The report came blurring in through the headpiece of his armour.
"The West wall has fallen! The western wall has fallen! Please, send as much help as you can, they're killing us!"
He moved his hand, touching the side of his armoured helmet, depressing a button hidden under the thick skin of metal, and triggering his own communications system. The words he spoke were dull, spoken a thousand times before.
"There's nothing that can be done, Western Wall. I'm sorry."
Silence, and then a loud scream of pain and rage from the other side.
"What do you mean? They're coming at us from all sides, but we're holding! Commander, please, you can still save us! Supplies are low, but the sonic cannons are still active!" It was true, in the background of the transmission, he could just hear the screaming wails of the cannons, designed to turn sound into a deadly force. Shredding muscle and bone. Particularly effective against the foes who were attacking tonight.
But it would be no use. In the end, even the cannons would fail. The Western Wall would fall, and then the Souther, and the Northern. Each time, they'd cry for help, demand and plead with him, tearing at his heart. Each time, he could only answer the same.
"Commander, Commander! There's a big one coming! Oh...oh shit, I think it's the king. Get everyone over here now and we can end the war tonight! Please, commander, if these monsters win it's the end of all of our people! We're all going to die if you don't do something! You can save us, you can save us all!"
"I'm sorry." The man repeated, his eyes pressed tightly closed. "I can't save any of you. You're already dead. You died many years ago. This is a dream, and I can't save anything."
Moments later, the transmission was broken as he knew it would. The last sound he heard the screaming of the men, and the whining roar of a Ki blast decimating the wall. Then, there was the howl of the victors, a bestial and monstrous bellow from a creature the size of a mountain. He didn't need to check to know what was happening. He'd experienced it all hundreds of time before.
The Oozaru were climbing the walls.
"Caspi Station, come in Caspi Station. This is the registered trader ship, Wanderer requesting permission to dock. Please respond."
Roran sat behind the bank of controls that made up the command desk of his ship, the Wanderer. He was tired, memories of his nightmare still fresh in his mind. He was used to it by now, for it seemed that no more time than a week or so would pass between visitations. He'd long since resigned himself to the fact that he was destined to have it for the rest of his life.
Set before the bank of computers, there was a long screen, which showed the image of the planet that he was now approaching. Doron was a black, barren world, all crumbling stone, with no atmosphere, and no sign of life at all. It hung sullenly in space before him, cratered from impacts that had marked its surface. No species lived there, nor had any ever done so. It was simply a world that had never developed. The shade of something that might have been. And so, it had remained for hundreds of years. Up until the discovery of a rare metal under the surface. Now, there was life, of a kind. Hundreds of ships, from hundreds of races clustered around the planet, a dozen different mining operations going on constantly below. It was a place outside of the usual laws; a place where anyone could come and carve out their fortune. If they were smart enough.
If they weren't, their deaths would help the next person trying to carve out their fortune. There were factions, and rivalries that went back almost to the first ships here. In the decades since the metal had been discovered, whole armies had been formed, alliances struck, and territory gained.
Doron was in a constant state of low-grade warfare. Mining rights and territory shifting as battles played out below. No one knew exactly who had started it, but no one was eager to end it either. Money didn't matter here, just mining equipment and the power to hold some ground long enough to make use of it. Mercenaries flocked to the place in their hundreds, certain employment bringing them quickly and surely. There were always those looking for a quick job to be done, or someone to be killed, or some ground to be held. Good money was made here, but those who had never even seen a mining drill in their lives.
And of course, like all places that housed this many ships for such an extended period of time, there was a station in orbit of the world. Caspi. He was drawing near it now. Watching the approach with a technician's eye for detail.
Caspi was one of the old style space station. Nothing new or fancy, but a lot of bulk, and a lot of armour. It had a central body, a massive sphere which was about three miles long and another three wide. Though, from this distance it looked smooth, in reality, the surface was broken up by many turrets, viewing rooms, docking areas, reactor ports, and various other things of that nature.
Surrounding the already impressive dome-body of the station, there was a superstructure of metal wires and railings. They looked gossamer thin from this far out, but in reality, each one was strong and large. They surrounded the station, and acted as an interface port for the ships that were always coming or leaving. The superstructure could be recalibrated rapidly, to fit any sort of docking ship, and contained amongst other things, a means of rapid transport to the body of the station. It allowed Caspi to accommodate almost any type of visitors.
Of course, contained in the super structure there were also weapons, shield generators, squadrons of fighters, and according to rumour, a few capital ships that belonged to the station. Just in case anyone tried to make trouble.
