The Sab's of Mentra

By Paul G Mann

Returning home after six years of fighting a senseless war, that had so far killed six million people, on a planet light years from home. Ivan, one of only a few who holds the Terran Cross for bravery, is recovering from his wounds, looking forward to seeing his parents and sister again. Little does he know; his father is dead. Murdered in the street, his mother grief stricken, starved to death, leaving only his sister. She lived in fear and poverty. He had been warned what to expect, but never believed the freighter captain who gave the warning. Already his life had been threatened, and it was clear to Ivan, to stay on Mars meant death, his own and his sisters.
He needs help, and looks towards the asteroids. The people he meets, many former Space Corps personnel, are like him, all reported dead, their families decimated and left to live in poverty. They are only a small group of people, less than a hundred and fifty, poorly armed and under equipped. All looked to him to lead a fight back against the Earl Ferdinand Ahlstrom of Elysium Mons, the most powerful ruler on Mars. But Ivan wanted more than a fight back, he wanted retribution and an end to the senseless slaughter on Mentra. Not a lot to ask for someone without money, men or equipment. Somehow, he will do it, or die trying, because if he can’t, he has nothing left to live for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul G Mann
• Release date: Nov 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215992562

Paul G Mann

Writing never came easy to me, even at school but somewhere inside me I always thought I had a story to tell. Before word processors and spell checks the bringing up of a family and out working to support them took precedence over such things as writing and as such setting my story down on paper was the least of my priorities.Things changed in 2007 when I suffered a heart attack which effectively ended my working life. My first computer back in 1988 was an old Amstrad word processor that allowed me to take work home from the office without the need of a ream of paper and white correction fluid. All I needed was a small three inch disc that fitted quite nicely into my pocket. It made letter writing so much easier and renewed my interest in writing although at that time I didn’t pursue it.I have had a large and varied working life to give me inspiration. I was a seaman for three years in my teenage years; I worked as a bus conductor on leaving the sea to raise a family before training as a plasterer and working in the building industry. A telecommunications factory offered better pay and conditions so I moved into the production of telephone exchanges for six years until securing a job in BT for seventeen years until made redundant in 1992. Ultimately I worked as a private hire taxi driver until illness forced me to stop.I am twice married with 3 children of my own (all grown up and flown the coup now) and 3 step children (also flown away). My present wife Gillian is a rock to me and who without her support and encouragement these books may never have been finished for publication. So if you don't like them blame her not me.The heart attack changed my life. I had to find something to occupy my mind and soon decided the best thing I could do was write. I readily admit I am not and probably never will be the most gifted writer in the world but as an exercise in keeping the old grey matter in working order it cannot be surpassed.All my work is ready for reading in e-book format from Smashwords and Paperback from http://www.Feedaread.com (cheaper at smashwords}

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First Published at Smashwords by Paul G Mann. Copyright 2023.

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By the Same Author

NEWTH 1 (The Early Years)

NEWTH 2 (A Time of Change)

NEWTH 3 (Inhanth & Hive)

The Last Magician

One Small Step

A Child of Time

Tony Higgins (An Alien by any other name)

Solace

Midshipman GOD

A Revelation at Ancandanter

The Magic of Christmas

Coming in 2024

Sorceress

Acknowledgements

Wirral Writers for their invaluable critiques and encouragement.

Gillian for her unceasing support.

Pixabay.com for the cover artwork

The Sab’s of Mentra

One

I was relaxing in my cabin as the ship came out of hyper-drive. Saturn filled the port side viewer, allowing me to see the majestic giant in all her breath-taking beauty. As I looked, my mind wandered, thinking back at the last six years of hell I had been through. I witnessed sights no human should ever see and still able to retain their sanity. Strangely, my release from hell came because of my capture by the hated enemy. I was left for dead by them; now freed from the evils of war; my nightmare was over. My life should also be over, finished when I was captured. I thought my end would come after I was tortured and interrogated, but here I am, miraculously still alive. The reports said all captives were killed, no exception, but no one knew for sure; all we knew was no one ever returned from the ordeal of captivity. At least my part in the butchery was now over.

