"Something stirred within us, so long ago; when we looked upon the star filled sky innocent and unaware of the threats that lay beyond. The stars spoke our destiny.
"We colonized those distant worlds with abandon. Through our mastery of art and science, and our undeniable will to overcome adversity, we built a society founded on hope and promise. We discovered and studied the remains of civilizations that came before; we learned from their triumphs and their mistakes. We found new allies among the stars, and we used our technology to build servants, who became something more. We found that during our endless journey, we had become something more as well. Our future was assured: the rising star of a society on the cusp of apotheosis.
"Then came the Scorn, and their Prophecy, and their War; a Black Star rising to eclipse our own.
"So many colonies destroyed, so many friends and lovers dead. We have paid in blood to learn the true nature of the galaxy. We had seen horror and felt despair, but we were not yet beaten."
If I hadn't already disliked Slouch-O Productions after they nearly got me killed several dozen times, their melodramatic and poorly researched approach "documentary" of the Scorn War would have instilled a fair amount of loathing just on its own. The handful of lines above are practically tame compared to the rest of the series. Unfortunately, the series is also one of the few accounts of the war to be widely distributed, aside from classified military files.
I suppose the main reason I hate the series aside from its soap-opera tone is how I was portrayed in it. I've lost count of how many times the phrase "The Heroic Sir Vance Dawes" was tossed around. I'm not so modest as to deny that I was some kind of hero, but I was also a mercenary, and the main reason I did half the stuff they credit me with was because someone was paying me to do it, and most of the other half was pure self-preservation. The knighthood was heroics, I'll give them that, but I got into that mess in the first place by being a gun-for-hire. And if they'd stuck to that, and remembered to toss some credit to the other people who were also out there fighting and dying, I might have just groaned about the melodrama and moved on. Instead they erased all mention of a bunch of good people and whitewashed me into some kind of knight in shining armor (Though given how shiny golemtech armor could get if you turned off the camouflage and gave it some polish, I suppose they technically have a point).
So it's time I set the record straight, give credit where credit is due, and fill in some of the gaps Slouch-O left out when they made that awful series. And besides, I might as well get my memoirs written out before someone who has a score to settle gets around to tracking me down (speaking of which, never shove a mafia boss into a sewage processing plant, you would not believe how long those guys hold a grudge).
I'll also be drawing on a few secondary sources throughout my story, for clarity and exposition of relevant events. And I've also attached a glossary, since a lot of people won't be familiar with the military and technical terminology that's become second nature to me, or they may be from beyond the UC, and unfamiliar with elements of human culture and history.
My first encounter with the chain of events and shadowy designs that would ultimately lead up to the war was also my first job out on the frontier, but given how eventful my arrival on the frontier was, I'd be remiss to leave it out. It was March of 2368, and after seven years of mercenary work, I'd been allowed to pack my things and catch a shuttle bound for the UCS Blackstar. It was much tougher to get a Frontier Operations License back then, with memories of the Uprisings still fresh in the minds of many. If you wanted a shot at the lucrative contracts out on the edge of colonized space, The Powers That Be had to be pretty sure that you were going to be on the right side if another revolt broke out, which meant spending a few years in the more civilized portions of UC space, staying on the right side of the law (or close to it).
After several years of body guarding, bounty hunting, private security, and occasionally knocking some heads together as part of some mega-corporation power struggle, someone had decided that I wasn't turncoat material. I'd packed my stuff (both personal possessions and a collection of military-grade hardware) and booked passage to one of the colonial support carriers that worked to keep peace, civil order, and the human way of life. Sometimes that meant medical supplies and construction aid, sometimes it meant a few companies of Marines, and sometimes, it meant a few soldiers of fortune like me.
The Blackstar had a jumpgate installed aboard, but it was down for maintenance at the time, forcing me to seek alternative transport. I wound up on a cargo shuttle making a delivery run to the Blackstar. We were able to take the jumpgate network as far as the Magellan colony, and then we had to make it the rest of the way using the shuttle's jump drive. We were one or two jumps away when things went pear-shaped.