Roran thought that it rather looked like a rib cage clasping a stone heart when taken all in all, but had to admit that he was somewhat biased in this respect, since he hated the place. It was exactly the sort of place he would rather have avoided. Too much potential trouble if anyone realised what type of ship the Wanderer actually was. Which just meant that it was exactly the place his objective could be found.
After decades of wandering the stars, Roran was starting to consider it a definite possibility that the universe existed mostly to spite him. He looked out into the viewscreen now, while he let the computer handle last minute course correction. His eyes narrowed, and he tried to discern the ships that already clustered closely to the station's body. Most of them were too far out to be seen yet, and others were of a model he didn't recognise. But he did see the saucer-like shape of a Planet Trade vessel, nestled in amongst the metal scaffolding. Unsurprising, he supposed. The Planet Trade could be found wherever there was profit in a world like this. He was just surprised that they hadn't taken it over entirely yet.
Maybe it wasn't worth their time if it wasn't full of screaming people to kill.
"Wanderer, This is Caspi Station. We have you on our instruments now, can you confirm your purpose here?"
"Just visiting, Caspi." Roran said, reaching down to flick a button that set the channel. "Was passing through and hoped to take a crack at the market, you know how it is. Not an experience to be missed."
There was the sound of chuckling from the other end. "No indeed. I take it you can pay our rates?"
"Sending credit information now."
A beat, and then, "Okay, you've got more than enough in your account. We're setting up a docking field for you now, do you require any special needs be met to dock?"
"No, standard configuration ship."
"Good enough then, please follow the course we're transmitting to you now."
The computer gave a soft beep, informing him that it had received the data. Roran gave a word of thanks to the faceless tech, and signed off. Setting the Wanderer to automatically follow the course provided. It would take about an hour or so to approach, but that was to be expected in this part of space. You didn't want to arrive too quickly. After all, arriving fast could make you look like a target to those who didn't want to be found. It made it seem like you had a specific goal in mind.
Arriving slowly was much safer, and gave him times besides. He needed to make sure that everything was in order for his visit.
Making sure the course was locked, Roran stood up, and let his gaze wander from the viewscreen. The bridge of the Wanderer was a mid-sized room, roughly spherical in nature. His own command seat was placed near the front of the spear, where the viewscreen was stretched widely across the wall. There was similar seating for two other people, but those places were long empty. He could run the ship on his own, and didn't need hep from anyone else.
This philosophy extended to the rest of the Wanderer as well, he met no one as he tracked down the halls, save for the occasional drone slaved to the main ship computer that was on a repair mission, or set to be doing maintenance. The Wanderer was not a big ship, but it was able to easily house about twenty living people of standard physiology. All it played host to was him. Him and his memories.
Across the hall, there was an elevator, which he stepped into, punching in the deck to be taken. After a moment, the doors slid closed, and he felt the soft motion of movement. Roran closed his eyes, still feeling the after-effects of his dream. The terror in the voices of the men he had once led.
How he had hated it once. He had hated it because it reminded him of his failure, of the people he had let die. But that had been long ago, and he was old now. Too old for such hates. They just felt cold and distant. He opened his eyes, and looked at the far wall. The elevator was a large tube, big enough for about five people. The walls were plastered with reflective glass, and he was looking into the steady gaze of his own reflection.
"You should have died a long time ago." He said to the image.
Roran was a heavy-set man for his own species, which made him light by the standards of most others. His bones were light, and he could limber, but his musculature wasn't as well developed, and even though he was well trained and drilled, he knew he looked fairly non-threatening compared to most other soldiers in the universe.
He was basic-standard. Skin, hair, two eyes, that sort of thing. Most species had some degree of it, but the Tuffles had been almost nothing but. His skin was pale; the tanned tone that it once had held had been bled away by years of ship-living, but the scars remained. Cutting across his face where his helmet had once shattered, bisecting his nose. He wasn't young either, and his skin looked ragged in places, like he'd been driving himself too hard. Not a pretty sight, but at least his eyes still had power in them. They were brown, gazing back at himself with the air of someone who hadn't yet been beaten into submission. His hair was dark brown, streaked in silver.
"How old are you?" He asked himself again, feeling the accusatory stare of his mirror doppelgänger."At your age, you should be playing with grandchildren, not on an impossible quest. Maybe you're just trying to find a way to die..."
The question lingered, and he shook his head. The elevator arrived with a clank, and the door slid open. He threw one last look into the mirror.
