Chapter One: Robbing Hood

Chapter One: Robbing Hood

                Ceresia

                2718

The planet of Ceresia was, to many humans, a backwater. Its settlers mixed freely with aliens, and they had no strongly centralized government. Still, the Ceresian colonists seemed to exist fine for all that, and they made no bones about the fact that they did not want any Core-dwellers telling them how to run their planet. Ceresia was, in a word, a farming planet. The whole of the world dedicated itself to producing enough food to feed the entire Outer Colonies, and thus its citizens were thinly spread. Hundreds of miles separated each settlement, and their citizens had little contact with anyone outside their hamlet. But today, several of the settlements met to discuss a problem: theft of farm goods. In the past four weeks, seven farms from three different settlements had been raided. Every break-in had been the same: the thief struck between midnight and two in the morning. He had disabled triple-layered security on several of these occasions without effort. The things he’d stolen made no sense, either. Some corn, wheat, and a bit of rice, but then several alien plants grown only here on Ceresia. The farmers here had gathered with local security forces to establish a solution. One of them, a big, bearded man named Joshua Watkins, was speaking right now to the planetary watch commander. One of the farmers, a fourth generation immigrant from the Terran nation of France named Michal Deveraux, had caught the thief on camera, although that hadn’t really helped. All anyone had seen was a black-clad man vault over a six-wall, hack through a password locked electric gate, and then single-handedly trash seven security drones…without weapons of any kind. He had then broken into a store of likuyu, a plant used by several alien species to create Likunne, a powerful healing serum capable of regenerating lost tissue and, in high doses, regrow recently lost limbs. However, why someone living on the lam would want such a thing was beyond any of the farmers here. That didn’t stop them from complaining all the same. After all, the young, sandy-haired precinct commander had just recently graduated the Police Academy, and therefore was ill-suited to his position.

“The break-ins are related,” Watkins stated. “We have proof now that we have Michal’s footage. Are you going to do something about it, or not? It’s illegal for us to, in case you forgot.” The watch commander, Tyler Petrel, scowled at Watkins’ red face. It was true, what Watkins said; to prevent rebel activity, most non-hunting weapons had been outlawed. Still, these farmers were better-armed and trained than most colonists. Nevertheless, the farmers were without legal authority to use those weapons outside of an emergency situation, so there wasn’t much they could do here. What really got to Petrel was the fact that the Colonial Security Commission had left him alone with five angry farmers and told him to “sort it out”.

“What do you want us to do about it?” He challenged. “We’ve been looking for this guy, but we don’t have much to go on. We can’t even find where he’s hiding, and now you want me to put out a watch alert for ninjas?” Watkins surged to his feet.

“No, I want you to take this seriously! This guy’s ripped off seven of us, and he’s shown no sign of stopping. Farmers need tighter security, and you can make that legal. We’re losing money, and it has to stop.”

Petrel glared back at Watkins. “So you want me to authorize you to hire mercenaries? That’s what this is about? I can’t change the law. I’m a watch commander, not the Chief Elector.” Another farmer, the young Luke Ostrander, stood.

“No,” he answered, sending Watkins an angry sidelong look. “Watkins isn’t suggesting you break the law. All we want protection. And if you won’t provide it, then we will go to mercenaries. But that’s a tactic of last resort. Can you help us?” Petrel looked around uncomfortably. Truth be told, he did really want to help these people, but Command had stretched his resources thin.

“The Colonial Alliance is nervous; they’ve stepped up security at several military bases on this planet. Something about rebel activity. I’ve had to put out my entire force to protect those bases. If word gets out that I diverted manpower from them after something goes wrong, I’ll lose my position and probably face charges. I can, however, give you access to our arsenal. Can you muster enough men to make your own watches?” Michal Deveraux started at that.

“Watches? You mean vigilante groups? Are you out of your mind, Petrel?” He asked. “That’s illegal and you know it.” Petrel nodded.

“I know,” he answered. “But the law can only catch you if I let it, and I won’t. That’s the best I can do. Mercenaries will be noticed. This hopefully won’t go on record.”

                Watkins scowled at Petrel for a few moments before he sat down. “Fine,” he growled. “We’ll take the weapons, and we’ll deal with this on our own.” Petrel nodded and handed Watkins a microchip key.

