#this was the first story I wrote for the HFY subreddit

[inbabylontheywept]

That isn't a ship, it's a cannon with FTL

Aggral Thrawn’s gut was a grotesque thing to behold: Soft and distended, covered with a coarse layering of fur, a fat purple worm of a scar crossing over it’s almost spherical circumference. So vicious was the scar that even gazing upon it brought unwanted imagery of the fat ape-like creature screaming in pain, both arms working as a dam to keep the tidal wave of bloody guts from spilling out of its three-fingered fists

Yet, for all its grotesque horror, he trusted it. That same gut that had almost gotten him killed so many years before had worked hard to save him again and again after. It was what had brought him from mere gangpress, to quartermaster, all the way to the captain of his own pirate vessel.

And right now, it was telling him to call off the attack. The readings he was getting from the craft ahead made no sense. The crew space was too small, the energy readings were off the charts, and there was something almost military about it. Yet, as he looked over the hull, he couldn’t spot a single weapon. Nothing about it made sense.

The crew had enough in the larders to pass on a ship this sturdy. Even as ships on either side of him pulled forward, eager to be the first to raid the craft, he aborted the ram sequence to watch from a distance.

The crew was disappointed. It’d been too long since they’d had a good, solid fight, but they knew better than to second guess Aggral’s gut. It had earned its place as the ship’s oracle by rite of blood, and was to be respected accordingly.

---

There were only four crew aboard the USSN PMAC: Dalton Dial, in charge of weapon systems, Elizabeth Harris, in charge of navigation, and the Pratchett siblings, who worked together to keep the fifth generation fusion reactor that powered the whole abomination within some semblance of working order.

The Pratchett siblings’ love of the reactor (which they had affectionately named “Sun-Son”) was rivaled only by their hatred of the rest of the craft. Elizabeth and Dalton had more mixed feelings on the matter. Elizabeth considered the ship “Perhaps a little ridiculous on paper, but a work of military genius,” while Dalton lauded the idea as “Literally the coming of the Messiah, the only thing I prayed for my whole adulthood, and the answer to that prayer manifest, just for me, to bring me back to the flock.”

Their mixed feelings could be explained away just by describing the craft concept:

The PMAC was not a ship. It was the largest possible gun that could still be attached to an Alcubierre drive, with just enough manpower to steer, aim, and maintain the thing for long term patrols.

The prototype MAC that the life-support, thrusters, and reactor had been constructed around hadn’t even been built with space in mind. It was originally designed as a ground-to-orbit defense weapon. If it wasn’t for the capacitor bank the ship would’ve needed almost a minute between each shot to get enough power, even with the fifth generation reactor. Luckily, it could start out each battle with enough charge to fire off a salvo of four before needing to begin recharging for its next launch.

It had just such a salvo prepared for the pirate ambush that their military grade scanners had picked up minutes earlier.

Dalton was not taking the delay very well.

“With all due respect mam, I’ve had a lock on all three for almost a minute now. I could just fire and claim that I sneezed. The Pratchetts would back me up on this. Right guys?”

Emily Pratchett snorted.

“Why is it that when the weaponsmaster says ‘with all due respect’ he always means ‘fuck you for giving my stupidly giant gun blue balls?”

Thom Pratchett shrugged.

“Maybe he’d say it less if you weren’t so eager to translate it to the navigator for him.”

Elizabeth was slightly amused by the conversation. It was hard to keep things particularly formal while on a crew this small. Still, she was waiting for something. She’d gotten permission from the brass to take a new approach to fighting with the ship.

They’d proven it could win battles. Now, it was time to establish shock and awe. And as it currently stood, dead men told no tales.

Thus, they needed more living ones. And as she watched two pirate ships pull forward, with one hanging back, she knew just who’d live to pass on this particular legend. ---

Aggral watched the ships advance on his HUD, the blips crossing the thousands of kilometers between them and the strange ship in seconds. For a moment he felt regret. Was he making a mistake? Was this going to be what led to some upstart in the crew thinking they could do things better than him?

