Hetzer's Recollections of the STG Job: Part 1

I am still not yet fully recovered form the full-metal pounding I took from the nightmare toaster monster. The Colonel's voice drones on, just like my drill sergeant back in the Orion Cluster Union Army.  I quietly spit up some bloody phlegm. I wanna snap his neck so badly, I can taste it. 

The drill sergeant's neck, not the Colonel's. For a hard-nose, the Colonel ain't bad.

I look around at my crew clustered around the navigation console on the space station. So, with all the korrin' jobs I have done with the Colonel and the others, this had to be the cushiest. Just stop the attacks on the Seiver Trade Group. Easy, easy as thumping someone on the head with some spring coshes. Whump. They're down. But then they'll come back up again. 

Only one way to fix that, to stop 'em from attacking.

Problem solved.

Just shoot the bastards in the head. 

Works for me; works for most of the universe.

So I watched the Colonel, Forrester, and most of our brainy crew of the Wayward Bastard plot out on the korring' holo-screen the sequence of events that the STG suits had laid out for us. They were whining to us about their losses, and hired us to find out who was behind the attacks and stop 'em. So here we stood on this ugly space station listenin' to their stupid security chief drone on and on.  

I want a cigarette, and I don't even smoke. 

Sure, two of their ships were attacked, another ship MIA and presumed destroyed, and a whole bunch of shoot-'n'-scoots on various planets, includin' Ezastes, where the corporate fatcats were. Me, I was trying to offer my keen tactical insights, but most of my body, including my precious brain pan, was still purple and squishy. 

That korring expensive Turdstick. 

It had proved to be way too valuable to unload on any planetary market now, so we have to sit on it for a while, wait for the market to cool and coalesce so that it would be ready to suck up the immense void we will make in its monetary resources. So once again my dreams of retiring without wearing pants will have to wait.

Yup, that's gonna be me. Hitting the beach instead of some korring bastard's face.

Still, I could get some easy credits now, by sellin' off some spare parts from Paycheck, the one half of the Wonder Twins who's got a penchant for telekinetically annoying me. Cassandra's young, she won't miss a finger or two . . .

I get back abruptly from my waking reverie when Spot pounds on the table, almost barking out a question. Doc's meds were working on me, probably too well. 

Why is the korrin' room spinnin' so slowly?

I blink and press a fresh scab on my scalp. That sends me fully back to reality. 

Painful korrin' reality.

It was amazing to watch my crew mates expend so much precious brain juice on the STG puzzle. I watch Spot as he drags up another question. Spot kept scratching his head throughout the meeting. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I wondered why he would keep doing that. It's so annoying. For a Ganjuko, he ain't bad.

It was also so annoying that on the STG space station when we were told we couldn't bring no korrin' explosives, no rifles, and no smoking. Colonel even had to leave his power armor on the ship. I know how he feels. But I got to keep my PDW, and I smuggled a wee grenade boom-ball in. Tobey did a whole lot of crying and swearing about not having his sniper rifle.  There was signs everywhere about no smoking on the space station. So naturally I wanted a pack of smokes. No korring dispensaries anywhere on the station. I was being nice and "diplomatic," but still no korring smokes. Forrester kept giving me the "shush" mouth for some reason during the meeting.


It was clear the attackers were building up to a bigger bang on STG. Small hits scattered about, meant to distract and fragment resources. We did that on Cochinay, when I was back in the OCU army. Korring 'Cates. Punch 'em all in the face with the sharpened end of a rusty pipe and let'em bleed it all out. I killed a Hectatan soldier once just to watch him die, but then my buddy distracted me and I missed it . . .

Aah, the good old days in the OCU.

I drift back into the world on the Wayward Bastard. Suddenly, brain synapses not dulled by O-piumTabs spark and exchange neuron banter. The missing ship, the Whatever-It's-Called, would make an excellent remote-piloted bomb, and it would do a world of hurt to the space station.  Lots of pretty fires, but it would be korring awful thing to do. But Forrester and the Colonel think the STG research station on Caleb would be the next target. Forrester ain't bad for a suit, but I go where the Colonel says. The Colonel's usually got his head on straight, and when he agrees with the suit, well, it's time to pack my weapons and . . .

