Morison's ship was destroyed today.
All of his crew burned with it fighting to the last, as they refused to surrender and were gunned down by a frigate's cannons in orbit of Sirius prime. He was now stranded here, a weapon's trader without the means to procure merchandise and with a pocket full of credits that he couldn't use. Those damned pirate clans had help from the Taz'aran Empire - Morison was sure of it! The green heads were selling a lot of supplies to the clanners, moreover, they deployed their own Imperial army troops on the planet and had secured large parts of it.
The whole invasion had been made possible thanks to their supply chain and starship patrols who turned the job of people like him into a living nightmare. Punching through a blockade like that wasn't something he was unaccustomed to, yet each time it became harder, till this day when his boys and girls were lost. As a Terran, Morison cared much for his friends and family, as sometimes the border between those was non-existent. And again as a human, he had the duty to make sure all of his race's uplifted clients were safe and free from oppression. A merchant of Life, as those selling weapons and armor to the colonists were aptly named, Morison's job was to provide quality merchandise for a low price - as low as he could manage after expenses. He was a trader specializing in all types of weapons and land vehicles, tanks, APC's and mobile railgun artillery units. All of those were lost, destroyed together with his starship and crew. Sighing sadly, Morison walked away from the improvised landing zone marked with flairs and back to his colonist friends to whom he gave back their money. After all, no merchandise, no payment. He was not some filthy alien scumbag, who'd pray upon the unfortunate pilfering their hard earned credits.
"I am sorry Morison... we... we didn't know the taz'arans had deployed another patrol frigate in the sector. If we did..."
"Do not bash yourself, nobody could anticipate things like that. Now, tell me what do you want me to do for you gran Klarissa?"
The frail-looking old woman was actually one of the colonists chosen to oversee supplies and deal with people like him. She got all of the money that each had donated to the cause and haggled with traders for better deals on equipment needed for the war effort. Smiling, she poked his gut and then asked:
"Well sonny, if ya' can, do something about this one." - and she pointed at the nearby earthworks garage where stuck out the silhouette of a strange looking tank. Eyes squinting, Morison noticed that there were a couple of confused kids wandering around it, desperately trying to fix the vehicle. From the looks of it none of them was older than thirteen or fourteen and perhaps they had learned other skills, as it seemed that vehicle repair wasn't something that they were capable of. Nodding to Klarissa, Morison rolled up his sleeves and walked quickly over, not knowing if the colonists even had a crew for the thing.
Kids stepped aside when the adult walked near. The Looks in their tired, baggy eyes told him they were at a loss of what to do, moreover, he saw blood and a mangled human limb sticking out the hole ripped directly into the tank's armored hull. Morison climbed the vehicle and through its opened hatch looked inside, inspecting the carnage. The mangled bodies of three women were splattered all over the vehicle's cabin and he reluctantly reached down - that was a grizzly job but someone had to do it. Being a merchant of arms he'd seen plenty of death throughout the years traveling from one battlefield to another. The merchants of Life had to be on the front of it, always. Otherwise, how could the invaded defend themselves against the invader if they lacked the capabilities to craft heavy equipment of their own?
Hours later Morison and the young boys had somehow fixed all internal damage of the vehicle and patched its armorplating. A couple of scans showed him that this machine was not a superbly crafted vehicle of war. He was, of course, told of the story - the engineer who was sick and managed to build it by himself before finally dying. Everyone knew what the tank's faults were and they compensated for them in battle. Entering the vehicle for the last time this day, Morison activated its mainframe hearing the voice of that now dead engineer its VI had been imprinted with:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
Loaded with whatever meager supplies they had an hour later, Morison called grandma Klarissa to report his job was done. Turning around but for a minute he heard the booming rumble of its Tesla engine and screaming ran after it - the three boys had manned the vehicle and were now rushing toward the front...
No matter how much he shouted, they didn't stop and the tank's silhouette disappeared on the horizon. Angry and exhausted, Morison grabbed a blanket and after chugging down a bowl of vegetable soup lay down to get some sleep.
Sirius rose on the horizon and Morison was awoken by a loud, screeching sound - metal was clanking with metal. Next to the garage he'd slept in, a large eight-wheeled truck equipped with a heavy crane was dragging the very same tank that he'd spent the previous day fixing. It was hit again, this time in the turret and somehow miraculously had not exploded. One glance inside and Morison saw the kids corpses - the crew of that vehicle was not that fortunate as the vehicle itself. Grandma Klarissa gave him a somber look and again nodded in the direction of that tank. Morison climbed in and slowly, his hands twitching removed the bodies from the tank's cabin. He gave them over to the grave detail waiting outside that was comprised of even younger boys - the biggest of them was no more than eight years old. Before hosing the insides Morison saw a bloodied number 6, painted on the side holo-sight of the tank's cannon. Hours later, after fixing the tank's VI he understood - its crew had noted kills when their mainframe stopped working, hit by a missile. The memory of the machine had remained though, and with awe Morison noted that the crew's tank kills were 14, making its total for that day and night 20! Before going to sleep again and after fixing the hole in the tank's turret, he checked if the VI was completely operational. Pushing the power on button, it chimed in, again with the cheerful voice of that engineer:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
Morison's heavy feet dragged him to the closest soup tent, where a one-handed bunny was giving the wounded and tired militia each one bowl of soup and loaf of rye bread. He sat on a log and arms shaking tried holding on to the bowl but his hands were so tired that he dropped his spoon, spilling some soup on the ground. The bunny, as a dutiful client came, picked up the spoon, cleaned it and sat next to him.