My eyes had opened to a vast cavern, full of the quick-moving creatures I had been fighting for the last six years. They looked innocuous, small, less than five feet in height, but what they lacked in stature, they made up for with their other attributes. Long, between twelve-and eighteen-centimetre retractable claws on each limb, used to devastating effect with their lightning-fast reflexes and speed.

In a one-on-one scenario, an unarmed human stood little chance against them. They had learned from us. Each now carried a short staff, copied from our photon enhanced laser lance, (Pell) each end resembled their opened claw. Dangerous without it, the extra three feet in reach, made them devastating. The speed they moved at, and the effective way they used this weapon let me know why many of my comrades had died. They were usually cut in half with their intestines and bowels littering the ground, all caused by this razor-sharp, deadly piece of weaponry.

Expecting torture at the very least, I was more than surprised when they cut my bonds and placed food and drink in front of me. I wasn’t forced to eat it; it was there if I wanted it. Everything was surreal; hundreds of eyes looked at me, points of light in the gloom catching the dim glow inside the cavern, every one of them unblinking as they stared at me. My slightest move, except towards the food, was stopped by a claw, the point gently pushing me back to sit against the cavern wall.

Fear built in me. I had heard the stories of how the enemy ate what they killed, and I waited, expecting my throat to be sliced open at any second. I hoped that the reports of them eating us while we still lived was a rumour; put round by our ever so brave senior officers to make us fight that bit harder.

The death blow never came. Instead, a deep baritone voice spoke in broken but understandable Maerth. The universal language of Earth, and Mars.

‘Why do you kill?’ the voice asked. I couldn’t tell where it came from or even if it was natural. Was it made by one of our despised enemies or digitalised through a computer? The latter impossible as they lacked advanced technology? Before I could answer, the voice boomed again, this time with a claw point held next to my neck, ‘Why do you kill?’

‘I am a soldier,’ I heard myself reply, relieved as the claw was retracted. ‘I kill because I am ordered to.’

‘What is a soldier? Who gives the order?’ was the next question. I didn’t want to answer. Why should I? Then I thought about the death of my comrades; and the orders coming from some fat bastard, sitting on his arse, on a starship a quarter of a million miles away. ‘Who gives the order,’ the voice repeated?

‘A soldier is a warrior. I follow the orders of my commander,’ I answered. ‘He is the person who is in charge of everyone. We attack when he says we attack.’

‘Where is the commander?’ the voice boomed.

‘On a ship,’ I replied, as the penny dropped to what they wanted. They knew someone was telling us what to do. What they wanted was to find where that person was, attack and kill them; hoping by so doing, everyone else would pack up and go home because our commander, our leader, was dead. ‘Millions of miles away, they give orders; they do not fight.’ I finished, shrugging my shoulders.

The questions and interrogation went on for hours; days if I knew the truth, I lost track of time. If my eyes closed, a claw would stab me, waking me with a start. Somewhere in my haze of thoughts and lack of sleep, I concluded they were not the bad guys in all this. All they were doing was defending their homes and planet from a race of bloodthirsty savages, intent on their extermination. To them, I was the savage; in the time I spent with them, they never once mistreated me out of cruelty.

The food and water were replenished regularly, with our alien friends also eating the brown concoction they placed before me. God knows what it was, but a hungry man doesn’t ask questions. Between meals, I would be questioned until they were satisfied with the answers I gave. I got some respite, well of a sort. They would withdraw, often for hours, leaving a token guard over me to keep me awake while they discussed my answers. Then they would return to ask more questions, or repeat the same ones differently, asked again in a different context.

Some will say I am a traitor for talking, but they never asked about troop movements or tactics. It was always about chains of command, and our reserves, and where they were. As our stores and reserves of both men and weapon stocks, which were primarily the Pells, were in space, I saw no disadvantage in letting them know.

If I closed my eyes, the claw soon woke me, and I had an uneasy feeling that when it failed to wake me, it would slice me to ribbons instead. Not a lot registered in the cavern, the dim lights never penetrating the gloom. What I saw showed their intelligence; tunnels ran off the cavern, big enough to send men down, a dozen, maybe more abreast. It answered my unasked question of how they could move so fast and unobserved. Many of us had assumed an underground tunnel network. Our intrepid leaders however, thought they would be easier to kill on the surface, where they could observe the slaughter on both sides first hand. Underground tunnels were never considered; but now I knew, it was easy to understand how they could appear out of thin air to devastate our forces.