                “This will give you access to the arsenal in Ward 3. You can take any of the non-incendiary weapons you need from there. I’ll get the staff to let you in.” Watkins and the other farmers gave Petrel their thanks and left. With them gone, the watch commander flicked a switch and opened a small holographic screen and resumed the surveillance video he had been watching before his heated discussion with the farmers. The thief hadn’t just raided farms; he had broken into one of the police arsenals four weeks prior and stolen several pieces of electrical technology. But that wasn’t what was bothering Petrel. The watch commander played back the security footage from the arsenal. The solid concrete building was ringed by two twelve-foot concrete walls, and though impenetrable by virtue of that alone. In addition, Petrel had seven squads patrolling the yard, and cameras and security drones as well. This particular footage came from the rear security cameras, where the forensics team had said the thief entered. The footage of the yard remained uninteresting for several minutes, until 23:47 hours. That was when he first heard something: the sound of metal crunching against a hard surface. Several times he heard it, and then someone appeared on the south corner of the wall. He was dressed in black, and he had two L-shaped sticks in his hands, with small, bladed protrusions on the back and knobbed ones on the front. According to Petrel’s Terran Police Command Academy training, those weapons were bladed eskrima sticks, and they appeared to be sharp enough to be used as impromptu pitons. The man slid them into holsters on his boots, and then he dropped over the wall without a sound. A twelve-foot fall should have at least incapacitated him, but the figure was immediately up and moving toward cover. That was when the alarm sounded, sending the courtyard into disarray. Police in riot gear poured out of the central barracks, moving to cover the weapons stores, but they weren’t what the thief was after. Instead, he moved into the generator building, where the circuit box and several other pieces of power-generating tech were hidden. He looked once over his shoulder, took something out his pocket, and set it against the door. Petrel saw a flash of light, and the door swung open. As the man stepped inside, the watch commander got a good look at the damaged, no, melted locking mechanism. Several seconds later, the man emerged from the generator building with an Excelsior Industries Miniature Generator in his hands. That was precisely when the riot team appeared in the outer courtyard, weapons at the ready.

                “This is the colonial law enforcement,” boomed the leader. “You are surrounded. Put your hands in the air and come quietly.” The man in black reached into his suit, which Petrel now saw was modified military blackout gear.

                “That’s not happening,” the man growled. His voice was low and raspy, with a hint of an Eastern European accent. When his hand came out, he was holding a black sphere. He flicked some kind of activation switch, and then tossed the device at the riot officers, who opened fire. Their bullets streaked toward their target, but they did not impact it. How exactly he did it, Petrel didn’t know, but the man seemed to vanish before his eyes. Petrel stopped the video, not quite able to believe what he was seeing. The man was frozen mid-jump, weaving in between the bullets at incredible speed. The commander sat back stunned. A man fast enough to dodge bullets, he thought. What have we gotten ourselves into? The shots whined harmlessly past the blurred outline of the man, and then all hell broke loose. The man’s device activated, and a massive sonic shockwave knocked the riot team off their feet and blasted a six-foot crater into the yard. It even staggered the thief, but only momentarily. Then, he turned and ran to the south wall. He slid the generator into a satchel he wore on his back, unlimbered his eskrima sticks, and punched them into the concrete wall. Using them like pitons, he scaled that wall and the other one before he vaulted over and vanished into the night. Petrel gave a low whistle and keyed his radio.

                “Command?” The voice that came back over was female and brusque.

                “What? I’m in the middle of something here. There’s evidence one of our top brass has rebel ties. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork this requires.”

                “Sorry, Commander Anders. I didn’t mean to bother you, but have you seen the footage from the Twelfth Precinct break-in?”

                “No,” Lacey Anders conceded. “Why?”

                “I want you to review it,” Petrel said. “I need you to confirm something for me.”