Does Spot have fleas? That would korring explain his head scratching. . . .

Later, I end up getting a pack of smokes delivered to me by one of the STG staff. On a silver platter. I tipped him well. Who says that I can never be a good korring diplomat?

* * * * * * * * * *

So we settle into a standard low orbital sweep of the dustball moon Caleb, where the STG research station is situated. Nothing special on the scanners. Atmo is breathable, so no korrin' enviro suits needed, just some oxygen boosters if we plan on doing a five-mile hike. The whole "breathable atmosphere" is a big plus in my book. 

I hate visors.

The captain lets me use the big talking stick to secure landing permission. Well, I think he did. The others took the comm from me and told the research station folk of our STG employers and what we feared was coming their way. Forrester really talks nice when he has to. Like I said, for a suit, he ain't bad. Even the Colonel was using korring polite language. It sickens my stomach. No, wait, I think it's the vertigo from the shuttle craft launch . . .

Later on Caleb, it was me, Colonel, Tobey, Forrester, and Paycheck who knocked on the research station's front door. The others stayed on the ship, scanning and doing lookout. Caleb was a dry, rocky moon, which had some scrub but reminded me too much of a desert planet I had a mercenary job on, where someone in the squad didn't do their job and frisk the prisoners thoroughly, so when the grenade went off, all I could taste was cold sand, and dust, and some bits of warm gristle . . .

I really think that Spot has korring fleas. 

We met the station manager, and I forgot her name. Good looking getaway sticks on that dame, but she was no MkIV Assault Walker. The STG research station was actually a power converter station. STG was using this facility to explore some old Federation technologies of EEEs---efficient energy exchanges---and the STG research could pave the way for endless supply of cheap but STG-owned resources.  She also told us there no smoking anywhere in the facility. Something about an open flame taking out the research station with a large chunk of the moon's crust in a superheated ball of unstable gasses. But I really wanted to smoke . . .

Now that I think about it, Spot probably doesn't have fleas.  Otherwise he'd be scratching all over and not just his head.

We had a big pow-wow with the security manager, swapping our intel. I was bored, so I looked around. A lot.  And just like the space station, there were no cigarette vending machines here on Caleb. Why was it so korring hard to make smokes availlable on a STG moon? We were paid to protect their precious korring assets, and the least the STG suits could do is make me comfortable. 

I like fire.

Suddenly the all power dies off in a lowering hum of despair. Not the "brown-out" or "emergency lights are still on" but the "oh crap, where did I put the flashlights, I'm scared as I can't see anything because it's so korring dark" kind of outage. Klaxons come one and get get korrin' loud, and when all the power finally flickers comes back on, all the monitor screens are fuzzy with gray squiggles. The security chief goes all ferociously interrogative with her crew, the ones she can still talk to on the intercoms. WTKH?

Sometimes the best way to gain intel is to look out a korrin' window. And what we saw were pretty, pretty lights in the sky, all sorts of ionized gasses swirling in Caleb's stratosphere.

Some overly malicious types, probably the same ones we were hired to stop, had set off a nuclear bomb in the upper atmo. No direct percussive blast damage, just lots and lots of EMP to korrin' mess up the research station's tidy power grids. All unshielded systems are going to need a hard rewire and reboot. The Wayward Bastard sensors are functional but scrambled, but the captain tells us a small skiff is landing on the moon's surface, about two clicks from our position. No more data is available . . .

The Colonel unholsters his enormous handgun, which make me think the Colonel has some serious korrin' personal issues. Tobey whines about not having his fave gyroc rifle. For a half-toaster, he sure can whine. We three head for the given coordinates in a powered tram; the skiff has touched down outside the station near the environmental control substations. Forrester and Paycheck head off with the security manager to the station's armory, as we are going to need more korring firepower than just our personal sidearms to deal with these jokers and their thermonuclear daywrecker.

