Hey all.
Here is the next freebie that i have come up with, a rather substantial one. This is the first chapter for Alien Insurrection.
Again, due to having sod all interest, i have decided to post it here. hell, the bloody thing and four chapters was public on for months and gathered sod all! Of course i only recently realised that Public meant no one, except patrons, donates to it and since i had no patrons it was effectively being done for free! I thought 'Public' (But charging to patrons) meant it gets circulated rather then just going to specific patrons but NO! I thought wrong. There goes nearly a whole year of my life wasted for nothing. No, not wasted as those i support have been cranking out good content. I recommend supporting Skallagrim, Lindybeige and Forgotten Weapons.
And you would think having it floating around for that amount of time virtually for free would garner interest but as usual sod all. So that's another (unintentional i admit) attempted initiative that failed miserably.
Then again, maybe after Alien Covenant, people are giving up on Aliens.
I've set all subsequent chapters after the first patron only but then what is the point now? Maybe i should just pack the whole thing up.
Anyway, here is 'free' chapter as it is now designated. be sure to leave a comment below and i'll see you lot with the next update.
ALIEN INSURRECTION
Date- August 29, 2242, 45 AEI (After Earth Infestation)
Planet- Amaethon IV, United Earth Federation agricultural colony, Arawn Sector, Frontier Worlds.
Planetary capital- Caer Styfnig, Central Continent.
Planet Population: 8367 colonists, 2500 Enlisted Military Personnel.
Current status- Clear of xenomorph presence. Non-existent target of Yautja hunts or pirate raids. Minimal concern. Currently under seasonal planetary storms.
Life in the Frontier Worlds was not an easy lifestyle choice. But those who signed up were fully aware of the dangers. The recruiters made that perfectly clear the moment the prospective colonists walked through the door. This was nothing like the worlds of the Rim or the Core Systems which were long established before the Infestation of Earth in 2192. These worlds on the boundary of explored space were one of mystery and adventure, hearkening back to the days of the Old West where brave men and women carved out their own slice of the unknown.
Although it was a hard life, that of backbreaking work and long hours on a planet far from human space, it had benefits. It was the opportunity for a fresh start in life on a new world. A chance to step away from the shackles of the old world and begin life anew. Ever since the Infestation of Earth, there had been many who had lost everything to the xenomorphs. Many had lost their homes, their livelihoods and, for many cases, their entire families. But, as history proved time and time again, humanity rose stronger from the ashes of near extinction.
Survival of the fittest as nature demanded.
Amaethon IV, named by it's original Welsh colonists after the ancient god of Agriculture and one of the so called Celtic Worlds, was one of the breadbaskets of the Frontier and considered one of the more desirable postings on offer by the Extrasolar Colonisation Administration. The planet itself was reminiscent of Wales with it's rolling plains, deep valleys and high mountains. While this may provoke images of an idyllic lifestyle, the truth was that Amaethon IV was in fact a muddy ball in the void of space.
While the planet itself was rich and fertile making it a prime choice for agriculture, the frequent rainfall would quickly wash away any such delusions. The early attempts at establishing viable colonies on it's surface were quickly and literally washed down the drain as soon as the first storms roared into being. But, with perseverance and a bit of forward planning, colonies are now situated on high ground and plateaus of solid rock, heavily fortified for defence against the dangers that plagued the Frontier. They have since taken on the old welsh name of Caer, 'Castle' in English, to identify each prominent settlement.
Smaller farming communities are situated in the outskirts of each Caer and it is these communities that worked the majority of the fields that would feed dozens of worlds in the Frontier. Whole oceans of grains, islands of vegetables and orchid forests laden with fruit dotted the planet's surface. The introduction of Terran flora had worked wonders, and thorough planning and control ensured that the native wildlife was not supplanted or eradicated as what happened many times in earth history. Amaethonion apples for example produced a cider that surpassed anything that could be brewed in the Frontier. And the colonists had learned to maximise the limited window of the seasons to ensure that their hard work was not washed away. The results were apparent as Amaethonian produce now fed over a dozen Frontier Worlds.