Precinct 7

Nature Preserve

 The black-clad man sat in a massive cave, a Khyber Limited Viper-class Molecular Disruption Pistol broken open on his knees. Around him lay an unfinished device, hooked up to the portable generator he had stolen from the police arsenal. The device wouldn’t generate a sustained power supply, but it would be enough for the jolt he would need. The power feeds from the generator were attached to a large metal reservoir, inside of which was a mixture of several of the crops he had stolen. The generator would provide the power surge necessary to catalyze the mixture, as soon as he obtained the final ingredient: Sylokian ethranium, a mineral commonly used in fertilizer. He would go to obtain twelve pounds of it tonight from a small co-op forty miles to the south. It was now 17:00 hours, according to his chronometer, giving him plenty of time. He slid two more spare power batteries into his disruptor pistol and snapped the barrel shut. He checked the position of his eskrima sticks and his machete. Finally, he picked up three breaching charges, full of inert explosives, and slid them into his belt. All in place, he thought. Good. The man shouldered a black satchel and exited the cave. No one in sight. He turned toward the south and broke off into a run through the preserve.

Location undisclosed

The man stared at the screen, not quite believing what he was seeing. The information on several rebel leaders scrolled in front of him. Each had a label beside the faces of the men and women: Deceased.

                “You’re sure?” He asked. Police Commander Lacey Anders nodded.

                “The reports just came in on Campbell, sir, and they’re not good. The media’s saying that it was a terrorist attack by a rival group.”

                “But you don’t think it was,” the man supplied. Anders shook her head. The young, raven-haired commander had graduated top of her class at the academy during the war. Upon applying to several police departments she had been hand-picked, not by colonial security forces, but by the United Human Military Front (UHMF) to join an elite strike unit called Counterforce. Their mission had been simple: neutralizing high-risk Conglomerate targets, no matter the cost. Upon returning to civilian life, however, she had found the state of things not at all to her liking. Human government was far too indolent for her taste; the politicians’ disinterested governance upset her to no end. It was this anger that induced her to join the Separator’s Coalition, which advocated for self-determination of planets. The Coalition had vigorously protested the rise of interconnected planetary networks across which political alliances often flowed, arguing that the colonies had become far too dependent on the Core for resources. Views like this had proved largely unpopular with many planetary governments, so unpopular that the Coalition had been outlawed on several worlds.

                “The circumstances surrounding his death were highly suspicious,” Anders explained. “He was meeting with members of several other groups in a warehouse in District 20 on Filius Major when it happened. The police said someone broke a gas main and dropped an incendiary device, sending-”

                “-the whole place up like a torch,” the man finished. “Any ideas who else was killed?” Anders went over to his holopad and brought up another set of images. She began to scroll through the names, starting with a pale-faced, humanoid alien.

                “Konell Firzaak, Gin’Luthet revolutionary. He had been interested in forging an alliance with us for some time. He is survived by four daughters and one son. His wife is already dead, and now he’s joined her.”

                “Is he of any relation to the Firzaak in your new task force?” the man asked. Anders nodded.

                “She was his youngest daughter and the only volunteer in the group,” she replied. She flicked the image away and brought up another image, this one of a human woman with grey hair and eyes to match. She looked to be in her mid-thirties.

                “Jennifer Thames. Earthling civil rights activist for several alien groups in light of the Uranus incident last year. She survived, but her condition is critical.” Another image, this one of a humanoid alien with purple skin and four orange eyes. Her nose was nonexistent, merely being skull-like slits in her face

                “Orphey Loucine. Known for her extreme, terroristic take on revolution. Her death has ruled her out as a suspect.”

                “Anyone else?” The man asked. Anders nodded.

                “They were all Coalition members, though, so I didn’t include them on the official casualty list.”

                The man sat silently for several minutes, processing what he had heard. “Miles Campbell will be missed. But why was he targeted, and by whom?” Anders shook her head.

                “No way to tell who yet, sir. But I think the reason for the attack is self-evident. One of the Coalition members was a government snitch, and he’s being blamed for the attack, with the motive being an anti-alien manifesto he left.”

                “A document like that could push away the moderates we’ve been working with,” the man said, picking up the narrative. “And a more radical lean to the alien freedom movement serves the Global Human Union’s end of establishing control over the colonies in the name of security. They’ll take us over one by one…”
                “…and intern the aliens as they resist,” finished Anders. The man nodded.

                “That’s right. Is your task force ready?” The young police commander grinned at him.

                “Almost, sir. I’m picking up the last member tonight.”

                Happy Hills Farmers’ Co-operative

                The men behind the desk were borderline asleep; nothing had happened all night, as they’d expected. The Co-Op was usually quiet on Saturdays, and this one had been no exception.

