The Rask Rebellion

There were CIWS turrets mounted above the tracks on each corner, their lenses reflecting the sun as they scanned the sky for threats, their long cannons at the ready. Could they even pick up anything in this storm? They had clearly been sourced from a UNN base, he had seen those same muffin-shaped radomes on previous deployments. Cupcakes, that was how the Marines affectionately referred to them.

It occurred to him that he had seen one of these giant contraptions before. These platforms were used to transport ultra-heavy cargo and spacecraft in planetside spaceports. What was this one doing here? How had the Rask gotten their hands on one? They must be using it as some kind of mobile base or command post.

His captors marched him towards a long set of stairs that reached from the hull to the sand, the aliens forcing him to climb it, its structure creaking worryingly under their combined weight. The steps were human-sized, confirming his suspicion that they hadn't built this thing themselves. On his way up, he noted that there was writing on the side of the hull. It was a dark red that bordered on brown, the characters resembling claw marks, like they had been scratched into the metal by a giant hand. Was that what Rask text looked like?

They reached the gantry, the female giving him a shove as she forced him through one of the doors, ducking in after him. The noise of windblown sand pounding the hull was muffled as it closed behind them with a thud, the far-off hum of the vehicle's engines and generators greeting them. It was stiflingly hot inside, they probably didn't have any kind of climate control.

Before him was a corridor that resembled what one might expect to find on any UNN spaceship, dimly lit by naked bulbs that dangled from the ceiling, maybe seven feet above his head. This was a workplace, no attempt had been made to make it comfortable. It was all exposed metal and beams, all manner of electrical cables and pipes snaking their way across every available surface. The deck beneath his feet was a grate, more miscellaneous machinery glimpsed beyond it.

"Move," the female growled, giving him another shove that made him stumble.

"Easy, sunshine," he muttered. "I'm a disabled veteran, you know?"

As she marched him through the belly of the vehicle, they crossed paths with many more Rask. They were usually sparsely clothed, their tanned skin glistening with sweat. Working in the bowels of this place must be like working in the engine room in an old steam liner. They moved out of his way as the procession of soldiers approached, their feline eyes watching him curiously.

They eventually reached a ladder, which led up into one of the prefabs. As he had suspected, these were the same prefabricated buildings used on colony planets, normally dropped into place to form settlements on frontier worlds. They were reasonably spacious, and this area of the vehicle had been more comfortably furnished than the warrens below.

Purple seemed to be the color of choice for the Rask. Flowing drapes cascaded from the ceiling to cover up the bare walls, made from some kind of shiny fabric, maybe silk or velvet. Every corner of the room was strewn with large nests of throw pillows, their occupants pausing their conversations to watch him.

What parts of the original structure were still visible held either slatted windows or large tapestries. There was an oddly medieval style about them, beautifully embroidered in spite of their crude perspective, their woven threads depicting scenes of battle and hunting. The floor beneath his feet was strewn with animal skins and rugs in the same regal shade of purple. What sensation his prosthetic foot allowed him to feel told him that it was soft, like shag. What would have been no-frills, functional furniture had been replaced with wooden tables and chairs that were exquisitely carved, like the dark mahogany one might expect to find in an upscale office or study. Every table seemed to be laden with some kind of food or beverage, silver platters that were piled with unidentifiable meats reminding him of how long it had been since he last ate.

It all seemed out of place for a military vessel, there was too much luxury to be found here. He felt as though he had just been marched into a Roman banquet hall, or maybe a Moroccan hookah lounge. Could this be the home of the Admiral that they had mentioned back in the APC?

The female tugged Cooper's arm, making him stand up straighter as another group of aliens entered through an automatic door at the far end of the prefab. There was an imposing male with fresh scars on his cheek, and a stout female wearing leather pants as tight as a latex glove. They were both wearing a purple sash over their ornate jackets, studded with little badges and pins that resembled medals. Those must be signs of status. They were followed by a shorter male who trailed after them like a beaten dog, his eyes constantly fixed on the carpet.

The female seemed to be the head honcho, the other two flanking her as she came to a stop in front of him. She had a commanding air about her. He could feel the tension that the other aliens exuded, as though her mere presence made them nervous.