In a stark contrast to most Frontier Worlds, where bloody skirmishes with pirates or yautja hunters was a fact of life, Amaethon IV has never been attacked or raided in it's history. Likely because there was nothing on Amaethon to warrant such a response by a rival power, apart from the horrendous weather. Its population was sparse by comparison to other worlds, nor did it have a substantial military presence. As the colonists would often say: Who would want to raid a ball of mud?
Well, as the following account will tell, Fate can be easily tempted.
24:39 PM
It was the end of summer on Ameathon IV. And that meant one thing to the colonists of this Frontier World. Rain. Lots of Rain. Gone were the days of relatively stable sunlight in the summer and now the prelude to a dreary and sodden existence under grey clouds until the end of spring. But compared to other worlds of the Frontier, Amaethon IV was a virtual paradise. Even if most of the planet was a ball of mud for three quarters of the year.
In the central continent, the core of colonised territory on the planet, the harvest was over and the colonists were preparing themselves for the autumn rains. The worst rainfall of the year, though one could say that those up north suffered most in that the rain is replaced by snow drifts many times the height of a man. But at least the snow could be dug through and the Northern Caer resembles something like a rabbit warren. Rather then a pig sty as the rest of the planet became.
But when the rain was not falling, Amaethon IV was a peaceful jewel in a galaxy that is more often then not in conflict between the United Earth Federation and the many alien races of the galaxy.
In one of the forests that dotted the continent, a four tracked tractor rumbled along the dirt road, now nothing but a sodden trail of mud that was intent of bogging the lumbering agricultural vehicle down. The colonist at the wheel, tightly wrapped in a large hooded poncho and goggles, braved the torrential downpour that was being unleashed from the heavens, the metal cage of the driver's cabin proving minimal at keeping most of the rain out. A cigar was jammed between tightly clenched lips, stubbornly still lit despite the weather.
Behind him, being hauled along with grim determination, was a large tracked trailer covered with thick tarpaulins to keep out at least most of the rain from water-logging it's contents. The mud from the path was building up on it's tracks, churning up like butter in each tread before being expelled like waste from a burrowing worm.
The large trees, reminiscent of the deciduous forests of northern Europe, towered over him at both sides of the road like a tall wooden palisade, dotted with low stone walls. The sky above him was typically grey and cloudy, permeated with the dim glow of the nearly set sun. Nearly the end of another twenty-eight hour day. And nearly two thirds into the planet's four hundred and twenty-eight day year.
Looking down at his dashboard's instruments, the colonist saw that the gradient was getting steeper the further he went up the trail. That meant he was reaching the end of his route. Just through the trees and over the peak, then he would be home free. That was until he noticed that he had stopped moving forward and was starting to go backwards with a loud squelching of mud.
The colonist grumbled loudly as the tractor failed to find purchase on the now deluging trail, causing the heavy machine to slide slowly back down before shunting the trailer back when it hit with a reverberating impact. He pulled a few levers and with a loud grinding whirr of gears, more segmented tracks were deployed on the tractor's flanks, spreading it's weight even more. With this extra bit of grip, the tractor found purchase in the stodgy surface and resumed it's trudge against gravity and the flowing rainwater.
The colonist stuck a hand out of the cabin and gave the dark sky a customary middle finger in defiance. That gesture was answered almost immediately by loud clash of lightning several kilometres away.
"You can dish it but you can't take it!" The colonist yelled up at the sky as he continued his trudge up the hill.
After many sodden minutes and several juddering slides down the hill, the tractor finally reached the peak. The driver wiped his goggles of rain as he saw his destination ahead, illuminated by it's lights of habitation.
The colony of Caer Styfnig, translated literally from the Welsh word 'Stubborn', is the largest and oldest colony on the planet, the planetary capital and only original to have succeeded. Hence the name. Situated on a plateau of solid granite twenty kilometres long, thirty wide and was over kilometre in size, this was a prime location to establish a colony. Much like the ancient Celt tribes in Europe, the high ground was highly preferable for settlement, allowing a clear view all around for miles. It's towering walls of both native stone and fabricated metal served well to keep out unwanted pests and some of the downpour that was even now starting to drop down at an angle from a sudden shift in the wind. Beyond the walls were the large angular metal bunkers of the original prefabricated buildings, supplanted by newer buildings of native stone and wood as the Caer grew and upgraded over the years. Some of which still had the original Weyland-Yutani logo painted on some panels.