                “Come on, Derek,” the first man complained. “We never have anything to do. Saturdays are so slow around here.”

                “I know,” Derek replied. “Just once, we could use to have a blast around here.” And it was exactly at this point that they heard a deafening explosion from the back room. Apparently, someone had heard their request and decided to liven up the night.

                Derek was the first into the room, but he couldn’t see anything through the stifling haze of dust that had been kicked up by whatever explosive had been used. And it, indeed, had to be an explosive, as it had blasted a fifteen-foot hole in the wall of the co-op. Derek looked around the room, seeing debris scattered all over the floor.

                “What did this?” He asked. “We need to call the police force, Ronald.”

                “Already done,” Ron replied. “They’ll be here momentarily. Now, let’s find this intruder.”

                It turned out that the intruder they were looking for hadn’t just blown up a side entrance. He had detonated several charges there, and then calmly walked through the front door as though nothing was wrong. Granted, there was no one out there, and anyone present was not about to pick a fight with a lean, obviously muscled man with a piece of metal bolted into the side of his face. He walked past the counter and over to a door marked Fertilizer Storage! Employees ONLY! Placing his black-gloved hands on the card reader, he flicked a switch on his left wrist. A powerful jolt of electricity surged into the card reader, which short-circuited and exploded. The door’s lock clicked, and the man swung it open to reveal rack upon rack of bags of fertilizer. He went over to one large one marked Ethranium, drew a long, wicked-looking knife, and slashed it open. The man took a smaller plastic sac out of the black satchel he wore and emptied twelve pounds of the substance into it. That done, he took a length of wire-tie out of his satchel, sealed the bag he’d cut, and put the fertilizer he had collected into his backpack.

                “Police!” The click of a pistol behind his head immediately focused his thoughts. Amazing what a firearm pointed at the head does for the faculties, he thought snidely. The officer continued to talk to him. “Put your hands on your head and drop the knife.” He turned to look at the officer threatening him. She was young, with long blond-ish hair with a dyed orange streak behind her right ear and a few other colors mixed in. The gun that she had was a Triluxer Corporation Heavy Pistol, and she was pointing it at his head. One good shot would paint three different walls with his brains. He sighed.

                “I am sorry,” he said. “You seem like a nice girl.” He whirled with lightning speed, sending the knife spinning through the air at lightning speed. Before she could even pull the trigger, the gun went flying from her hand with a clang! As her eyes followed the gun, the man lunged forward and delivered a series of nerve jabs to the base of her neck, knocking her out cold. He picked up his knife and tucked it back into his belt. Looking out into the lobby, he saw that policemen were rushing in through the doors, securing the perimeter. He quietly swore and looked around for an exit sign. There was one on the south side of the building, where he hadn’t seen any police yet. Filing that away in his mind, he turned around and slipped into a side corridor. Reaching into his belt again, he pulled out a small plasma light, which he activated so that he could see in the darkness. He didn’t want to risk activating any of the powered-off glow lamps, lest he should be discovered. The hallways here were full of farming power tools, some of which he could have used in another life. Maybe once I get this last dose, I could settle down, he thought. And then, Who am I kidding? I’ll never stop running. Moving past the tool racks, he came to the exit door. The security protocols had engaged the standard hazard locks, but a solid blow from his metal hand shattered the lock mechanism like glass. A kick opened the door, and the man walked through into the night. Outside, he could hear the wail of the police sirens and the sound of boots hitting pavement.

                Probably for the best if I’m not here when they send in SWAT, he thought, and broke into a run. He had not gone more than twelve steps before he felt a thunderous impact between his shoulder blades and went sprawling. The satchel he wore in his back fell off and skidded to a stop twenty paces away from him. Another blow knocked him into the air while simultaneously flipping him on his back. He grunted and rolled over, regaining his feet and assuming a modified krav maga stance to face his attacker. The man in front of him had dyed blue hair, with cold grey eyes set in the middle of a burn-scarred face. He had a straight escrima stick in each hand, and he was twirling the one in his left hand with his fingers. They seemed to fit into holsters that he wore on each hip, and they were actually strapped to his green combat fatigues. It appeared as though there was a Taser attachment on the tips, but the man could not be sure.

                “You just made a terrible mistake,” the man in black growled.