I was going over the email that had motivated me to try and get onto the Blackstar as fast as possible. Dynastar, a mega-corporation with considerable holdings on the massive starship, was having trouble in one of their offices, and needed a few mercs to go in and sort it out. I was checking out a few of the theories I'd come up with to explain what might have happened when I heard gunfire. It was only a short burst, of assault rifle fire by the sound of it. As I got up from my seat and moved toward the door separating the shuttle's small passenger compartment from the rest of the ship, I listened for any more gunshots. I heard none. Whoever was shooting had likely done so to intimidate the crew and hasten a surrender, rather than as part of combat. I'd have heard a lot more gunfire otherwise.
I reached the door at the same time as several other passengers realized what the sound they'd just heard was, and they started panicking. I tried the door only to discover it was locked, and was trying to decide how to get it open when the intercom came to life. Someone calling himself "Harry Hijack", gave us the usual pirate lecture, about how the ship had been captured, not to try any hero stuff, no one would be harmed if we didn't resist, and so on. I'd ran into pirates before (but not as often as I would in the next few years), and was disinclined to take them at their word.
The door and lock separating us from the crew compartment were both inexpensive, and since my lock picking gear was in the cargo bay with the rest of my equipment, I kicked it open, causing the door to smack into something on the other side of it with a fair amount of force as it flew off its hinges. I could have found a hairpin or something and picked it that way, but finesse was never really my strong suit and I was in a hurry. I stepped through the doorway, and saw two pirates on the other side. They didn't look very dangerous, but since they were armed and I wasn't, the guns made up for a lot. One was on the ground clutching a broken nose, and his buddy was a few paces behind him. Oh, so that's what I hit with the door, I thought as I stepped over the downed pirate and rushed toward the other one.
Pirate number two was trying to wrestle his arc cannon into position and aim it at me, but wasn't able to get the bulky weapon up in time. He had just gotten his finger inside the trigger guard when I grabbed the cannon's barrel and yanked it up. His wrist cracked loudly as I wrenched the barrel up to point at the ceiling, and his nose made a similar cracking sound as I continued shoving the business end of the cannon around and into his face. He staggered back, dropping the cannon and reaching for his sidearm. He clawed his amp pistol out of its holster, raised it and fired off a shot, but fortunately the pain from his broken nose and wrist was throwing off his aim, and the bolt smacked into the wall several feet to my right. Before he could correct his aim, I grabbed the gun and shoved it under his chin. His eyes widened as he tried to switch the safety on, but I found the trigger and fired before he had the chance.
I yanked the pistol out of the deceased pirate's hands and spun around to face his comrade. He was staggering to his feet, bringing his rifle around to aim at me. I raised the amp pistol and shot him in the face. As he collapsed, I checked the nearby area to confirm that the two of them had been alone. A quick search revealed no additional hijackers, leaving me a few minutes to plan my next move before someone noticed they were missing.
I spotted an opened floor hatch a few yard away, leading to what I guessed was the cargo bay and decided to check it out. The last thing I wanted was to have someone sneak up behind be while I was dealing with the other pirates. As I walked over to the hatch, I retrieved a rifle from one of the pirates, and gave the handgun to one of the other passengers (a Cycorp security guard, if memory serves), along with strict instructions to stay where he was until the situation was dealt with.
My guess about the hatch's function proved correct as I climbed a ladder into the cargo bay. Fortunately the bay was clear of pirates, though I did find an open shipping container, one that smelled like a fair number of people had been stuffed into it for a while. So that's how the hijackers got onboard. The old shipping-container-full-of-pirates trick, I thought. Clever.