Then, the world went mad.

The power readings on the strange ship spiked. Hard. He’d thought that the baseline levels were outrageous, but they must’ve had some sort of absurd capacitor bank to expel that much energy that fast. The twin prongs that made up most of the length of the ship gave off some sort of EMP that fried the electronics of the Viscera, his sister ship, cutting off their radio traffic. His crew scrambled to find some way to regain contact when Gods of the Dead, forgive me my sins, and and forget me my debts, the actual weapon went off. The EMP hadn’t even been the attack, it had just been a side effect.

He hadn’t seen a weapon because he’d been looking for one on the hull, some kind of guardian laser, or a missile pod. He hadn’t even conceived that the whole goddamn vehicle could be the weapon. But what kind of weapon would charge up like that? A laser would just fire over a sustained period. What would need a burst like-

He stopped midthought as it hit him: A railgun.

He stopped again as it hit them: The kinetic charge would have to have been moving at almost 0.8c for it to just ignore the evasive maneuvers like that. The ferroslug itself wasn’t detected by any of their defense measures aboard, but the thermal readings of the Viscera made every infared sensor aboard scream in horror. Contact with whatever slug had hit it must’ve reduced the whole thing to plasma. It was almost inconceivable.

He was already screaming out the full retreat call when the ship fired twice in rapid succession at the Rictus, which was still recovering from what had just happened to its partner. The first shot was dead through the center. The second hit some target a few dozen meters off to the side.

A direct hit on an escape pod. Apparently, the captain had tried to save himself. Even in the mortal terror that he felt at that moment, Aggral could take a grim satisfaction at that second shot. To leave all the men that followed you to their deaths was a cowardice that he could not bear to consider. He would rather die.

And now, he was going to. Jump was fifteen seconds away, and the console was telling him that the ship was pinged. They knew where he was, they had him in their crosshairs, and they were going to pull the trigger.

He traced a finger over the purple scar absentmindedly. This was it. He’d been living on borrowed time since that first wound, and now he was to meet his ancestors.

He was ready.

---

Dalton was wincing, even as he maintained his ping on the ship. He knew that Elizabeth was just doing her job, but even by his admittedly bloodthirsty standards, there was something fucked up about keeping a ship in ping like this. It was like forcing someone to look you in the eyes before you slit their throat. Way too personal for his tastes.

Elizabeth was keeping an eye on the craft, making sure that no escape pods were jettisoning. Part of her was hoping that some would, but whatever other faults these pirates had, they were loyal to each other at least. As the ultraviolet scanners gave the telltale flair of redshift, she told Dalton to turn off the ping.

To say he was relieved was an understatement. In the middle of a firefight, he couldn’t question Elizabeth’s orders, but for the first time in a long time, he’d been afraid to pull the trigger. Now he didn’t have to.

He almost slid out of his chair as he asked the question that had been on his mind since the engagement began.

“Mam, what the hell was that?”

Elizabeth smiled warmly at her very surprised crew even as her words came out, cold as ice.

“A message.”

---

Thanks for reading this far! I'm moving my previous works from reddit to here. If you follow me, more will come. If you're impatient, you can skip to the source and read things at https://www.reddit.com/user/InBabylonTheyWept/

[muesliforbreakfast]

Pilgrim’s Trail

Sometimes I write... As y’all have seen. I’ve put two pieces up on HFY. A subreddit which I guess celebrates aspects of humanity. This is the first – It's based on an existential nightmare I had a few years ago and wrote about, but with a HFY flavour. Little bit of trivia... I gave the original writeup a conventional ending - this is much closer to the way the nightmare ended, but Ratel the Mercenary made some fucken lemonade.

Setting – Not really important, but if you insist... Picture a bastardized amalgamation of Kirill Eskov's version of Middle Earth, and Novigrad/Velen then you have the right idea.