The spaceport, protected by a large aerodrome over three kilometres in circumference, was located at the far end of the plateau and also built into the cliffs, separated from Caer Styfnig by five kilometres of open plains criss-crossed with roads, drainage ditches and outlying shelters. As soon as the storms were over, or at least reduced to a hopefully mild drizzle, the first of the freighters would be able to depart. And that could be anywhere between a few weeks to a few months judging by the storm's current state.
The tractor rumbled into one of the massive barns that dotted the colony's outskirts, trailing a steady stream of rain and mud behind it. Inside the thankfully dry interior, colonists were seen hauling up bundles of wheat, oats and rye, placing them into large storage bins which were then wheeled into massive shipping containers. A pair of P-6000 powerloaders, their servos whining with exertion, were hauling the containers onto massive flatbed transports as their drivers checked their manifests on their canopy screens.
In one corner of the barn was a large trapdoor and colonists were seen pulling at chains that led down into what would be a massive cellar. Being winched up were large cured carcasses of a native animal to Amaethon IV that bore a striking resemblance to Terran cattle. These were in fact Aurochs, named after the extinct ancestor to all domesticated cattle, measuring at ten feet long and weighing over five hundred kilograms on average. And much like cattle in the past, Aurochs have been bred and settled on many a world wherever humanity went.
Auroch jerky is a popular snack food in the Frontier.
The colonist brought the tractor into one of the open bays and promptly applied the handbrake with a loud clanking of gears. Steam seeped out from it's bonnet as the engine hissed and cracked from the dissipating heat and evaporating rainwater that trickled in the gaps between it's panelling and hissed back out. He pulled out from his poncho a datapad, thankfully dry and working, and punched in a few keys before nodding.
This was the last harvest from the fields before the autumn rains washed it all away. It had taken one bad harvest twenty years ago to hammer that lesson in the colonists' minds. Few sights can match that of seeing your livelihood being literally washed away in a deluge of flood water.
"Llewellyn, you're finally here!" the barn foreman called out, walking up.
The driver pulled back his hood, revealing crew cut charcoal hair, closely cropped beard and shifted his goggles up from his green eyes onto his forehead. His finally pulled out his cigar from his clenched teeth and stretched his jaw with a crack.
"Why is it that I get tractor duty whenever it chucks it down?!" he fumed. "I'm a loader pilot, not a submariner!"
"Quit your griping. Jenson was off sick, you know that." the foreman reminded.
Llewellyn found that difficult to believe, considering he was originally suppose to be on powerloader duty. Out of the rain. He reckoned this had to do with his unusual lucky streak during the nightly poker games and a sore loser who happens to be your superior.
But, he was here now and he had the whole night ahead of him.
"That's the last shipment from the fields." Llewellyn said, pointing to the hauler behind him. "Damn near lost it several times. Bloody rain." he cursed, taking a draft from his cigar.
The trailer behind him was continuing to trickle water from it's canopy and liquefied mud from it's tracks. Several colonists rushed over and quickly but carefully peeled back the tarpaulins to prevent the contents within from getting drenched. Inside were large bundles of wheat, rye and also buckets of root vegetables stacked in wooden crates.
"Lucky we got an early warning before the storms hit." the foreman praised.
Llewellyn was not as optimistic as he blew a large cloud of smoke from his mouth.
"Must have been good day. Normally we don't get the official warning until a few days into the storm." he recalled, tossing the datapad to the foreman.
The foreman caught the pad and quickly skimmed over the contents before nodding.
"Yep, all of it is here." he said before walking over to the trailer and pulling out a few ears of wheat. "Good batch too from the look of it." he praised, seeing the golden sheen from the cereal grains in the barn's ceiling lights.
