideways, grabbed his EagleEye rifle and used the rear of his vehicle as cover. Its permasteel plating could withstand volleys of standard rounds. Flint hoped the scavages had no extra tech up their dirty sleeves. With his digiscope on max zoom, he recognized at least seven scavages opening fire on his home. They tried to break inside, but his parents blocked the door with boards and shot from their windows
. On the second floor, his mother and father returned fire and brought down a couple of scavages.

  Yay.

  One scavage was stupid enough to leave the cover of his rider when a bullet pierced through his head. Flint smiled because he recognized who sniped the bastard. He glanced at the upper-left window of his house and saw the middle-aged women with the sniper rifle in her hands.

  Mom was a damn fine shooter.

  But the smile didn’t last on Flint’s face. Another group of four scavages flanked the house from the east side. They took cover and unleashed a volley of corrosive shots. The barricades melted away under the acid fire.

  Flint peeked over the hood of his rider, zoomed in and delivered a headshot to the flanking scavage.

  One down, a dozen more to go.

  Flint wanted to place another shot, but the trigger pull didn’t work.

  What the?

  Flint squeezed the trigger again but nothing happened. He hunkered down and pushed his back against his rider’s tire. Bite marks from the earlier wragg attack dotted the rifle’s barrel and upper receiver.

  Perfect terrible timing.

  Even worse, some of the scavages discovered him. And with no working rifle, he was unable to defend his family, unable to defend himself. The only weapon he had access to was his fist or the hunter knife.

  Yikes.

  Blade against a wragg? Risky, but doable.

  Blade against a horde of wild racketeers?

  Suicide to the S.

  A wave of shock washed over Flint’s body. His hands shook as the adrenaline strangled his veins.

  What now? He peeked over his hood and saw four incoming scavages firing at him. Their bullets clink-clonked against his rider’s armor.

  Sparks flashed.

  Parts shred.

  Hull plates could withstand standard ammo.

  But acid? No way. The armor would meld away in seconds.

  Worst day ever.

  Flint crawled along his rear and guesstimated the distance between him and the scavages. About twenty-five meters, he thought, but they were running so fast they’d reach him in less than ten seconds.

  Ratatata.

  A volley of bullets whizzed over his head. He evaded just in time and snuck back to the rear. These could be his last seconds, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.