If things carried on as they did, we would eventually overrun them and eradicate every one of them. It would take years, and I dreaded the cost in lives as we did it. Tens of millions of humans would be slaughtered. If you included our enemy, the Sabs (an acronym for Short Arsed Bastards), tens of millions of more lives would be lost, and I asked myself why? Money and power came back as answers. Greedy men and, I dare say, women, willing to sacrifice the lives of people for the power money gave them. It was sickening to think people could sink so low.

Suddenly, their attitude towards me changed; I estimated it to be about a week after my capture; I learned later that it was nine days. A buzz went around the cavern; Sabs came pouring out of tunnels only to disappear down others; the cavern emptied, leaving me with six of my captors. They were busy, mainly laying booby traps of wicked-looking spring-loaded traps to strike the unwary. I could hear muffled explosions, dust, and smoke billowed from a tunnel; Sabs came pouring out a millisecond before the smoke. That was the signal for the cavern to be cleared. It seemed our intrepid leaders had listened at last to the underground theory we doing the fighting believed.

My last recollection was one of my captors looking at me in silence for a full half-minute before extending a needlepoint, razor-sharp claw. I was stabbed in each shoulder. The pain I felt, my lack of sleep, and the terror of that outstretch claw combined to make me lose consciousness. My arms, legs and upper body felt numb as I blacked out in oblivion.

Awareness came back slowly, caused in part by the sedatives and other drugs my rescuers pumped into me. A nurse hovered over me, nice looking and smiling. She spoke in a soothing voice, intended to calm my nerves when I started asking questions. I was too numb, in body, soul, and mind to care. Somehow, I had come through being captured; I should be glad and rejoice, but I cried. Tears cascaded down my cheeks. My mind filled with visions of the million’s dead, so many, not even their bodies, were shipped home. They lay where they fell, in shallow graves, less than three feet deep, with a simple stone marker to show where they lay.

My body was a wreck; a claw had first pierced, then sliced the muscles in my calves and thighs, my biceps and shoulders, cutting through nerves, muscle, tendons, and sinew. According to the doctors, it would be many months before I was walking again. Only the miracle of modern medicine had enabled me to retain my limbs. It would be at least twelve months before I would be fully fit again. Why did I still live? I didn’t know, and no amount of hypnosis by the corps medics, answered the question. Later, I learned that many of our people had been captured over the years. It was said, I was the only one ever found alive. According to the stories; other captives had been ripped apart, sliced little by little while they lived, their bodies booby-trapped and left where they could be found to kill more of us.

Of course, I was interrogated. De-briefing, they called it; an intense round of questions, under and out of hypnosis. Nothing I said gave them what they wanted to know. I told them about my impressions of the Sabs, impressions they didn’t want or like to hear. Instead, they continued to wage war and watch on giant screens as two races slaughtered each other. Shame that I was once a part of this slaughter washed through me; my fighting days were over. I wanted out. I wanted home to the peace found under the domes of the Martian Chryse; I wanted to see my parents and my younger sister. I had been away too long, seen too much bloodshed and too much death. My soul craved peace.

At home, my title is Count Ivan Thomas IV, son and heir to The Baron, Ewan Thomas of Mars Chryse. That was before I left home, called to the war, conscripted for two years, they said. Once there, it was a different story. Our so-called adventure in the Space Corps was now a war fought on a distant planet circling the star Mentra, with no way home until the war was won. I am now returning home, the war still raging, yet six years later I’m coming home with a Major’s rank. I have an honorary medical discharge from the Corps for wounds received, a proud bearer of the Mentra Campaign medal. Everyone who went to Mentra received that medal. However, only six of us had ever won the Terran Cross, the medal and ribbon next to it on my tunic; the highest honour, awarded for bravery above and beyond the call of duty. Military valour, they called it, awarded for outstanding bravery with pomp and ceremony that did nothing for my morale. It was no nothing to do with valour; I call it what it was, blind panic, stupidity, and luck, bringing me and my command through something that should have killed us all.