"My Admiral," his captor began, bowing her head as though she were addressing royalty. "Your order has been carried out. We have successfully apprehended a live human, plucked from the heat of battle." She tore his helmet off, Cooper blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. "I now present him to you."

The Admiral looked him up and down with her yellow eyes, scratching her chin with one of her curved, black claws.

"Of all the humans you could have chosen, why one so...damaged?" the scarred male to her right asked. His voice was deep and gravelly, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

His captor began to speak, seeming flustered by the thought that her moment of triumph might be marred, but the Admiral raised a furry hand to dismiss her companion's remark.

"No," she said, narrowing her eyes at Cooper. "You have done well, soldier. Very well. This one's injuries were earned in battle, they mark him as a seasoned warrior. He will make an admirable trophy for the Matriarch."

"Excuse me," Cooper said, clearing his throat. The aliens seemed shocked by his courage, all save for the Admiral. While they flattened their ears against their heads and bared their teeth, she merely smirked at him, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

His captor kicked the back of his good leg, forcing him to take a knee.

"You dare speak in the presence of-"

The Admiral cut off his captor's comment with another wave of her furry hand.

"This one is human, child. He does not know how to submit, nor does he know how to be a prisoner. We shall teach him in time."

"So, can one of you oversized tabbies tell me what the fuck is going on?" Cooper demanded.

"Is it not obvious?" the Admiral replied. "You are now a prisoner of the Matriarchy."

"Why?" he continued. "If you think that you can use me as a bargaining chip, you're stupider than you look, which is a fucking feat. The UNN doesn't negotiate with hostage-takers."
"Taking hostages for leverage would be dishonorable," she replied, the accusation seeming to irk her. "No, you are to be delivered to the Matriarch once we return to the territory. As a pet," she added with a sardonic smile.

"A pet?" he repeated, glancing at the aliens in confusion. "Are you taking the piss?"

"He asks if I am joking," the Admiral clarified, noticing the confused expression of the burly male. "I assure you, human, that I am not. You shall be a trophy of our victory over your people."

"This isn't going to go down the way you think it will," Cooper said, his tone serious now. The Admiral ignored him, turning to the cowed male who was lurking nearby.

"Vitza, you were trained in the maintenance of these prosthetics, were you not?"

"Yes, my Admiral," he replied as he stepped forward. "I was to maintain those of our auxiliaries when they returned home."
"Check him over, make sure that he is in working order. I want the arm removed, I know from personal experience how dangerous they can be. Confiscate any electronics that he still has, too."

"Fuck you!" Cooper snarled, starting to struggle as he was lifted to his feet. "You're not taking my arm off!"

"And check that he is...intact," the Admiral added. "He will provide the Matriarch with far less amusement if he has lost more than his limbs.

Cooper grunted as his captor planted her furry hand between his legs, copping a feel.

"He is fine," she replied.

He took the opportunity to kick her in the shin with his prosthetic foot, the skid-like appendage catching her just above the heel of her digitigrade leg. She hissed as she hopped back, raising a hand with the intent to strike him, soon lowering it under the unflinching gaze of her superior.

"Do be gentle with him," the Admiral warned. "They are fragile little things. Perhaps now, you better understand the plight of your comrades who were forced to undergo integration training."

"I now have more respect for their restraint, Admiral," she muttered as she glared at Cooper.

"Crewmaster," the Admiral continued, addressing her male companion. "See to it that these warriors are rewarded appropriately for their efforts, and have the captive taken to the brig. Vitza, go with them."

She turned her back to them and began to walk away, pausing when Cooper called out to her.

"Oi! Admiral, or whatever your bloody name is. I was at the ambush in the massif, killed a dozen of yours easy. Killed a dozen more when these stupid cunts attacked us in the desert, they walked straight into our gunfire. This war was lost the moment you decided to go up against the UNN, you're only delaying the inevitable."

"I like this one," she said, turning to look over her shoulder at him. "He has fire. The Matriarch is going to enjoy him."