After trying and failing to find the crates containing my weapons and equipment, I climbed back up the passenger deck. I searched the dead pirates for anything I could use, coming up with a few magazines for the rifle, a repeater heavy pistol, some body armor (irritatingly it was only a grade 3 chestplate, rather than a full suit), the arc cannon my first target had been trying to wield, and a few other odds and ends. I considered taking the arc cannon in place of my rifle, but taking a indiscriminant weapon like that into a hostage situation seemed like a spectacularly bad idea.
The rest of the passenger deck was deserted, save for me and the passengers. I found the ladder to the next deck and quietly ascended. I found myself in the engineering section. It was laid out a lot like the company-sized dropships I'd become all too familiar with during my Marine days, with a wide open space housing exposed engine components, maintenance supplies, spare parts, tools, and sometimes spare cargo. The flight deck access ladder was nearby, down a small hallway at the far side of the engineering section. I could see several doorways down the hallway as well. They would normally be storage rooms for parts and supplies, but a lot of companies used them as crew cabins.
I spotted the shuttle's crew in one corner, being guarded by three more pirates. Thankfully they were busy keeping an eye on the crew, so I was able to sneak behind a bulky piece of machinery and line up a shot. How the pirates failed to notice a 6'4, retired Marine commando sneaking up on them, I'll never know, but they paid the price for their lack of vigilance when I opened fire. Two of them dropped in the initial burst, and the third died a moment later when I stepped out of my concealment and shot him in the head. One of the pirates stationed on the flight deck popped the hatch open and started climbing down the ladder, only to get shot in the back when he was halfway down. He fell off and hit the deck plates with an echoing clang.
I'd just turned around again to start releasing the crew when something slammed into my armor and knocked me to the ground. I rolled over, and saw the brigand I'd blasted off the ladder staggering to his feet, aiming his rifle at me. I spotted the outlines of body armor underneath his clothing, and realized how he'd survived my initial round of gunfire. I realized I wouldn't have time to draw and aim either of my own firearms before he shot me, so I tried something desperate. I grabbed the combat knife I'd scavenged from one of the other pirates, and threw it at my attacker.
I didn't have the first clue about how to use a throwing knife, let alone how to throw an unbalanced combat knife as if it was a throwing knife, but my opponent didn't know that. He dived out of the way and took cover inside one of the crew cabins next to the ladder. I quickly got to my feet and ran toward the pirate's hiding place. He was crouching just inside, then out of the doorway and started shooting. I scrambled behind the nearest chunk of machinery and returned fire. I hope this isn't something important, I thought, as the hijacker's riddled my hiding spot with bullets. We spent a few moments popping in and out of cover to shoot at each other, but neither one of us could seem to hit the other. Stalemate.
I remembered a trick my squad had fallen for during the uprisings, and decided to see if my opponent would also believe it. I leaned out and fire a few shots, then thumbed the safety on. I kept squeezing the trigger, eliciting only a series of metallic clicks. It sounded a lot like a jammed rifle. The pirate heard, and stepped out of the room with malicious grin. He took a few steps toward me, before I flicked the safety back off and emptied the clip into his chest. Grade 3 armor is tough stuff, but it isn't that tough. He doubled over and sank to the ground, a bewildered expression on his face. After he was down, I rolled him over onto his back and shot him twice in the head. "This time, stay down." I said.
I spent a few moments getting the crew out of their restraints and checking to see if they had any useful information. All three was unharmed, if a little shaken up. The pilot (cargo shuttles didn't have large enough crews that a traditional "captain" would be required) had managed to get a rough headcount, and according to him there should only be one pirate left. Since I'd cleared the rest of the shuttle, any remaining pirates would be on the flight deck. I worked on relieving the downed pirates of any useful equipment while interviewing the crew, and the shuttle's engineer paled as I hefted a few grenades. I asked him what the problem was.
"Please be careful with those," he said, staring at the grenades. "The flight deck has a lot of sensitive instruments and controls, and if something exploded up there….we might end up getting stuck out here." He started looking nauseous, though I couldn't tell if that was a result of seeing several people die right before his eyes or the thought of dying alone and forgotten in the darkness of the void. Maybe both.