I was tired and closed my eyes. I thought back over the last six years, over a time of madness, bloodshed, tears, and sadness. I remembered the men and women who had fought by my side and especially, an Earth Girl from Brazil. At any other time, I would have pursued and fought for her to be at my side for more romantic reasons. She was long dead now as I recalled the faces of the fallen, not all of them. There were far too many for that, but the images of lost friends burned deep into my memory. The Mentra conflict they called it, a conflict I lamented, more a blood bath of epic proportions; and for what? Why were men and women giving up their lives on a planet revolving around a star a hundred and fifty light-years from home?

According to official figures, three million people from Earth and Mars, had died. We knew the actual number was nearly double that, and it continued to grow. Anyone who fought there knew the number of fatalities. The senior officers, those in charge, the ones who orchestrated the carnage from a million miles away, knew too, but didn’t care. Those brave souls whose only experience at warfare was sitting back eating bloody sandwiches, watching the butchery and savagery in tri-di, virtual reality. The carnage, all a result of their orders, condemning people to death.

They called it a war, but it wasn’t warfare. Warfare meant such niceties as prisoners, mercy and a conscience. Not this time; this was genocide on a race whose only crime was to say no when men from Earth and Mars landed. No warning, our great military leaders gave the orders to attack, wanting to ravage their lands for the riches they contained, or so I believe. They lacked our weapons, our body-armour, our expertise, and our experience at killing each other. Our loss of life to a supposedly inferior race did not sit well with those in command. Blame fell on the marines sent to face them, who were poorly armed and poorly prepared. So, what did our senior officers do? Re-evaluate their strategies? No, these idiots thought superior numbers and a superior mind (theirs) would be the answer. They repeated every mistake and watched as more men and women died without lifting a finger to send help or tell them to withdraw.

Sent home with a severely disabling injury, I counted myself one of the lucky ones. I had suffered wounds before. More than once, a few times, mostly minor injuries treated in the field or at the base. Nothing serious until I was captured. Our enemy, the Sabs, might not have our weaponry, but they are fast and intelligent. Not for them to make the same mistake twice, if, in fact, they made a mistake; every yard of soil we gained, we paid for with blood, our blood, and an even heavier price in our numbers spent trying to keep it.

Two

My mind returned to the present as the captain’s voice came over the internal com system, announcing our drop out of hyperspace and impending planet fall the following week. After seven weeks of hyper-drive, I would be home. Still not fully fit, but I could walk without it taking too much out of me. The seven weeks of zero gravity exercise had my upper body muscles back to a state of near peak performance. The only skills I had not practised was my fighting skills. I was convinced my days of using a Pell were over. I no longer needed one; they were only ever conceived for the war on Mentra.

It was the only thing that gave us a chance against the Sabs. Issued because the brass didn’t want something like lasers or a Magnetic Enhanced Photon Emitters (MEPE for short) falling into enemy hands. Every one of us knew, armed with a MEPE, and we would have been off the Planet in weeks; and back home to Earth or Mars, leaving a race behind us, wiped out. Instead, we were given a Pell and told to go out and die.

Few could master a Pell, and fewer still were ever given the proper training to use one. The Marine replacements were issued with them as they arrived, given an hour to get used to it, and sent to where the fighting was heaviest. The replacements for those who were about to die, already requested before they had set foot on the Planet. It was a cynical waste of life, but casualty figures had no meaning. Men and women were sent out to be slaughtered, and no one seemed to care. Our only protection apart from the Pell was a new update of the space corps body armour. Initially developed in Chile, the update containing strathon fibre supposedly protecting you from projectile bullets, laser fire, and microwave weapons. Such a pity; it wasn’t Sab claw proof.

All that was behind me now. I would ask the questions when I got home. Dedicate my life to trying to change and stop the utter stupidity and carnage that was going on in the Mentra system. I put all thoughts of death and destruction out of my head, replaced by the pleasant anticipation of seeing my family again. The pleasantness quickly replaced by wariness when out of the port side viewscreen, I saw a dilapidated freighter launch a shuttle. The said shuttle heading towards us, as our ship slowed, allowing the small craft to dock. I was wary, but not alarmed. I didn’t know what the landing procedures were and shrugged my shoulders, thinking the ship’s officers would have everything under control. How wrong can you be?