"Patron, what is your name? I am called Glory."
"Morison, my name is Morison." - he offered his shaking hand and held the bunny's only, bandaged paw. The client looked at him with her sad smiling gray eyes and filled the now clean spoon with soup. - "Come, you worked your hands off to fix the 'Defiance', the least I can do is feed you, Patron."
"But, your hand... doesn't it hurt?"
The bunny smiled and filled another spoonful of soup. Morison relaxed his aching arms and let himself be spoonfed by the one-handed bunny.
Sirius's sun rose on the horizon and he awoke sitting on that very log, body wrapped with his thermal blanket, and by the same dreadful metallic screeching. Evidently, during the night somebody had crewed the tank again, looking around Morison couldn't locate that eight-year-old boy. Teeth gritting, the weapons merchant climbed the tank and again saw minced bodies inside. It was as he had suspected - that kid was there, its clear blue eyes open, looking directly at him. Now crying, Morison mobilized all of his sanity and strength to continue doing what had become his constant duty. The day passed, and with the help of one other human who had some minimal repair skill and the bunny Glory, Morison again pathed the tank. Glory, despite the loss of her limb compensated with very fast and precise footwork. Carrying spare parts and salvage pieces for Morison to try and fashion replacements for the tank. The day passed, and Morison again pushed the on button hearing the engineer's voice:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
He basically collapsed next to the tank out of extreme exhaustion. Woke up next morning greeted by Sirius's sunrise. In the distance, he saw the eight wheeler crane dragging behind 'Defiance'. Out from the blown turret hatch stuck a bandaged bunny paw and Morison shuddered. Stumbling he walked over, climbed up and looked inside...
Evening came painfully slow and as he pushed the on button again, Morison was greeted with the VI's cheerful voice:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
The Sirius's sunrise woke Morison and next to him he saw the hull of 'Defiance'. Its engine compartment was smoldering and the merchant slowly stood up, hand leaning on the vehicle's hull. The distant sound of battle was growing closer and closer. He could see the towering silhouette of alien mecha dancing on the horizon with its beam cannons firing at something. The tank was absolutely fried, armor melted, and even the gun mantle was bent. And yet the machine had somehow managed to return back on its own power. He took one painful look inside - three women bodies, cooked alive. Eye twitching, Morison jumped inside and began cleaning the vehicle. Again. The day passed and somebody picked the collapsed Morison, carrying him into the nearby triage station. This time he wasn't around to hear the VI's voice, but grandma Klarissa did as she turned the on button:
"All systems on, I am ready to fight!"
Sirius sun rose again and shone upon the ravaged battlefield. In its southernmost end, a single vehicle was moving and shooting. Surrounded on all sides by towering mecha, its main gun molten and inoperable, only the coaxial railgun allowed the crew to return fire. The nearest mecha was hit and its legs exploded, but the tank was moving on a borrowed time, yet that meant nothing for the colonists who crewed it. Close, behind that battle line, a battered battalion of Militia was able to retreat successfully thanks to the sacrifice of its crew. While they were alone occupying a whole mecha squad, their family and friends pulled back, behind the tertiary defense line. Comprised of old towed railguns that the colonists had dismounted from a transport barge and simple trenches, that line was to be their last stand. Just as the last militiaman leaped over the trench one mecha got lucky. A direct hit made the tank's turret fly off, shrapnel instantly killing everyone inside.
This time the sunrise didn't wake Morison up. He was comatose and slept like a corpse for two full days. In his tortured mind he saw people begging him to repair the tank again - and yet the merchant couldn't move a single muscle. On the third morning, he was awoken by a kick in the face. Gasping for air, with a taz'aran boot on his throat and particle beam rifle nozzle pointing at his head, Morison nevertheless reached for his sidearm. It wasn't there. What he saw was somebody's dagger and grabbed it. He no longer cared if the invader would shoot him dead, for in his mind Morison had died many times over. The merchant threw that dagger up and then pulled himself up using the falling body of the taz'aran trooper. Grabbed his rifle before looking around and seeing himself surrounded by at least a squad strong force. All were lightly armored green-skinned taz'aran soldiers, and all were laughing at him. Morison closed his eyes, pulled as much air as he could in his lungs, raised the rifle and aiming it at the nearest invader, screamed.
He was ready to fall like a Terran...!