"I'll keep that in mind." I said as I finished securing the grenades and spare ammo I'd recovered. I was tempted to leave the grenades behind, but something told me I'd need them. "You might want to take cover somewhere while I secure the flight deck." I told the crew. I walked over to the ladder and tried to think of a way to scale it without being killed by someone waiting at the top. I really wished that I'd been able to find my own armor, instead of having to rely on stuff I'd salvaged. Belatedly I realized that the loadmaster might have known where my equipment had been stored, but by the time I thought to ask her, she and the other two crew members had taken my advice and found somewhere else to be.
If I started climbing the ladder, the remaining pirate or pirates could easily shoot me while I was climbing and unable to easily return fire, and my salvaged torso armor wouldn't protect me. I needed something to distract my would-be ambusher. Some stun grenades, smoke grenades, a decoy, tear gas, a jar full of angry bees, something to get his/her attention and hold it for a few seconds. I was about to toss a frag grenade up the ladder and hope for the best when I realized something. I was in a room packed with spare parts, tools, and maintenance supplies. Let's see if my MacGyver skills are as good as I think they are, I thought to myself as I started digging around trying to find materials I could use.
I managed to find a few chunks of magnesium, a few inches of piping, and several rolls of duct tape. I set that stuff aside, and started tinkering with one of my grenades. I wasn't familiar with the exact type, but it was similar to the ones I'd been trained to use, so the process of removing the fuse was pretty much the same. Removing the plastic explosive material inside the grenade was trickier, but after a few tense moments I was able to remove a small amount of explosive. After that part, assembling the rest of my DIY stun grenade was easy.
Returning to the ladder, I judged the distance and timing for my throw. I carefully removed the pin from my improvised grenade, trying not to dislodge any part of the fragile device. I lifted my hand to let the spoon fly off, waited two seconds, threw the grenade, and ran for the ladder. The grenade went off, eliciting a long stream of various obscenities from above. I frantically scaled the ladder and climbed onto the flight deck, dodging a burst of unaimed gunfire as I scrambled out of the hatch. I felt a faint tugging sensation as I cleared the ladder, and suspected I'd just been grazed by a round or two. A quick glance around revealed the presence of only one pirate.
The flight deck was much larger than I'd been expecting. The pilot and copilot seats were just where I'd thought they would be, crammed up near the windows and surrounded my various buttons, switches, and various technical and status readouts. What I hadn't imagined was the open space behind the "flight" part of the flight deck. It wasn't a large space, maybe the size of an average living room. A few transport crates were stacked around the room, and combined with the layout and design of the room, created the impression of a small cargo bay (As it turns out, that's exactly what it was. Many transports had small cargo bays built into an easily accessible part of the hull, intended to let the shuttle dock with a larger starship and offload cargo without having to land and open the main cargo door).
The pirate I'd hit with the flashbang had mostly recovered, raising his rifle and spraying moderately accurate gunfire in my direction. I crouched behind a crate and returned fire, getting my first good look at him as I did so. He was a fairly large guy, with a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times, and a collection of facial scars. What I was more worried about was the heavy grade 4 armor he wore. My grade 4 suit was nearly impervious to small arms fire, and while his suit had clearly seen better days, it would still be tough to take out.
I fired another burst, aiming for the joint between his oversized helmet and his torso armor, but missed, hitting his shoulder instead. Before I could adjust my aim, my rifle jerked back and nearly flew out of my hands. I managed to hang onto it, and prepared to fire another burst, aiming for one of the hijacker's legs this time. I squeezed the trigger and….nothing happened. Believing the rifle had jammed, I crouched down to examine the rifle, and my blood ran cold as I surveyed the damage. One of the pirate's bullets had slammed into the side of the rifle, punching through the casing into the gun's inner workings. The firing mechanism was completely destroyed, along with several other key components. There was no way I could repair the rifle, not without dozens of spare parts and several specialized tools. Ok, this is bad, but not unsalvageable. It'll be tricky, but I can take him out with my repeater, I thought as I reached for the handgun. It wasn't there. I realized with mounting horror that the cheap hostler I'd used to secure the repeater must have been sheared off as climbed up the ladder, and that the faint tug I'd felt while climbing had been the hostler getting ripped away.