- - - - - - - - - -

Years after his first quest he sits at the spring of the hawk under the white tree. He sharpens his silver sword, holding it across his thigh, as he watches the travellers on their journeys. A tall young woman in a weathered cloak approaches him.

"You look familiar to me, have we met?" she asks, with no other greeting.

"I have travelled far... it's possible."

"What is your name, if you will? I am a collector of stories, and I would have yours."

With a weary sigh, he replies "They just call me the Mercenary, call me that, if you like."

"Mercenary... How did you become a mercenary?"

He looks at her now and sees an elf, not a girl. She is only young in elf years.

- - - - - - - - - -

The caravan had stopped. He jumped off the cart to stretch, and admired the view of the mountain range, from the shade of the valley. Purple in the distance, it would take them another three days to reach it, and having reached it, the tunnel that would take them to the other side of the range. From there, it is another month until they reached the stronghold of the Assassin king known only as Tzerlag.

It was his first quest, and he was excited and apprehensive.

The command to walk the perimeter came from Brother Edmund, the heart and brains of this quest.

He took up his sword and began to walk the perimeter.

~ ~ ~

He had wanted to find his true love. "Eat the fruit of the white tree, and you shall find your true love." The book had said. His people had confirmed this decree, so he had sought the tree at the spring of the hawk, but the tree bore him no fruit. He had waited for three days, and on the fourth a wise man had said that an offering was necessary.

"But I have nothing, sir." He replied. The wise man had advised him to crusade. "Crusading will grant you a reward in this life." So he had walked the Pilgrims trail, to the first outpost. There he had waited for a group of crusaders, so he could begin his offering.

~ ~ ~

The very first group of crusaders to take the Pilgrim's trail had been the group that he had joined. According to the Master of the Guard, their mission was the most important one they had coming through there in years. A thief had stolen codex pages from the Assassin king Tzerlag, and to prevent continued skirmishes between the kingdoms, a group of crusaders were returning the codex pages that had been found.

He had been there when Brother Edmund had put the codex pages into a basket woven of cables, and he had been there when Brother Edmund and the Master of the Guard had discussed the route, and the dangers along the way. Their caravan numbered four hundred strong. Four hundred strong was more than enough, even for a mission of this importance.

~ ~ ~

The ambush had happened at the entrance to the tunnel through the ranges. The soldiers and crusaders had circled Brother Edmund's carriage, and they had all fought to the death.

Only he had survived.

While the battle had raged outside the carriage, he had smashed the lock on the cable basket with the pommel of his sword, and stuffed the five codex pages, wrapped in wax paper, up his gambeson sleeve. He had then tied a piece of cord around his wrist and sleeve to seal it, and then, outside, he had joined the melee again.

The bandits had outnumbered them almost two to one, and had quickly slaughtered all but the best fighters; the professional soldiers and seasoned men at arms. Under the weight of numbers, the best fighters would fall too. But not before he reached the entrance to the tunnel, his pursuers dead by his sword, and the sword of the four deceased comrades who had followed him.

The tunnel was unlit, and he had no torch, but he knew that it was dead straight with no branches, and so he stumbled into the darkness.

~ ~ ~

Torches in the darkness behind him warned him of his pursuers. They were too far to see him, so He took refuge in a crag in the rocks of the tunnel. As they passed, their quiet conversation made his blood run cold with fear.

The bandit Warlord, in his fury at having had the codex pages taken during the battle had ordered the wounded crusaders be piked to death where they lay. Meanwhile he had sent a dozen of his remaining men into the darkness of the tunnel, to reach the end and then hold the exit, as his main force scoured it thoroughly from behind. All this he had learned whilst following them through the tunnel. He had considered waiting for them to pass in his hiding place, but now was glad he had not.

~ ~ ~

The tunnel was long, and the scouts had set a fast pace for hours. When they stopped for a rest, they were exhausted.

