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Lawrance G Lux

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Space Mercenaries
By Lawrance G Lux
Posted: Saturday, October 21, 2006
Last edited: Saturday, October 21, 2006
This short story is rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Recent stories by Lawrance G Lux
· The Christmas Season
· Slawn Green of Bellowed Wood--Unedited much
· Parable
           >> View all 4
What happens with cultural class of Alien races. This may turn into an eventual novel, and I would like feedback on whether it is a good effort to accomplish. lgl

Chapter 1

A bad Penny will always return, as they used to say. Do they still have Pennies nowadays? I will have to check that–a lot has changed since I have been gone. No matter. This is the story of my going, how it changed me, and how I came back. I am not even real sure I did come back; this might be the same place, yet again, it could be only someplace like where I left. Do you think I sound schizophrenic? You might realize I have a right to be, if you continue to read.

Some Drunk in a bar some nights ago claimed he was a Writer, and stated that novels, especially Science Fiction, should always be written in the Third Person. I checked around the bookstores in the Science Fiction sections, and found he was right; by the way, bookstores of today sure are not like the bookstores of before–is everything franchised nowadays? Anyway, I will write everything in the Third Person after this Introduction, though I will attest everything here is completely truthful; or at least I think so. You Readers will not expect this, though, and if I were you, I wouldn’t either; it is a real strange story. Mike Finley.

Mike Finley awoke instantly as was his want, and listened to the birds chirping shortly after Dawn. He knew he should get up, get dressed, and start on the Chores so as to get a shower before his mother had Breakfast on the table. It was a normal day of a normal kid growing up on a rural Nebraska farm in the 1950s, and Mike would not have chosen another life even if he had known of such a life. The center of his life was the coming Football game the following night; he being a Guard on Offense, and a rather good Linebacker on Defense (all things are relative, it being only a High School game in a B-conference). Mike thought of Denise Ferbacher for a moment, then jumped out of bed before he developed that Thought.

He dressed quickly as it was already Fall, and the farm house did not have Central Heating in those days. He descended the stairs quietly, but his Dad was already drinking coffee at the kitchen table, while his mother stirred pancake batter; he need not have worried about being quiet, except for his younger sisters. Mike greeted his mother, then said, "I will get started with the cattle, Dad."

John Finley grinned at his son (always a Morning person), and said, "Forget the Diary herd; I will handle the Milking this morning. Just take care of the Feeders, and feed the Chickens. I will do the Hogs after Breakfast. It’s your choice: We need a load of Hay from the other place this afternoon after school, or early tomorrow morning."

Mike slid on his Fall Work coat, and said, "The Game is tonight, and tomorrow is Saturday. I opt for tomorrow."

"Okay, but We cannot feed tomorrow morning without it."

Mike said, "I hear you, Dad. First thing tomorrow," as he opened the front door of the house. He stepped outside, and drew in a breath of air; good crisp Fall weather with temperatures in the early Thirties. He moved rapidly to the feeding pens, starting and maneuvering the little Feed tractor to dump two bucket scoops of Grain&Pellet mix from the front-loader into the feed bunks. He shut down the tractor, then walked to the hay wagon, where he broke and placed four bales of hay into the hay trough. He climbed down off the hay wagon, and remembered his sisters’ lambs. He headed for the barn door to fill the Sheep feeder with a couple pails of feed. He stepped into the barn, and lost consciousness.

Mike Finley never figured out how long he was unconscious. It could have been a few days, or several years. He awoke in a very different place. He was different, and he knew he was different. His Memory held what seemed to be History lessons. They revolved through his head after he again reached consciousness. The gist of the messages were very depressing.

An ancient Alien race was fighting a newer alien race, more vibrant and vital. The ancient alien race resorted to technological advancement to replace large numbers, they being somewhat of a dying race. One of the terrible consequences of their program of defense was the forced conscription of soldiers from three sub-Space alien races; the Reader can expect the rest, the human race being one of the races chosen for forced conscription. Mike Finley felt definitely alienated by the process, but the ancient alien race were not stupid; they never once revealed themselves to the Conscripts. They, instead, introduced a system of control where the Conscripts became very sick, if they did not follow Orders. They also made sure neither the Conscripts, or the alien race the ancient aliens were fighting, could ever find out how this was done.

It was not that the ancient aliens really mistreated their Conscripts. They actually made the Conscripts functionally Immortal, designing a body armor at the atomic level which could resist almost any attempt to penetrate it, except possibly falling into a Star or a Black Hole. The Suit automatically rebuilt the body to the original state of full development continuously, was powered by sunlight, removing the need for both eating and excreting. It actually groomed one’s body hair past a certain length, and set it in a relatively nice Wave pattern current to the individual’s cultural history. The only real fear remaining with the Suit on was being in dark place for a significant time, where a condition equivalent to starvation would occur, but even the shine of distant stars would suffice to keep one fed.

Does it sound like a good life? Mike Finley did not think so, even though the ancient race conscripted equal numbers of Sex partners among the Conscripts; Mike could later attest to the excellence of their choice. The real trouble arose from no children possible, no long-term Relationships (Orders, you know), and while they taught you to handle Star fighters; vehicle destruction could leave you stranded in Deep Space for long periods, though the Suits were equipped with Recovery signals. Mike was later to recognize that there might be Thousands stranded out There; either starving, or barely surviving.

Mike thought about the Uniform as well. It carried an assortment of weapons which were relatively effective against the Invaders, and which could not even be lost; they had to be in some Contact with the Uniform at all times, either their holsters, or your hands. Mike laughed as he thought about how little energy Space-fighting actually used; energy actually being in short supply out There, in any form useable of course. Star Fighters actually had to ram each other with their front ram, which would mechanically expand; tearing the rammed ship apart. Hand-to-Hand fighting was accomplished with sword, axe, or knife (power or Charge weapons had no sufficient recharging capacity), and battles were determined by the Invaders being killed, or by their own being rundown by lack of Suit charge. ..


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