loranzardo
Spaceman
(PS: This article is based on 'Wing Commander 3'. Since I am not fully familiar with the Kilrathi's lore, there may be many inaccuracies, so I hope everyone will be understanding!
This article is first written in Chinese, and then translated into English by AI DeepSeek.)
let's enjoy
author：loranzardo
______
***
"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" —— Shylock,the merchant of venice
***
Space, the grave of countless warriors. Through the long years of war, the galaxy in its vastness has taken in the blood of both humans and Kilrathi, turning it into beautiful yet terrifying crimson crystals with its merciless cold, shrouding them in an indescribable darkness. This is the final destination for the warriors of both sides—beyond race, beyond hatred. In the end, only the peace of death remains.
It is in such space that a Dralthi IV weaves through the void. Its pilot merely stares silently at the radar on his display before preparing to leave.
It has been two years now for "Boneshard" *jarn'nar'karshar* in the border systems. Sitting in the cockpit and looking at the empty radar, he can't help but close his eyes. *How long has it been like this?*
A year ago, when news of victory on the front lines arrived, the new recruits in the rear were all thrilled—except him. He just sat on his bed, silently staring at the floor. The victory had come, but his childhood friend, *koon'nar'narit*, had been killed in a recent battle.
Dying in battle is supposedly a matter of great honor, but Jarn could never see it that way. In his chaotic mind, memories always surfaced of playing a wrestling game called "Beat the Ape" with Koon when they were young. As the older brother, he had sworn to protect his calm and creative little brother. But what happened now? Jarn looks up at Koon's former bunk, unable to find the answer, and shakes his head helplessly.
Suddenly, he feels his body shifting to the left. Jarn is startled out of his memories and quickly checks the situation: it was just a necessary maneuver by the autopilot. He reaches out to confirm again, but unintentionally sees three scratch marks, falling into the trap of memory once more.
These three scratch marks are his kill count so far. Each scratch represents the death of a human. Jarn's mind involuntarily flies back to his first kill. It was an unremarkable skirmish. He kept looking at the radar, then glancing around, wishing he had four pairs of eyes to cover every direction. Until a grey human fighter suddenly appeared in front of him. Jarn hesitated for a moment, as if moved by the fighter, but his hunter's instincts made him involuntarily pull the trigger. Laser fire, followed by a flash of fire and debris—perhaps a scream too, but that was more likely from Jarn's imagination.
"Poor bastard," Jarn thinks. "No one in space can hear your scream."
Snapping back to reality, Jarn has turned off the autopilot. He is now staring at the radar, expecting something. But no more dots appear. Helpless, Jarn turns to look at the comm channel beside him. His eyes suddenly widen, as if recalling many things.
A human pilot appears on the comm screen. This is the first time Jarn has faced another species directly. He sees the eyes of this species and hears its language. Those eyes are like a polished claw of a Kilrathi hunter, trying to tear through Jarn's heart, yet not as effective as that mouth:
"Kilrathi... you are a warrior race, aren't you?"
Jarn had expected mockery, but caught off guard by the sudden question, he feels anxious, recalling his frustration in class when the teacher demanded answers about the power outputs of various laser cannons.
"...Yes."
"As warriors, then, have you ever thought about this?" The human continues. "For a warrior, what matters most is his sense of honor, and the promised land after death?"
"Yes, this is what we learn and contemplate from childhood."
"Then, enslaving civilians, killing prisoners of war—is that honorable? Publicly executing a soldier who has laid down his arms—is that honorable?"
These questions make Jarn think for a few seconds before he arrives at his own answer:
"...No, this is not honorable."
"Not honorable?! Then why do you do it!?"
"The Kilrathi are a species, not a collective of identical people," Jarn replies. "Among us, there are the lazy and the diligent, the foolish and the thoughtful."
"Then you are just like us." The human pilot says, seemingly with a mocking tone, but the words that follow echo endlessly in Jarn's mind:
"But if that's the case, why do we fight?
We should be brothers and sisters in the galaxy, yet you wield weapons to pierce us, so we can only strike back.
Who exactly made you pierce us? Was it you, or your comrades, or your superiors?
On the battlefields of the universe, we do our duty and slaughter each other, chasing freely like wild dogs, tearing into one another with passion and fervor. Fresh, young lives set up monuments for themselves with debris in space, but how many can lower their guns to listen to the other side, to know the other side, to think about the nature of this war? How many know that while they seem to have comrades, superiors, and a cause to serve, they are actually in a millennium of loneliness? Even after death, no one asks about them—suffering alone in hell, or enjoying a feast alone in Valhalla?!"