"In which case, I bid you goodnight. I had more then enough showers today." Llewellyn farewelled, hopping from his sodden seat.
He landed on the dirt floor was a thud, both causing a small cloud of dust and secondly causing a small rainfall to pour from his poncho. He blew a waft of smoke from his mouth as he walked off, pulling up his hood and trailing smoke behind him.
"Just remember, the moment the rain stops, we're shifting to the port." the foreman reminded before walking towards the cellar.
"Don't worry, I won't be floored. I learned my lesson last time." Llewellyn assured as he stepped out into the rain once more.
26:39 PM
Llewellyn plodded through the now drizzling rain and mud lined streets, the hab units that served as the main housing for the colony towered over him, exterior lights filling the streets with a cold glow as he walked over to one of his most frequent dwellings. The smaller alleyways had a rudimentary network of tarpaulin roofs that helped to ensure that the alleys were not completely saturated and all the streets and paths had ample drainage so that the Cear would not flood and become an urban man-made lake.
He passed a couple of elder colonists who were sitting in the porch of one hab, smoking from their pipes and making smart comments about the weather. Along with the old custom of comparing their aches and who had the most accurate one for determining the coming of a storm. In this case it was between a knee and a foot and both were trying to outdo each other. Llewellyn made certain to hurry along before he got dragged into it.
After some more drudging in the rain and mud, Llewellyn paused outside the main entrance of the rustic-looking tavern, made of wood and stone in the manner of a traditional pub, looking up to see the neon sign illuminating the traditional wooden pub plaque that was swaying in the wind. On the plaque was a stylised rendition of the national symbol of Wales and the establishment's name was underneath in stylised script in both welsh and english.
Mae'r dafarn ddraig goch.
The Red Dragon inn.
Outside in the rain, he could the hear the garbled chaos of revellers inside, celebrating the end of another harvest. And he could smell the appetising stench of hearty comfort food and strong alcohol that wafted through open windows. The images of a hot meal forming in his mind caused his stomach to grumble audibly over the rain.
Llewellyn hummed in satisfaction of what his night would bring, puffing smoke from his mouth as he stepped up and walked through the porch, passing some drinking colonists loitering about, and out of the rain. The warmth inside was a welcome change to the cold drizzle he had been subjected too all day. Even if it was a bit humid.
The largest tavern and hotel in Caer Styfnig was buzzing with activity, more so then Llewellyn was expecting. Farmers and their farm hands were conversing over tall pints of beer and bowls of Auroch Jerky. A game of darts in session, along with a game of pool as the sound of connecting balls pierced the commotion. Colonists were getting meals of hearty food, both traditional Welsh cuisine and other dishes unique to the Frontier, to drive out the damp from their bones. And to round it all off, there was a band of colonists, playing traditional instruments and singing out a plethora of welsh songs, of which several revellers were joining in with varying degrees of skill.
Among the revellers were several colonial marshals, the main law enforcement of the colonies, and also, much to Llewellyn's surprise, active members of the Colonial Militia taking a reprieve from their duties.
The Colonial Militia are the main defence force of the colonies if the Colonial Army was unavailable or out of range. Essentially, much like the citizen armies of the ancient greek city states or the American colonies in the eighteenth century, every able bodied man and women would take up arms in the defence of the colony. Often, the Militia is supplemented by retired veterans of the armed forces who provide much needed training and expertise to whip civilians into a coherent fighting force. In times of actual war, outside of the usual skirmishes and raids that most militiamen get used to if ever, they fall under military jurisdiction and serve as light infantry support, using their knowledge of the surroundings to carry out guerilla operations.
Llewellyn himself was a member of the militia but considered it a pointless posting on a backwater world such as this. Throughout his life here, there had not been a xenomorph infestation, no yautja hunts or even the threat of some overambitious pirates.
In fact, the closest thing he got to an emergency was last month when a freighter that had drifted too close into Amaethon's gravity well and crash landed in the southern reaches. Too far for him to be a part of the recovery effort though so all he could do was read about it in the papers. But it was anyone's guess as to what the cargo freighter was doing out here in the Arawn sector of the Frontier.