Note to self: Always make sure to pack boom-balls when visiting new planets.

We arrive some time later at the substations, which are set off from the main station's west side, with mostly open scrub and sand terrain with some engineering towers and unused machine parts available for cover. We spy in the distance two korring bastards, muffled in desert-garb and toting some big-bore boomsticks. They look to be in full enviro suits or maybe some korrin' archaic armor. They have a third bipedal thing with them, on a massive leash, some hulking brute of a creature that looks like the Colonel's mom, if the Colonel's mom would ever shave. They are about 200 meters away, so we take cover and aim our puny weapons at their general vicinity. 

The korring creature is released and sets out after us, loping like the Colonel's mom at closing time at the HamShaktm. The two korring bastards take up flanking positions on the beast and trot for cover. Tobey and Colonel settle in, while I make the short run up field. During this sprint about 90 percent of my muscles are screaming; the other 10% is simply wincing.

So then why was Spot scratching his head?


Over our helmet intercoms, the Colonel identifies the korring creature as a a Sikanderun Near-Troll, which just confirms for me that it is his mom. The two bastards set down some suppressive fire with 10mm slugs, one of which manages to clip the Colonel. The Colonel is pissed. The near-troll is charging us (specifically the Colonel) slobbering and huffering in the thin air. I scurry for right flanking position, making sure the korring beast and his compatriots see me. I wanted to korring draw the beast in, so that Colonel and Tobety would have some excellent korring targets. I see the beast as it gets closer, and is it korring ugly . . .

Your momma is so ugly . . . well, see for yourself . . .

Until this point, I had really thought about drawing my spring coshes and seeing if I could korring make a knock-out with one awesome whack to the head, but I could see as the Colonel's mom got even nearer it had some exoskeleton carapaces over vital areas, so there went my korring plan of having a good time.  


Now, this is what I call a korring good time . . .



We are letting the beast coming in hot, hell-bent for the Colonel, knuckles and toenails flinging the deserty sand behind it like free Orion chili being served on Winterbreak Day. Colonel announces on the intercom he is aiming for his mom's left knee, and braces his massive revolver. Tobey announces he is doing the same. Colonel and Tobey dicker about who's going shoot the right knee. 

For a half-toaster, Tobey can sure be impudent.

I take a bead on the nearest bad guy. But about ten meters away, the Colonel's mom veers off unexpectedly for Tobey, slamming into him with a train-wreck of hurt with a first-class ticket. The Colonel lets his mom know exactly what he's packing; large-bore slug rip through the beast's shoulder and chest carapaces, and now large-bore wounds leak greeny goo. Tobey's 5.56mm weapon tickles Colonel's mom, but in the end, the Colonel commits big-bore matricide with extreme prejudice. The beast slumps onto its back, leaking ooze and ugly. I check out Tobey; he is hurt but will recover, even if I left my first-aid kit back on the ship. 

Note to self: Pack first-aid kit in with boom-balls next time. 

It looks like the beast is dead, but I am not taking any chances. I place my wee boom-ball in the beast's mouth and kick its jaws shut, just to korring make sure the ugly one has a really, really bad day. Tobey shrieks and ducks for cover.

Boom. Head shot. From within.

Meanwhile, our two targets are retreating, disappearing behind a large dune. Tobey and Colonel hobble along to give chase. Suddenly, the roar of twin boosters on full throttle burn shakes the dry air around us, and a small unmarked spacecraft lifts off. It could either be a big shuttle or a little teeny starship. Tobey and Colonel dicker about who is going to shoot the korring ship, but the ship doesn't korring pay any heed to their words. I stare at the receding ship through binoculars. 

I wonder if Spot has mange. But just on his head? That ain't korring right . . .

Colonel calls in the situation to Forester and the others, and our secure lines crackle with questions. Soon the brains of the Wayward Bastard condense those jumble of questions into one big one: Why set off an atmospheric thermo-nuclear device to scramble communications when they could have easily set off a ground thermo-nuclear device and taken out the power station?

Searching around, we found out why . . .