***

Cooper was shoved into a cell in the depths of the crawler, little more than iron bars that had been spot-welded over what must have once been storage closets. There were three such cells situated side by side, wide enough that the Rask had been able to fit a cot in each one, along with a washbasin and a toilet. There was enough room for a Borealan, even if it was cramped by their standards.

He turned to face the aliens, his hands still tightly bound. The one called Vitza entered after him, the others standing guard behind the door, seeming remarkably uninterested in what was about to happen.

"I am to detach your prosthetic," the Rask said, his tone more confident now that he was out of earshot of the Admiral.

"Then untie me," Cooper suggested.

"Not before disabling the unit," Vitza replied warily. "I am familiar with this technology. Weaponizing prosthetics is illegal in UNN space, but its strength and durability remain greater than that of your original limb. I must remove your pressure suit to access the socket."
He reached out and began to remove Cooper's flak jacket, laying it on the cot, then detached the rigid vambrace from his wrist that housed his onboard computer. Once that was done, he unzipped the pressure suit down to the waist, pulling it down past Cooper's shoulder to expose the joint where his prosthetic met his body.

"The socket has been fused to the scapula," Vitza muttered, examining the black polymer. "If I had to guess, I would say that more of your humerus survived your initial injury, but that they chose to amputate up to the shoulder to provide more leverage and stability."

"You'd be correct," Cooper replied, the alien beginning to unfasten the catches around his artificial bicep. "So...Vitza, right? What's your deal? The Rask don't strike me as the engineering type. How is it that you know how to service a prosthetic limb?"

"The Matriarchy needs people who can maintain the prosthetics of our injured auxiliaries when they return from duty," he explained. "Not to mention people who can service the weapons and other technologies that we have acquired."

"So, what, you're like the tech guy?"

"The Matriarch has named me Chief Engineer," he replied.

"Did you make this...vehicle?"

"The crawlers? I helped to assemble and outfit them, yes."

Them? There were more than one of these things? Good to know...

Vitza disconnected Cooper's arm at the shoulder, making him wince as what had once been simulated sensation was replaced with the fuzzy tingling of interrupted nerves. Beneath it was a simple ball joint that was connected to a soft, translucent gel, cushioning the scarred tissue beneath.

"And how does a Rask learn all this stuff?" Cooper asked.

"While the others were training to become Shock Troopers, I studied under your Warsmiths, along with a handful of others. Combat Engineers, you call them. Turn around."

Cooper put his back to the alien, feeling him begin to untie the thick rope. He slid the prosthetic arm out of its sleeve, leaving the garment hanging loose. Cooper's first instinct was to rub his wrist, where the skin was red and raw, but the nerve impulses now ended at the socket on his shoulder.

"I thought Borealans were all about slicing each other up?" he mused. "You're a head shorter than the rest of them, I saw how you behaved around them back in the prefab. How can you be the chief of anything if a bigger dude can just come along and beat you up?"

"No society could function in that manner," he replied, setting the limb on the cot. The forearm was all chewed up, the tooth marks from the Rask war beast's teeth clearly visible where they had scored the polymer. It seemed functional, however. The housing was merely cosmetic, and there was no obvious damage to any of the machinery or electronics.

"I am named Chief Engineer by the Matriarch," Vitza continued. "All those who obey her will recognize my authority or face her wrath."

"I see, they obey you because she told them to, so it's more like they're obeying her?"

"In such a way, the skilled and knowledgeable can be given more authority than their status would usually afford them," he replied.

"And the jocks don't beat up the nerds," Cooper added with a nod. "You have to be pretty bright to be an engineer," he said, flexing his fingers. "Bright enough to know that this war is going to end very badly for your side."

"It is not my place to question the will of the Matriarch," Vitza muttered, crouching down to inspect his prosthetic leg.

"Maybe it should be," Cooper continued, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Tell you what, mate. Leave my helmet in my cell, I can leave it broadcasting a distress signal over ad-hoc. Anyone who got into range would pick it up and come to investigate, and the rest of these morons won't know anything's wrong. When the UNN arrives, I tell them that you helped me out, and you're home free. No more Admiral, no more Matriarch. Think about it."
Vitza collected the prosthetic, the helmet, and the computer, pausing on his way to the cell door. His tail flicked back and forth in a way that seemed hesitant to Cooper, indecisive. He looked back over his shoulder, his expression neutral.