Llewellyn walked up to the bar, passing a couple of colonists who were busy engaging in a bit of arm-wrestling with a growing crowd of spectators accumulating around them. Llewellyn reached the one stool that was not occupied and planted himself down on it, pulling down his hood. Next to him on his left, a farmer was busy regaling the Great Storm of '21 to an uninterested militiaman who was pretending to listen by nodding as he sipped his beer. To his right was a colonist who was busy counting coins and clips of notes, stacking them up into little columns and jotting down in a notebook. No doubt he was keeping track of his finances.
In the Frontier, cold hard cash was more useful then electronic transfers. Though each world had its own form of coinage, it was all the same in terms of value for the sake of convenience and simplicity.
And up at the bar he caught wind of local gossip and conversation.
"Have you ever been up to the Northern Caer?" a colonist in his forties asked a young farmhand of twenty.
"No, but I'm thinking of going up there next year." the farmhand said, taking a sip from his pint.
"Well don't, its a ghastly place!" the colonist warned with a shaking of the head. "Huge gangs of sinewy sods roaming the ice encrusted valleys and terrorising southerners with their atrocious close harmony singing. What's more, you need a half a pint of phlegm in your throat just to pronounce the Caer's name!"
Which coming from a Welshman was really saying something.
I can agree with that, Llewellyn thought with revulsion as memories of a visit up north. The singing kept me awake for weeks.
The loader pilot puffed on his cigar as he waited for service, looking around the tavern to see if any familiar faces were about. But with the amount of people in the Red Dragon tonight, he couldn't be sure. And he was seeing a lot of people who were not from this Caer. In fact, only two, maybe three tops, out of ten were from Caer Styfnig.
Lots of strangers tonight, he thought. I wonder what the deal is?
"Llewellyn, you look like shit." a rough voice pointed out.
He looked forward to the bar and he saw the owner of the tavern standing opposite him, dressed in a chequered shirt and a stained apron. A large man with sizable girth, muscular hairy arms and a big waxed moustache on his round face that was pointed up like a pair of horns.
"Thank you for noticing, Horace." Llewellyn sarcastically praised, pulling his cigar from his mouth.
Horace, or Horace the Ox as he was known for his prodigious strength in the arm wrestling scene, reached down behind the counter and produced a large bottle of dark liquid. Llewellyn's usual was a tall stout. He plunked it on the edge of the counter, expertly popping the cap off and handing over to him.
"Cheers." Llewellyn thanked, before taking a big gulp and sighing with overdue satisfaction.
Horace rapped his fingers on the counter as he watched the loader pilot down his much earned drink. He watched as the rainwater trickled down Llewellyn's poncho and onto the hardwood floor.
"So the weather was bad?" Horace asked, gesturing to the state of Llewellyn's poncho.
Llewellyn mused over the question, tossing his beer from hand to hand before he nodded.
"Actually, it was quite nice." Llewellyn remarked, pulling off his goggles and dumping them on the counter. "Might have been me but I think the rain was still warm."
Horace laughed bombastically at the joke, causing some bar patrons to pause their drinking as they watched the ox-man rock his head back. Llewellyn simply blinked at the show, his cigar drooping in his fingers.
"Then Him upstairs was really pissing on us." Horace declared before pointing at the cigar in his patron's fingers. "And how do you manage to keep that cigar lit in this weather."
Llewellyn juggled his cigar in his fingers before taking another draft as the onlookers resumed their own libations.
"Persistence and a lot of trail and error." he revealed, smoke seeping from between his teeth. "Years ago, it'd got extinguished the moment I stepped outside."
Llewellyn looked around the tavern, again taking in how many people were present tonight. And of how many foreign faces he could see.
"Quite a lot of revellers tonight." he pointed out with his bottle. "Many new faces too."
"Oh yeah, we've been getting hundreds of people from all the outlying farms in the south coming here."Horace agreed. "All my rooms are booked solid and every other hotel in the Caer. I even got people paying for a spot near the hearth for the night. I guess they want to be here for the big send off."