I quickly checked the rest of my gear. I still had a knife, two frag grenades, and a half dozen magazines for my disabled rifle. Great. I can't use the grenades, and I'll never be able to cut through his armor with the knife. I need a new plan. I poked my head out for a quick look, and then ducked back down as a hail of gunfire almost took it off. "Come on out of there!" shouted the pirate. "I promise I won't hurt ya!" He continued, before breaking out into laughter. His voice sounded familiar, and after a moment I realized he was the one who had spoken over the intercom earlier. "Harry Hijack" would figure out I was unarmed sooner or later, and once he did, my chances of surviving this fight would be non-existent. I shoved that possibility aside and tried to come up with a plan. After a moment, I came up with one. A near-suicidal plan, but it was the only one I had.
I hefted my disabled rifle and shot to my feet, hurling the gun toward Harry. He staggered back as 14 pounds of assault rifle smacked into him, and I used the distraction to charge in and get close. Harry started bringing his rifle around as I lunged forward and grabbed onto it. I wrenched the rifle away from me just as he fired, sending most of the rounds into the cargo bay wall. At least a few rounds were on target, hammering into my torso armor and almost breaking my grip on Harry's rifle. As we struggled over the gun, I hit the magazine release and jammed my finger on the trigger, ejecting all remaining ammo from the rifle.
Just because the gun was out of bullets didn't mean it was harmless, however. I found that out for myself as Harry managed to break my grip on the rifle and slam the butt of the gun into my stomach. I staggered back, gasping for breath. I recovered and charged again, and this time I was able to knock Harry off his feet. I grabbed his helmet and started prying it open. Harry's helmet was a Modular or "flip-up" design, where the entire front faceplate was hinged (The design was descended from civilian motorcycle helmets of the same name). It was more comfortable, could accommodate more advanced optics and HUD systems, and the helmet was often much stronger than a conventional design. But it was also much easier to pry open a flip-up open than it was to remove a normal helmet.
By the time Harry realized what I was up to, I'd already gotten the face plate open. I snatched one of my grenades, pulled the pin, shoved it into the open helmet, and flipped the helmet closed just before the grenade went off. The explosion shattered the helmet's visor and sent a spray of shrapnel, blood, and bone flying out. The rest of the blast was contained by the helmet, fortunately.
"Ok everyone, the ship is secure. I'd appreciate it if the crew could make their way back to the flight deck, because I have no idea how to fly this thing," I announced over the intercom, after a few moments of searching for it. "Bring a mop."
After a few minutes of cleaning up, we were on our way. We made it to our rendezvous with the UCS Blackstar a few hours later, and I got my first look at the ship that would be my home for the next several years. The Blackstar was a colonial support carrier, and while I'd heard CSCs were big, I hadn't realized how big. Figures like "two miles from port to starboard, four mile from bow to stern, and dorsal to ventral height of three miles" don't convey the sheer scale of something like that.
Sadly, that moment is pretty much the only fond memory I have from the whole experience. The Blackstar sent over several squads of Marines after the shuttle crew reported the attempted hijacking, and the ensuing search held up our docking by almost an hour. After the ship was pronounced clear of pirates, everyone had to go through a debriefing session. Well, everyone except for me. I wound up getting tossed into an interrogation room to be harassed for a few hours. Initially it wasn't so bad, but then someone found my personnel file, and I had to deal with the usual range of awkward questions. "Can you explain this charge of 'Wanton Vehicular Property Damage'? How about 'Reckless Misuse of Heavy Machinery'? Wait, you leveled an entire town!?" And so on.