At that moment, Jarn's mind is a mess. He feels sweat dripping down his forehead and instinctively reaches out to wipe it, only to touch the glass of his helmet. Jarn wants to respond, but the human fighter circling in front of him is suddenly pierced by two red lasers, blooming into a bloody yellow flower in space. Only at that moment does he remember the nickname on that human pilot's helmet: "Philosopher."
Now, Jarn's fighter is still flying, but in the distance, he sees a grey and blue dot that gradually turns into a shape, eventually becoming a human warship.
At this moment, Jarn suddenly recalls two lines of poetry he read while packing up Koon's belongings:
*"Lives die in the excited flames; the living become the dead, and the dead are erased by oblivion."*
Yes, it's time to avenge you, my little brother. I have found the culprit, and I will issue a duel to this dark, numb enemy.
You might ask why I am so reckless, but I can only say: when my family was wiped out for an unjust crime, and I was exiled to the borderlands because I still had some use, what else do I have left to lose?
With this thought, Jarn opens the comm channel:
"TCS Aurora, this is Kilrathi pilot 'Boneshard.' I request permission to surrender and wish to join the Terran Confederation to fight for you. Repeat, I wish to join you. There are no Kilrathi forces behind me."
"Copy, 'Boneshard'... Confirmed, TCS Aurora, you are cleared to land. Ensure you are not carrying any suicide weapons."
"I wouldn't carry such weapons... Don't think of us as that cruel, you apes."
"Can't be too careful, Mr. Big Cat. There have indeed been cases of surrendering pilots carrying nasty little toys before."
"Then I suppose those are the most foolish warriors—I'm approaching."
...
A month later, in the bar aboard the TCS Aurora, a new pilot nervously asks Lieutenant Jarn, who is staring at the starry sky:
"Sir... may I ask, do the Kilrathi also have a rich and colorful spiritual world, just like humans?"
Jarn turns his head in surprise, looking at the pilot, but simply nods and says:
"Yes... just like humans."
As he speaks, his eyes narrow slightly, and his ears twitch once or twice, as if savoring something. Then he turns his head back, continuing to gaze into space—that cold, cold space...
This article is first written in Chinese, and then translated into English by AI DeepSeek.)
let's enjoy
author：loranzardo
______
***
"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" —— Shylock,the merchant of venice
***
Space, the grave of countless warriors. Through the long years of war, the galaxy in its vastness has taken in the blood of both humans and Kilrathi, turning it into beautiful yet terrifying crimson crystals with its merciless cold, shrouding them in an indescribable darkness. This is the final destination for the warriors of both sides—beyond race, beyond hatred. In the end, only the peace of death remains.
It is in such space that a Dralthi IV weaves through the void. Its pilot merely stares silently at the radar on his display before preparing to leave.
It has been two years now for "Boneshard" *jarn'nar'karshar* in the border systems. Sitting in the cockpit and looking at the empty radar, he can't help but close his eyes. *How long has it been like this?*
A year ago, when news of victory on the front lines arrived, the new recruits in the rear were all thrilled—except him. He just sat on his bed, silently staring at the floor. The victory had come, but his childhood friend, *koon'nar'narit*, had been killed in a recent battle.
Dying in battle is supposedly a matter of great honor, but Jarn could never see it that way. In his chaotic mind, memories always surfaced of playing a wrestling game called "Beat the Ape" with Koon when they were young. As the older brother, he had sworn to protect his calm and creative little brother. But what happened now? Jarn looks up at Koon's former bunk, unable to find the answer, and shakes his head helplessly.
Suddenly, he feels his body shifting to the left. Jarn is startled out of his memories and quickly checks the situation: it was just a necessary maneuver by the autopilot. He reaches out to confirm again, but unintentionally sees three scratch marks, falling into the trap of memory once more.
These three scratch marks are his kill count so far. Each scratch represents the death of a human. Jarn's mind involuntarily flies back to his first kill. It was an unremarkable skirmish. He kept looking at the radar, then glancing around, wishing he had four pairs of eyes to cover every direction. Until a grey human fighter suddenly appeared in front of him. Jarn hesitated for a moment, as if moved by the fighter, but his hunter's instincts made him involuntarily pull the trigger. Laser fire, followed by a flash of fire and debris—perhaps a scream too, but that was more likely from Jarn's imagination.