Llewellyn scoffed loudly at that. Why would anyone want to see the freighters depart this mud ball? He thought. Maybe out of envy that they were not the ones departing?
And that also brought up another question in regards to another group in the tavern.
"So, I've noticed that the militia are out in force today." he pointed with a thumb at the militiamen around one table.
"They have been since this morning." Horace said just as a colonist approached the bar and waved a credit chit. "Coming right up." he acknowledged, reaching for glasses and filling them up from the taps.
"Where's the Army?" Llewellyn asked. "Isn't it their job for garrison duty?"
"They went out on manoeuvres to the Wolds. Traditional live exercises between Caers." Horace explained, putting the filled glasses onto a tray.
Llewellyn took a swig from his bottle as Horace placed the tray on the counter and took the colonist's chit before swiping it into the scanner with a beep. The colonists tab had been updated with the current round of drinks.
"The whole garrison?" Llewellyn asked, disbelieving that the army would leave the colony unprotected.
Then again, who would want to attack a ball of mud?
"Not all." Horace assured, placing the chit on the tray and the colonist took the tray before walking back to his group. "We still got a platoon of regulars manning the walls, plus whoever is still at the base. But the administrator is activating several militia squads to fill in the gaps." he continued. "There'll be a town meeting in the morning. The customary good harvest speech and all."
Another thought popped into Llewellyn's head. And it was one that would likely interfere with his time off.
"Is my squad activated?" he asked, dreading the answer he was likely going to get.
"If you're part of Alpha, Beta or Gamma squads then yes." Horace all but confirmed.
Llewellyn cursed in welsh between his teeth as he bowed his head against the counter with a thud, his cigar smouldering on the alcohol infused wood. He was part of Beta Squad as a designated marksman.
"There goes my plans for the week." he lamented.
Horace leaned over gave him a hard but friendly pat on the back, causing Llewellyn to cough loudly with a loud plume of smoke shooting out of his mouth, followed by his cigar rolling on the counter. The farmer next to him paused his story as the cloud of smoke wafted into his vicinity, coughing loudly while the militiaman he was boring was thankful for the temporary interlude.
"Don't worry, you're not on duty yet." Horace reminded heartily. "You still got time to celebrate the harvest!"
Llewellyn looked up at the large bartender credulously as he picked up his stubbed cigar and extinguished it on his wet poncho with a damp hiss and a pitiful wisp of smoke.
"If you can call wringing out this and next year's rain from my boxers 'celebrating'." he joked sardonically, tossing his smouldering cigar into a nearby ashtray.
Horace wafted the drifting smoke away with a large hand and with a grin on his round face.
"I know what will cheer you up." he thought aloud. "Your favourite meal."
He walked over to the open window behind the bar and stuck his head through, giving those at the bar an unintentional view of his crack. Those at the bar covered their eyes or looked to the side.
"Ellen, get some Tatws Pum Munud on the stove, please!" he shouted through the window. "Extra auroch!"
There was a notable pause before he got an equally loud reply.
"Coming right up!" Ellen called back.
Llewellyn shrugged as he took another gulp from his bottle as he waited for his meal. He juggled the bottle in his hand and heard the half drunk contents sloshing around. He decided that he was going a few more drinks before the night was over as he reached inside his poncho and pulled out his wallet.
He was going to enjoy his night off before duty called. Even if he wouldn't be able to remember it in the morning.
01:37 AM
The storm had eased for the moment, becoming a steady shower that continued to pelt the colony. It was now late into the night cycle of Amaethon IV's twenty-nine hour rotation and, aside from the patrolling militiamen, not one colonist was out on the streets. They were all either fast asleep in their beds or continuing the celebrations out of the rain.
However, in the shadows there was something amiss.
A cloaked figure swiftly rushed between buildings, keeping out of the street lamps' glow. It would linger in the shadows for a few moments before it would dart out again to the next patch of darkness. Evidently, this figure was trying too hard not be noticed.