"Maybe I am. But I can't die until I do what I came here to do. After that...well, one way or another, it won't matter anymore."
The door opened to the crew compartment. A long corridor which ran half the length of the ship, broken every dozen paces by another passage leading to the next set of rooms. Roran's room choice was practical, the first to the left of the elevator tube. The door there requested a code before it would swing aside, and he quickly punched it in.
The door opened, the light came on and he stepped into the domain that he called his own. It was much like the world below. Barren, and without purpose. Despite the fact that he had lived here for so long, the walls were empty of trophies, pictures, or other assorted things of interest. The shelves were empty. There were no pictures on the walls, and the miniature screen set into the far side of the room was constantly off.
The bed was unmade; a sole sign of life that he allowed in the room. It was a tangle of blankets that he never bothered to fix. In the far corner, there was a wardrobe, at the back, a passage to a second part of the room, blocked by a metal door. Beside the bed, there was a chair, and a computer console that linked to the main computer system of the ship.
This was his room. Much like his life. There was a hidden layer to it, though. At the metal door, he passed, and typed in a second entry code. This one was longer and more complex, but it wasn't long before that door moved aside as well. Revealing a small corridor leading into a tiny chamber. Into this, the old Tuffle stepped.
The tiny chamber was just about big enough for two people to stand in. Lights on the roof winked on, revealing a cold metal place. Wires ran across the floor, plugging into ports that connected to a slab of metal that was set in the centre of the room. The metal slab was marked with instruments and buttons on one side, and the other contained a man-sized locker. A third set of numbers was needed here, to open that door, but after a moment, this opened as well.
His armour was here. Set carefully into the indents in the inside of the locker made exactly for this purpose. The armour of the elite Tuffle Guard, now mostly lost. To some, it would be a priceless artefact. He ran a hand over the chest guard; it wasn't metal. It was a kind of poly-plastic, dreamed up to form the armour for warships, but never properly employed. Too much of it got out of control, but a small enough amount could be worked well. Enough to build armour.
The chest guard clipped around his body as he raised it into position, he felt it extend across his back, rolling out sections to cover his whole mid-body despite the small appearance of the initial piece. Next, he put on the boots, and the gauntlets. Each of them syncing up to the computer set into the chest, and then forming a solid link with it in the form of the armoured extensions which rolled across his hand. They were heavy and cold, but only for a moment. As soon as they linked to the chest piece capacitor, power flowed through them, and he felt strong again.
Stronger than he'd ever be without the armour…
Tuffle Power Armour. What a useful device. He looked at himself in the mirror set into the inside of the locker door. The armour was a dull brown colour, not dissimilar to that worn by other species. But it broke apart his silhouette, made him look bigger and tougher than he really was. It had been reserved only for the royal guard… too hard to make even with all the resources of a planet behind it. Now? It was practically extinct.
Damn Saiyans.
Damn them all to hell.
Except that they had already went to hell, hadn't that? They were gone now, every one of them. And his world with them. In the end, they'd taken everything, and left absolutely nothing for him. But that didn't matter, even the hatred he felt was muted with age. He didn't have the energy to really hate like he once had. The Saiyans were dead, so he'd call it even. So long as he never met another living one, anyway.
He lifted the final piece. The helmet of the armour was beautifully worked. A curving smooth dome that left the face clear. He put it on, and felt it sync to the rest. A protective sheet extended across his neck, and he was connected to the world outside now only by the small hole where his face was.
At his command, a visor extended down from the forehead of of the piece, and a metal guard rose up to meet it. Sealing him from the world entirely. Roran stood there for a moment, and then took a deep breath, tasting the recycled from the tanks of the suit.
Images appeared on the green screen of the visor, power read-outs, status updates.
Weapons checks.
Roran nodded to himself in satisfaction. Everyone was solid and good. He'd been a bit concerned, since it had been so long since he'd used any of this old junk, but everything was working exactly as it was supposed.
Fifteen minutes later, he was once more standing on the bridge of the Wanderer. This time, Caspi was much closer. Ten more minutes to docking bay. Then, he'd need about another ten to get passed the inspection, and get into the station. His weapons would be noticed, but no one would care terribly much. Like Doron below it, Calpi was not the sort of place that shied from death or killing.
He looked at the station. It had seemed so small at first, but now it was vast, taking up the entire screen. Somewhere down there, there was the thing he had come for. The one thing that made this all worthwhile.
The one chance he had to save his world.