"To assume that our way of life has been somehow imposed on us against our will is a common human failing," he said. "I have earned a position of authority and respect, even if it is only in a narrow domain, and my loyalty is to my Matriarch. You would do well to obey the Admiral, human. Give her what she wants."

"What happens if I don't?" Cooper asked defiantly.

"You will learn our ways, one way or another. The toll that process takes on you depends on how willing you are to cooperate. Listen," he added, sparing a wary glance at the guards beyond the door before turning to face Cooper again. He lowered his voice, speaking in hushed tones. "To live out one's days in the Matriarch's palace is not the terrible fate that you may imagine. You might even have chosen it if you understood what it entailed."

"Nobody would choose to become a pet, someone's living trophy," Cooper spat.

"And what of serving as a consort to a beautiful, powerful woman? Living in the lap of luxury and excess? Many Rask dream of one day catching her eye and being chosen to live within the palace walls at her side."

"Humans generally require a ceremony that involves a shitty cake with too much icing, and gifts of useless kitchen utensils before they'll devote themselves to one person for the rest of their lives," Cooper replied, Vitza cocking his head in confusion. "If you think that I'm just going to roll over and accept this, then you didn't learn much from your time training with the Corps."

"So be it," the alien replied, heading for the door. "I warned you..."

***

"How is our guest?" Korbaz asked, Vitza hurrying along beside her as she made her way to the conning tower.

"Healthy, despite his injuries. As you requested, I removed his arm and stripped him of any means to communicate with his people. With your permission, I will inspect the devices to see if any useful data can be recovered."

"Good," she replied with an approving nod. "At this juncture, any information that can help improve our odds is valuable."

Crewmaster Lortz was waiting to meet her at the holographic table as she entered the room, looking as prim as ever. She leaned on it, examining the terrain map.

"Report," she demanded. "How did our troops fare?"

"The initial attack was very successful," he replied, puffing his barrel chest out confidently. "The artillery barrages from the Landslide and the Earthquake took the interlopers completely by surprise, sowing disorder amongst their ranks. Two of their three defensive lines lost their cohesion, allowing our assault forces to slip through, just as planned. Eight of their vehicles were disabled, and thirty of their soldiers were slain."

"Losses?" she asked. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking a little less confident.

"We expended half of our ballistic missiles, with only the reserve remaining. The Volcano lost six of its vehicles, the Tornado lost nine, and eight of the Hurricane's complement were either destroyed or disabled."

"Vitza," she grumbled, "put that into perspective for me."

He pulled out his tablet computer, tapping at the touch screen with his padded fingers for a moment.

"Thirty-seven percent, fifty-six percent, and fifty percent respectively, my Admiral."

"That means two of our carriers are operating with only half of their complement," she snarled. "What of the losses to personnel?"

"One hundred and four troops lost between all three carriers, Admiral," the Crewmaster replied. She noticed him swallow conspicuously, perhaps anticipating another reprimand.

"At least we fared better than last time," Korbaz muttered under her breath.

"The artillery achieved its objective," the Crewmaster continued, "and our warriors performed well against the human Marines. Many of them have trained with the enemy, they understand their doctrine. But the armored vehicles are proving too difficult for us to crack with the weapons that we have on hand. We can bring down their troop carriers with anti-material railguns, but we do not possess enough of them to outfit every pack with one. What tanks we have been able to disable were hit by the Naval guns or the missiles."

Korbaz began to walk around the table, staring at the translucent representation of the dunes as she considered.

"Send word to the territory, have them dispatch a convoy to reinforce the carriers. It will take them some days to reach us, but we need to replenish the lost vehicles and troops as quickly as possible. I want the remaining assault forces organized into smaller teams. Outfit them with AMRs and have them harass the humans. I want them firing from concealment, aiming for their troop transports. I want scouts reporting the positions of enemy targets for intermittent bombardment. Save the missiles, we still have plenty of railgun ammo, correct?"