The figure, it progress agonisingly slow by any decent infiltrator, hugged the shadows between a stack of trash cans as a pair of militiamen came walking through the street, chatting to each other about the weather and the annoyance of having pulled sentry duty. They walked past the spot the figure was hiding, pausing momentarily to adjust their gear and shake the rain from their headgear before resuming their patrol. The light from the street lamps glinted off the holstered weaponry on their backs. The figure waited until they passed the bend before it continued on it's way.
Despite the militia's standing as citizen soldiers, their training was on par with the Colonial Army and was often supplemented with hard as nails veterans in retirement.
After several minutes of ducking and running through the rain and darkness, evading militia patrols, it reached it's destination. A rarely visited area of the Caer, used only for scrap storage and a place to dump anything rusted to oblivion by the rains. In fact, it was called Rust Square for all the wrecked and rusting chassis of vehicles from the first days of colonisation.
The figure rushed forward to the largest building, a warehouse that was slightly dilapidated and stopped by the large metal door that had orange blemishes rust of where grey paint used to be. A single cracked lamp above provided light for whoever would need to use it. The figure reached a gloved hand out and gave a series of raps on the pitted metal.
A moment passed before a slide in the door opened up with a rusted scrape and a pair of hard dark eyes peered from the gloom on the other side. The figure visibly shifted on it's feet as the obsidian eyes fixated on it.
"Password?" a voice questioned.
The figure looked behind it quickly, making sure it wasn't followed before it leaned closer to the door.
"Baradwys" it said.
The slide slid shut sharply before the scraping of a rusty bolt was pulled. The door slid open and the cloaked figure hurriedly hopped through before the door swiftly closed with a soft clang. Getting him inside was a large man, dressed in a large monastic robe that covered his normal working smocks. His black eyes, deeply unnerving and iris-less, seemed to absorb the light of the bulb glowing overhead.
"The Patriarch is waiting for you. Head down the stairs." the large robed man directed with a thick finger.
The figure hurriedly walked into the main storage yard that was littered with disused vehicles covered in tarpaulins in an attempt to keep most of the rain out. The roof of the warehouse was dilapidated and gaping holes had been eaten away to allow the rain access to the interior as miniature waterfalls that crashed onto the stowed machinery.
Walking up to a large shipping container, the figured undid the lock and heaved the large door open. Inside was the rusted interior as droplets seeped through the gaps that had been rusted through. But most out of place was the appearance of a large trapdoor built into the bottom of the container that had been covered by a stack of barrel drums. The figure hurriedly set the drums aside and opened the trapdoor with a long rusted screech.
On the other side were a set of steps, cut into the earth and lined with rough stone slabs. The walls on the other hand had corrugated sheet metal holding back the sodden earth. Candles were lining the walls as the tunnel led down into the earth. Much like a dug out bunker in the first world war.
In fact, with the ungodly amount of rain that Amaethon IV had to offer, they might as well be in the Somme. The only thing missing was a war where millions died each day.
The figure quickly stepped into the tunnel before pulling the door shut with a wet clang. Moving quickly but trying not to slip down the stony steps, the figure moved down the tunnel. After a minute of near falls, it reached it's final destination over thirty feet below the surface.
The figure entered a large underground chamber, roughly the size of a standard communal hab unit. At the far end of the chamber was a large stone altar that a full grown man could lay upon, with religious carvings and scriptures in Latin lining the edges. The carvings depicted lithe humanoids, devoid of eyes and long limbs, beings depicted in an angelic manner to the masses of humans at their feet.
This was a makeshift chapel, but it did not seemed that any human religion was practised here. There was a procession of three dozen colonists on their knees and bowing down with their foreheads to the floor in prayer, their hands stretch out in front of them. Another colonist, in his late seventies and his head bereft of all hair, clad in ornate robes was behind the alter with his back to the masses, sticks of incense burning aromatically upon it. In front of him was a large black curtain, lined with silver filigree of curves and eldritch shapes.
This man in pious regalia was obviously a priest.