My cabin door flew open, no knock or any other pleasant request to enter. A young woman, armed with an MEPE pistol but not threatening, asked me to follow her to the passenger’s dining area. There, I found myself with the other passengers, some of who I knew by now. There were a hundred and twenty-four of us most bound for Earth after being wounded on Mentra. Thirty-six of us came from Mars, all being repatriated home because of injury. Each of us with full honours for our service to the Corps and humanity. Four strangers stood before us, asking us to sit and wait. It wasn’t long before four more people turned up along with the captain and our ships’ officers.

‘I am sorry about this,’ the captain said, addressing us all. ‘These people want to speak to you, and experience tells me to let them. It is easier for all concerned. They mean you no harm, so please let them speak, but no one is saying you have to listen or do as they ask.’

‘Thank you, Captain,’ a man in his late thirties said, stepping forward. ‘I will be blunt; you are all returning home after service on Mentra. We are of the firm belief you head home to your death, and instead, we ask you to join us.’

‘Why?’ I asked. I always had a big mouth, ‘and why are we going to die?’ He looked at me, then at a personal education and information pad (Pip) before answering me.

‘Major Ivan Thomas.’ He stated. ‘As the Captain said, we mean you no harm, far from it.’ He stopped and looked around, waiting for me or someone else to speak. I said nothing, already wondering why he held my details in his hands. Faced with silence and sullen but wary looks, he carried on. ‘If you go home, you will be killed before you reach it.’ That got us talking, unfortunately, all at once. ‘On Earth, the Sanchez Cartel of Mexico has taken over the USA and Canada.’ He carried on once we had quietened down. ‘To the south, they control as far down as Bolivia. They also control the west coast of Africa and a few middle east countries. It is just as bad on Mars. Earl Ferdinand Ahlstrom of Elysium Mons has taken over the houses, lands, and businesses of anyone with money. How and why, I will tell you later when time is not as pressing.’

‘The how, okay,’ I said as the others nodded their heads, ‘but I want to know why before I go happily marching off with you.’

‘Money is the short answer.’ He replied. ‘On Mars, Elysium puts out tax demands just after you leave for the war on Mentra, then he sends bailiffs to extract the money. You work out the sums; with millions of you going off to fight and most slaughtered out there, those who do come back are murdered before they reach their homes. Billions of system credits have been collected. The people are taxed to the hilt, supposedly to help fund the war on Mentra. Those who can’t pay are shipped out to get killed in the Space Corps, thinking their service will pay their families’ taxes. It doesn’t; the Cartel and the Earl levy even more tax on families, taking over family homes to pay for them, evicting people without concern for their welfare.

Reports have reached us where medical aid has been charged to relatives before anyone is wounded, with the Space Corps denying any culpability. I know this is a lot to take in at face value, but believe me. Ignore us, and you will probably die before you see your families. We can’t force you, but we beg you to come with us. Ask yourself why you have never received a message from home in all the time you have been away. Messages never reach you. Why? To stop you from finding out what has happened to your family and friends. If you decide to go home, then all we can advise is when you land, watch your back.’

‘Who are you?’ Noreen, a nurse from California, asked from behind me. ‘What do you want of us?’

‘We are the only people who offer you a life,’ he replied. ‘We operate out of the asteroid belt, trying to stop people, soldiers or nurses like yourselves, heroes, from being murdered.’

‘I need to think about this,’ the girl replied.

‘I can give you half an hour,’ the man said, ‘hopefully you will decide to stay. If by some miracle, you want to join us in the future. Try to get a ship and head out toward the Jovian moon, Davida. Any more questions, come and see me by the airlock.’ With that, he and the people with him turned and left, leaving us to mill around in a state of mutual confusion.