Eventually I was cleared of any involvement and released. Moving into my new quarters was as challenging as it always was, given how much equipment I'd dragged along with me. After all, no self-respecting soldier of fortune wants to miss out on job because they don't have climbing gear, thermal sensors, stun grenades or some other equipment that the mission requires (and as I discovered early in my career, a lot of equipment is very hard to obtain on short notice). So we tend to build huge stockpiles of every conceivable gizmo, "just in case". Anyway, after renting several hover-sleds and finding a cargo tram willing to haul them, I managed to get everything delivered to my new home.
I'd been able to get my hands on the lease to a fairly large living space, thanks to a few profitable jobs in the months before I moved, and the fact that someone in the Blackstar's housing office owed me a favor. Compared to planetary accommodations, it was only the size of small condo, but on a starship, even one the size of a CSC, it was huge. It had two bedrooms (one of which I'd converted into an armory), a bathroom, a decent sized living room, and a kitchen/dining room. I hadn't been able to get a window, and I wasn't a huge fan of the grey, bare metal walls, but I was still living like a king compared to most of the ship's residents.
Unpacking my equipment and possessions took about an hour. Assembling the furniture that would hold all of it took about 60 million years. As far as I know, mankind is the only species to create a gun with only 6 parts, and a desk with 70. I was giving serious thought to throwing my entertainment center out the nearest airlock when my computer informed me of an urgent email. Seizing on the distraction, I went over to my desk and had a look. The late and unlamented "Harry Hijack" (As far as I know, no one was ever able to discover is real name) had a price on his head. Ten Thousand credits, as I recall. I spent a few minutes checking to see if he had any close friends who might come looking for revenge, and came up with nothing. Good. My enemies list is long enough as it is. I thought.
A few hours later, when I was almost done moving in, a courier dropped off a package. Opening the box, I found it contained a battered flip-up helmet with a shattered visor. Ok, that's a little weird. According to the note that came with the box, the helmet had been removed from the transport with the rest of the bodies, then for some unfathomable reason it was cleaned up and sent back to the crew. Not knowing what to do with it, the crew elected to send it to me. I doubted that anyone would be interested in buying some rustboot pirate's busted helmet, so I decided I might as well hang onto it. I had a shelf in the living room set aside from storing my collected mementos and souvenirs, and that was where the helmet ended up. I spent a few minutes unpacking the other items I'd accumulated over my career while I was there. A picture of my squad during the last days of the Uprisings, the handful of medals I'd earned during and after that conflict, my sword, a worn olive drab chestplate with the insignia of the Marine Commandos stenciled on it, and other items from my ten year service in the USMC were the first items I unpacked. Next came a pair of jet-black pauldrons inlaid with the logo of Silver Shield Protection and Investigation, a few weapons collected from captured mafia and yakuza thugs, and a few photos, all artifacts from my time as Silver Shield bodyguard and agent. I placed a white, skull-like galactic executioner mask with a bullet hole in the left eyepiece on the shelf as well, a relic from another incident in my past. The last few items were various mementos from my current, freelance career, everything from keys to a dump truck to the taxidermied head of a Vular drone. The last thing to go on the shelf was a chunk of scrap metal from the Victoria Orbital Elevator. It didn't look like much, but the twisted, partly melted metal bar had changed my life. I put it down before the memories it conjured could overwhelm me.
After another few minutes I finished unpacking. Despite the early hour (about twenty hundred ship's time), I decided to turn in. Dynastar had scheduled the mission briefing for twelve hundred hours tomorrow, and I had no intention of heading into battle with a case of sleep deprivation. If you'd told me then that my actions over the next few days would start a sequence of events that would shape the future of the galaxy, I'd have sent you to have you head examined. But you'd be right. Tomorrow, I would have my first encounter with what would later be called the Vanguard Conspiracy.