"Ah, glad you could join us, brother." he greeted jovially, his arms out wide in greeting. "We were just about to conduct our evening prayers."
The figure pulled back his hood, revealing himself to be a scrawny lad of nineteen with wiry red hair and face full of freckles. He knelt down in front of the alter in a gesture of subordination.
"You bring us news?" the priest asked, not turning around to meet the new arrival.
The teen nodded rapidly as he pulled out from his cloak a handful of documents. Documents that no civilian should have in their possession.
"The colonial garrison has been sent away on a training mission. Only a token force remains." he reported, shuffling up to the alter and placing the papers on the stone surface. "Militia are taking up the bulk of the defences."
The priest turned around and the teen caught the man's most distinctive feature. He was wearing a mask that covered his eyes, nose and forehead. A mask that was a smooth dome crafted of a black ceramic substance with a sheen like that of obsidian. An eyeless visage.
"Perfect. A rabble of conscripts shouldn't be too difficult to handle." the priest praised, picking up a document and looking at it. "We have our faithful in their ranks."
"But a platoon of army troopers still guard the Caer." the teen added.
The priest held up a hand with assurance but also a dash of dismissal for the teen's fears.
"Do not despair, young one." he reassured with a fatherly tone. "We will avail over these heathens, regardless of their strength."
He then leaned over the alter and the teen got a closer view at the mask. While the light of the chamber made it hard to see clearly, he was sure he could make out the priest's eyes behind the mask. Two faint orbs.
All fatherly pretences were gone in a matter of seconds as a more pressing question came to mind.
"Do we have access to the armoury?" the priest asked, his voice serious and tone firm.
The teen gulped as he could feel his stomach lurch.
"No. But, I know where the key will be. And who'll have it on rotation." the teen hurriedly explained. "Getting it will be another concern."
The priest smiled cryptically at the teen. Was he pleased or was he disappointed?
"Not if we play their strength into a weakness." he reminded. "Its how our messiahs operate. Remember that."
The priest discarded the papers he was holding and picked up the next document and his smile vanished when he began to read.
"Hmm, now this is of notable concern." he said with a hint of disdain.
The teen fidgeted nervously. Did he fail at something or did he forget one vital document? Or did he get the wrong document?
"Patriarch?" he gulped.
The priest lowered the document onto the alter, his mouth formed into a grimace from finding something unpleasant. On the document's heading was a large symbol. A circle with a pyramid inside. A column with horizontal lines in it's upper half and the Earth on it's plinth. Underneath was the name of the organisation for which the symbol represented.
"OSIRIS." the priest spat with undiluted hatred. "They have caught up with us."
Murmurs began to emanate from the huddled masses. Talk of paradise being denied by the heathens was become prevalent.
The priest held up a hand and everyone calmed as they waited for him to speak.
"Brothers and sisters." he began. "This is of great concern I understand, but we must not be swayed by these butchers of our faith. They are but mere mortals while our messiah is everlasting." He then placed a hand on the alter. "But we will deal with them when the time comes. For now, our design is set. We strike tomorrow." He placed the document down. "Now, let us gaze upon our saviour." the priest decreed turning back to the curtain.. "Let us gaze upon his divine glory. Bless us for our holy task to be done."
The priest pulled back the curtains and a statue of their idol was revealed to all, many of whom exclaimed with reverence and devotion. The standing statue was lithe, lined with flowing patterns with it's long arms ending with taloned claws, stretched out to sides like Christ on the crucifix himself. Its head was smooth and domed, ending with a distinctive grin of human-like teeth with another set of teeth within it's maw. On it's back were four dorsal tubes like wings of an angel and a serpentine segmented tail, tipped with a curved barb snaked down behind its legs. At it's taloned feet was an oval four petalled egg from which lights built into the statue cast it in an almost otherworldly glow
To this cult, it was God. But to the rest of humanity and indeed the galaxy, it was the devil itself. The scourge of many worlds and the deaths of many races.
Xenomorphs.
"Yes. Soon we'll bring Paradise to the Frontier." the priest decreed, placing his hand on the effigy's egg bust. "Soon, all will be one."