I left them to it; I needed to think, and surrounded by a gang of other confused to hell people, was not helping me. Back in my cabin, I watched the freighter on the view screen. I wondered why a captain of a starship, would allow the crew of a second-rate mining tug to come on board, and then let him give a speech; begging his passengers to leave with him. It didn’t make sense and didn’t ring true. Besides, if what he said was right, I wanted to know what happened to my family, my mother, father, and younger sister, Cynthia.

A lump came to my throat; I didn’t realise how much I had missed my home until now. I had thought about it over the years but always put it out of my mind, not wanting homesickness to overtake me. Messages from family were none existent, because electronic communications were ineffective. Supposedly because of the solar radiation around Mentra. That didn’t explain the lack of communications now. Besides, those that pined for home were usually the first to die.

Mars, the Red Planet, the ancient God of war, my home, and a place I loved when growing up. Outside the domes, the place never changes. Dry, windy, and arid, death within minutes to anyone caught outside without a surface suit. Inside the domes, the weather, or what passes for it, is part of a computer-controlled eco-system. Each night, rain cascades down from overhead sprinklers, falling on roads, fields, and buildings. At precisely 3 am local time, machines arrive on the streets and avenues, sweeping clean any debris from the day before. Two minutes after the last one returns to its charging cradle; the sprinklers turn themselves on. The freshly swept streets washed and cleaned, the fields irrigated, watering crops for the Martian harvest.

It was a nervous seven days before we landed. None of us truly believed what the freighter captain said, but it made us think and worry. In my case, not for myself, but my family, my nerves made worse when messages sent home were never answered. The reasons for the lack of communication never explained. We landed before the sun rose over the horizon. It was the same Sun as Earth, but not as hot or fierce. As I stepped out of the shuttle, through the airlock, and into the spaceport proper, my hackles rose. I didn’t expect brass bands and fanfares to welcome me home, but I was at least expecting my parents or sister to be there. They knew I was coming; enough messages had supposedly been left by the Space Corps informing them of my homecoming. And by me from off the starship when it was supposedly in comms range of Mars. But instead of broad beaming smiles and welcoming arms, I was left standing there, alone. I put it down to the spaceport we landed at; it could not have been further way from Chryse, out in a lonely desert, the nearest habitation, Elysium Mons.

After ten minutes, my concern was burrowing into me, agitating my emotions. It wasn’t like my father or sister to leave me there. She could be scatty, but even she had better manners than to leave someone, anyone, never mind her brother, standing, waiting. My concern soon gave way to worry. A worry nagging at me, the words of the freighter captain making me cast nervous glances around, wondering if what he said was true after all. Looking round, I saw my fellow passengers milling about, like me in a state of utter confusion and worry.

My com signals went straight into an AI recorded message informing me the number I had called was no longer in service. The AI message really concerning me; I knew something was wrong from the second the AI started speaking. The number had been in the family for generations, issued when we first came from Earth nearly three centuries ago. For it to be out of service meant something had happened, and I panicked until my training kicked in, calming me. Without a ride home, I needed a bank to get funds. That was when my next shock came. My military account was no longer active, the account closed, and the funds transferred for taxes to the bank of Mars, the bank the AI represented. My Martian personal account no longer responded to my thumbprint or eye recognition. The Chryse estate had cancelled my estate account, and as far as I knew, I was alone and destitute without the means to get home and get there quickly.

On asking the AI why the accounts were closed? The disembodied voice politely informed me it was standard practice to cancel accounts when people died in service. I told it I was alive, even produced my eco-discharge papers to prove my identity. Still, the AI was a robot. Being a robot, it told me very politely to seek the convention board’s help in Elysium. Not quite what I wanted to hear; but the offer of a loan, even at fifteen per cent interest, while not mollifying me, it at least gave me the funds to get home.

Three

It was an eight-hour journey to Chryse. On the way, I talked myself into believing my lack of funds was an administrative error, one to be quickly fixed by the bank at home. However, the freighter captain’s words kept running through my head, making me cast furtive glances at everyone, expecting a murder attempt at any second. I was quickly becoming paranoid about an attempt on my life, but, my main worry was my family. According to the captain, they would either be dead or evicted, with the estate seized to pay none existent taxes.

It was a worry, especially with no one meeting me. Tiredness overcame me. I managed to doze a little, waking with