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Corps and Sword

by on February 9, 2016

Commander Morgan was not an otter to suffer fools gladly. He stood on the gleaming bridge of the Streamwater and glowered down at the amber planet. “Arm the mass drivers,” he rumbled. He could perhaps have given order to arm the torpedoes, or power up the laser cannons, but the otter commander did not believe in such a thing as overkill. If you annihilated your enemy, you didn’t have to worry about them again. It was simple as that.

The order flashed out to the other ships in the Otter Space Corps. The fleet ringed the planet, even encompassing its solitary moon colony. The Corps vessels pulled in asteroids and other space junk, drawing them through electromagnetic coils, giving them killing speed. A few officers reflected sentimentally on the planet below, remembering happy days spent on the amber seas.

The Commander didn’t bother. The planet’s inhabitants were pre-warp, so ridiculously primitive they thought the wheel was a nifty idea. The Corps had actually told them about the wheel. The Commander himself had outlined the thing on a blasted chart. Had they done anything productive with it? Had they so much as worked up a war chariot? No. Elayne Five had made splendid war chariots, and were well on their way to the steam engine by now. These idiots would never get that far. It was their own fault. They had made their proverbial bed; now they would lie in it. The Corps knew how to deal with wayward pre-warp planets.

“Mass drivers armed, sir,” reported a lieutenant, coolly. “Target sites identified and locked.”

Commander Morgan drew himself to his full height. “Very well. Mr. Wilkins, fire.”

The lieutenant (who was actually part mink, but who kept that fact secret from the Corps) pressed his paw down on the firing pad. The bridge crew waited for the slight rumble of the ship as it loosed the asteroids from orbit upon the unsuspecting world.

Nothing happened. The ship didn’t rumble; it barely even hummed. Bursts of alarmed inquiries came from the rest of the fleet; none of their mass drivers had fired either. Commander Morgan turned slowly towards the lieutenant. “What has gone wrong?” he said, quivering in anger.

“I don’t know, sir!” the lieutenant squeaked. “A weapons system malfunction of this magnitude is-”

“My fault,” said a new voice. The Commander whirled. A new otter had materialized out of nowhere on the bridge. He wore an old tattered uniform that almost looked like it had Corps insignia. In his left paw, he held a massive red sword. The sword hummed loudly.

“Who the bloody hell-” the Commander began, in high outrage.

The otter swung the sword. The Commander’s laser pistol disintegrated in its holster. So did everyone else’s, shipwide. Another pass, and computer screens erupted in sparks and flame. The Streamwater jolted in space, and alarms wailed across its decks. The otter leveled the sword. “You have one chance. Retreat. Now.”

Commander Morgan wasn’t the retreating type. “Again,” he growled. “Who the hell are-”

Once more he was interrupted. This time it was by the shriek of his lieutenant, as the otter calmly ran him through with a lightning slash. Then the red blade was at the Commander’s own throat. Flames filled his vision. The deck of the bridge rolled underneath him. “Who…” he gasped, for the third and last time.

The red sword slashed again, humming happily. Its wielder almost smiled. “My name is Stamper, god of war.”

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  1. “Almost smiled.” Oh, that Mr. Stamper.

  2. Stamper has a flair for the dramatic. I suppose that goes hand-in-hand with becoming a god.

  3. Hehe… Otter destruction. I like it.

    “The lieutenant (who was actually part mink, but who kept that fact secret from the Corps)…” Bwwahahahahaaha!

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