"Poor bastard," Jarn thinks. "No one in space can hear your scream."
Snapping back to reality, Jarn has turned off the autopilot. He is now staring at the radar, expecting something. But no more dots appear. Helpless, Jarn turns to look at the comm channel beside him. His eyes suddenly widen, as if recalling many things.
A human pilot appears on the comm screen. This is the first time Jarn has faced another species directly. He sees the eyes of this species and hears its language. Those eyes are like a polished claw of a Kilrathi hunter, trying to tear through Jarn's heart, yet not as effective as that mouth:
"Kilrathi... you are a warrior race, aren't you?"
Jarn had expected mockery, but caught off guard by the sudden question, he feels anxious, recalling his frustration in class when the teacher demanded answers about the power outputs of various laser cannons.
"...Yes."
"As warriors, then, have you ever thought about this?" The human continues. "For a warrior, what matters most is his sense of honor, and the promised land after death?"
"Yes, this is what we learn and contemplate from childhood."
"Then, enslaving civilians, killing prisoners of war—is that honorable? Publicly executing a soldier who has laid down his arms—is that honorable?"
These questions make Jarn think for a few seconds before he arrives at his own answer:
"...No, this is not honorable."
"Not honorable?! Then why do you do it!?"
"The Kilrathi are a species, not a collective of identical people," Jarn replies. "Among us, there are the lazy and the diligent, the foolish and the thoughtful."
"Then you are just like us." The human pilot says, seemingly with a mocking tone, but the words that follow echo endlessly in Jarn's mind:
"But if that's the case, why do we fight?
We should be brothers and sisters in the galaxy, yet you wield weapons to pierce us, so we can only strike back.
Who exactly made you pierce us? Was it you, or your comrades, or your superiors?
On the battlefields of the universe, we do our duty and slaughter each other, chasing freely like wild dogs, tearing into one another with passion and fervor. Fresh, young lives set up monuments for themselves with debris in space, but how many can lower their guns to listen to the other side, to know the other side, to think about the nature of this war? How many know that while they seem to have comrades, superiors, and a cause to serve, they are actually in a millennium of loneliness? Even after death, no one asks about them—suffering alone in hell, or enjoying a feast alone in Valhalla?!"
At that moment, Jarn's mind is a mess. He feels sweat dripping down his forehead and instinctively reaches out to wipe it, only to touch the glass of his helmet. Jarn wants to respond, but the human fighter circling in front of him is suddenly pierced by two red lasers, blooming into a bloody yellow flower in space. Only at that moment does he remember the nickname on that human pilot's helmet: "Philosopher."
Now, Jarn's fighter is still flying, but in the distance, he sees a grey and blue dot that gradually turns into a shape, eventually becoming a human warship.
At this moment, Jarn suddenly recalls two lines of poetry he read while packing up Koon's belongings:
*"Lives die in the excited flames; the living become the dead, and the dead are erased by oblivion."*
Yes, it's time to avenge you, my little brother. I have found the culprit, and I will issue a duel to this dark, numb enemy.
You might ask why I am so reckless, but I can only say: when my family was wiped out for an unjust crime, and I was exiled to the borderlands because I still had some use, what else do I have left to lose?
With this thought, Jarn opens the comm channel:
"TCS Aurora, this is Kilrathi pilot 'Boneshard.' I request permission to surrender and wish to join the Terran Confederation to fight for you. Repeat, I wish to join you. There are no Kilrathi forces behind me."
"Copy, 'Boneshard'... Confirmed, TCS Aurora, you are cleared to land. Ensure you are not carrying any suicide weapons."
"I wouldn't carry such weapons... Don't think of us as that cruel, you apes."
"Can't be too careful, Mr. Big Cat. There have indeed been cases of surrendering pilots carrying nasty little toys before."
"Then I suppose those are the most foolish warriors—I'm approaching."
...
A month later, in the bar aboard the TCS Aurora, a new pilot nervously asks Lieutenant Jarn, who is staring at the starry sky:
"Sir... may I ask, do the Kilrathi also have a rich and colorful spiritual world, just like humans?"
Jarn turns his head in surprise, looking at the pilot, but simply nods and says:
"Yes... just like humans."
As he speaks, his eyes narrow slightly, and his ears twitch once or twice, as if savoring something. Then he turns his head back, continuing to gaze into space—that cold, cold space...