                The blue-haired man grinned. “How do you figure?” He asked jauntily.

                “Because I’m going to kick you so many times you’ll beg for a punch,” the other answered. “But first, what’s your name?”

                “What’s it to you?” Blue-hair asked.

                “I prefer to carve the right name on a tombstone,” the first man replied, suddenly bolting forward. The blue-haired man thrust forward with his sticks, but they merely split the air beside his attacker. Black-clothes had stepped to the side at the last second and now he threw a lightning right elbow into the other man’s jaw, impacting with an audible crack. Blue-hair staggered, swearing and moaning in pain. Black-clothes followed up with a rapid series of kicks, low roundhouses, lightning heel kicks, and even a few pivoting knees in the side. Blue-hair managed to block a few of these, but the last three blows, a roundhouse kick followed by an elbow and a savage uppercut, connected solidly. The force behind the last attack, multiplied by the prosthetic arm’s sturdy construction, sent Blue-hair flying a good four meters. He struck the ground and slid to a stop on the black pavement of the mag-lot. Slowly, he climbed to his feet and spat out blood from his mouth.

                “You’re going to regret that,” he muttered. Then, he cracked his neck and ran at the other man again. His sticks extended another six inches, and two pointed electrodes appeared on the tips, sizzling with power. The first of the sticks, his left, came at Black-clothes’ head in a straight thrust. The second went low, aimed at his right leg. The black-clad man dodged the first, but second clipped his leg and he went down with 200 volts surging across his body. Blue-hair sent a knee into his chin, and black-clothes sprawled backward. His attacker spun the stick in his right hand and thrust it downward as hard as he could. Black-clothes rolled to the left, dodging the stick, and flipped onto his feet. The left stick was already swinging toward his head in a wide arc, and the right was again coming in low, this time in a thrust aimed at his stomach. He caught the swinging arm and avoided the thrust, then drove a hard straight-fingered jab into Blue-hair’s right elbow. Now, in control of his escrima stick, he drove the electrode probes into the man’s chest. Blue-hair yelled in pain and fell backward, his combat fatigues smoking from the massive electrical charge. He got up again and drove forward once more, this time with a series of rapid punches. Most of them slid off of Black-clothes’ block, but he caught the last with his left hand. Suddenly, Blue-hair felt a spasm searing pain as Black-clothes’ prosthetic slowly began increasing pressure on his fist. Blue-hair actually felt several bones in his hand crack, and he winced in pain. Black-clothes followed up with rapid-fire punches from his right hand, the last of which struck Blue-hair’s head and knocked him out cold. He fell backward and hit a grassy patch next to the lot with a soft whump. The black-clad man grinned coldly at the fallen body.

                “I hope that hurt,” he whispered, drawing his knife from his belt. Suddenly, the sound of police sirens belted out behind him. He spun and saw a massive searchlight beaming down on him. Men in black, blue and yellow outfits stood at least forty feet behind him, automatic weapons aimed at his head.

                “THIS IS SWAT!” A metallic voice announced. “You’re under arrest. Both of you. Put your hands on your head and get down on the ground. You will be taken to the nearest precinct for questioning, Do not, I repeat, do not attempt escape. You will be shot if you do.” Slowly, black-clothes let go of his knife, which clattered to the ground. He knelt and, as instructed, put his hands on his head. The SWAT officers dutifully cuffed him, along with Blue-hair. He was hefted to his feet, and the officer began reading him his rights.

                “You have the right to remain silent. Should you refuse this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…” But Black-clothes wasn’t listening. His mind was on the painful impulses spidering down his right arm and both legs. One dose, he thought bitterly. I just needed one more dose. Blast you all

Author's Note

Note spelling and grammar errors, and any other elements that you think should be expanded/improved.

Reviews

[DayDreamer]

great piece of writing, this could really become something bigger! I love that you've been brave anough to create a entirely new world, just be careful to make sure you consider everything..! spelling and grammar looks just fine, great description, maybe some short snappy dialogue would be good?
But overall a great read, keep going!

[Jake]

Thanks. I actually created an entire universe for this story. Earth is a quarantine zone right now due to the destruction of human activity (aided by alien tech). Man is spread all across the stars, and has met a variety of species. I am working on this story, but it's a lot slower than my fantasy one is.