So was he, but to rest was to die.

They made camp in the middle of the tunnel, and had posted two sentries for the night; one facing the entrance, and one on the other side facing the exit.

He had stealthily made his way past the first sentry, into the camp. He had killed both sentries and then killed the ten remaining men in their sleep. By his estimate, he would have six hours to make it to the other end of the tunnel. He hoped it would be enough.

~ ~ ~

Near the end of the tunnel he had encountered some traders. He looked like hell.

"Don't go that way." He had told them. When pressed for information he told them what he could without giving too much away. They had decided to take him to the stronghold of the Assassin king, and he had been picked up by Assassin scouts not four miles away from the tunnel.

The scouts had taken them all to the court of the Assassin king, and he had given the king the pages.

He had refused his reward.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Those were my first kills, my first crusade."

"Then you're Ratel... Ratel the Mercenary... The last time I heard this story you singlehandedly cutting through swathes of outlaws and delivered Tzerlag's daughter yourself."

"Hah. Don't let the truth get in the way of a good story. What happened was trial enough."

"The march through the desert, Seven years in the Eastern Marshes, The Marshal of Umber? Are those stories true?"

"It just depends on which version you've heard."

She pauses to think for a moment. He begins to sharpen his sword once more, and then speaks.

"I spoke to a man, a middle aged man, but scarred, withered to the bone by sorrow and hardship. He was gored by a boar, but killed it in return. It took him weeks to crawl to help. When he ran out of water, he drank out of muddy puddles and filthy holes. He ate raw fish when he could catch them. Insects and moss when he couldn't. When help found him he was weak and feverish; his recovery took months, his experience took years from his life. He's been tried far more than I. I've travelled and fought but I am paid, and well, for it. These passing peasants - I've seen and lived their lives, but briefly. Backbreaking labour for their feudal lords, and they receive just enough to scrape by in return."

"Losing everything but your waterskin, boots and a sword when you crossed the desert... Turning the tables on the Marshal of Umber and his hundred men as he tracked you through the forest... And they've suffered more?"

"The Marshal didn't even have twenty... Yes. My life is easy; I travel, I fight, I'm paid. Occasionally I am hurt, but I don't go hungry, I don't wake before the dawn and labour until after dusk, day in day out. This life is dangerous, but I know naught else. I will die before I'm forty; an early death is the price I will pay for never tilling the soil and toiling for every scrap of food I eat. If anything I am fortunate, aside from this."

The she-elf pauses to consider his words once more.

"Then I don't know how you humans do it. Live your lives I mean, day after day."

"I don't know how you elves came into this world. By all accounts you weren't here, and then you were. And the elements always bent to your will. It's not so for us; If we build a house from wood we cut down the trees for lumber. We carry the wood and saw it and nail it into a house. Whereas I've seen your treetop cities grown from the trees themselves."

"I still remember when my kind thought your kind were primitive brutes for doing so. Some still hold that we were bested because we became too civilised."

"Whereas our historians will tell you that your kind never needed steel until our kinds met in battle, which is why you never sought it, and didn't have it until you needed it."

"Please don't take offense! Your species is relentless, but that is admired by my kind!"

"Relentless... Did you know that our first hunters were persistence hunters?"

"I don't know what that means."

"Before we had steel, or fire, or even stone tools, we would chase our prey down. We would run them to death."

"Chase down... A deer?"

"That's right... You see they can run faster than us, but we can walk all day. We would chase just slowly enough that they could get away, but just fast enough that they were never out of sight. We would chase them until they were so exhausted that we could kill them with our hands. When we had nothing we still found a way. Now we have... Steel... And writing, and poetry. We've traveled the oceans. Maybe one day we will travel the skies. My ancestors survived a history of suffering because we were made to endure; the ability to suffer has been with us from the very beginning. No matter what it takes, no matter the cost."