You have to be plum loco to want to spend any time on Hancox 1. I'm not crazy – I scored over 86% on my aptitude evaluation back at University, which is a good score. You don't want 100% as nobody's that sane. If anybody ever achieved that score they'd probably lock them up in the stasis-jails as well as the low scorers, just to be on the safe side.
So what's so bad about Hancox 1, I hear you ask? What's right about it, I'd reply? Well, it's a tide-locked planet, the first in a system of three orbiting a dim, M-type red dwarf star on the far side of the Pegasus Sector. Tide-locked, you ask next? C'mon, where have you been? Weren't you concentrating in astrophysics? A tide-locked world is where one side of the planet constantly faces its sun while the other is exposed to the dark and cold of space.
On any planet with an atmosphere, this imbalance creates gale force winds and usually the daylight side is desiccated desert while the night-side is a frozen wilderness. However, on those worlds lucky enough to have deep oceans and thick cloud cover, which minimises these extreme effects, life can get a toe-hold, although it's nearly always simple stuff.
So, as you've gathered, despite abundant water, Hancox 1 is no paradise world. Most aren't. Being less than desirable, the Bureau allocated it to mostly Central Asian refugees from the Third Sino-Turkmen War. If you don't recall it, look it up in the History files – about two hundred years ago, I think. No, I can't remember what that war was about – when you get down to it, the reasons are usually fear, status and mineral rights, I'd guess. Ultimately, that's what most wars are about. Anyway, these refugees fled to Hancox 1's scattered sub-continents and built themselves a new life. May not have been a great life, at least at first, but it was better than their ruined homelands.
But these refugees weren't a unified people – there was a sub-group fleeing the Nova Beruvian stonequakes, for example – and each sub-continent soon ended up supporting one or more countries. Sooner or later, rabble-rousing demagogues arose backing petty tyrants and warlords. Eventually, of course, these statelets fell out among themselves and started warring.
And then one side used Krillaz. And that's why I wouldn't choose to go to Hancox 1. What do you mean; you've never heard of Krillaz? What do they teach at school these days? Or have they suppressed data on those monstrosities? Can't trust anything you read these days.
Okay, okay. I'll tell you. You'll need to know if you're setting foot on Hancox 1. Though you'll only see one if you travel to the empty continent of Sirocco. To give you some background, decades ago, there was a savage war between two planets. Unsurprisingly, one of them was the Peaceful Co-Prosperity Orb of Xin-Muong. So no quarter was asked or given. But when you think about it, there's no point in simply thermo-nuking a place until its surface turns to glass. Or bombarding it with asteroids deflected from their orbits. All you'd win is useless rock, uninhabitable for millennia. Also, you'd risk retaliation from other systems.
One dark night, some bright spark – or more likely a committee of bright sparks – came up with the perfect weapon to deploy against lightly armed civilians. Krillaz. Probably the ultimate terror weapon. The acronym – in rough translation – stands for Civilian Reduction Inimicals – Lankien Laboratories 4. By mixing up the acronym with the word 'killers', they became known as Krillaz. They're cheap and effective as well, so the politicos liked the concept.
So what's a Krilla when it's at home? Or in it's stinking nest? A genetically spliced fright, bolting together the best and worst of several species to come up with a horror worse than your worst nightmare. I guess a Krilla is mostly based on the black rat, rattus rattus – which doesn't sound too bad, except nobody I know likes rats – to which has been added the viciousness of a weasel, the fearlessness of a wolverine, gorilla-like arms and iron jaws of a hyena.
It stands over a metre tall on two legs, hunched over leaving its better than rat-like front paws free. A Krilla's hide is usually a pallid grey, bald except for sparse patches of fur except along its spine which is green. Yes, somebody added chlorophyll to the mix so that the creature can survive even if its food supply runs low.
What else? Oh yes, its face. Although the boffins claimed they used chimps to give it enhanced intelligence, nobody believed them. The long face is a hideous combination of hi-man and rodent. And when did you see a chimp having oriental eyes with epicanthic folds? But if they used hi-man DNA, then they chose deoxyribonucleic acid from psychopaths, mass-murderers and the very, very worst that hi-manity can throw up.
That's enough for me. I don't like thinking about those monstrosities any more than I have to. And I'm going where they hang out. You have another question? Okay, fire away... So what happens after Krillaz are used on civilians? Basically, Krillaz breed like the rats they originated from and there's nothing they like more than hi-man flesh. Hot and fresh. However, after they've depopulated an enemy area, you have to get rid of your Krillaz.
Solving this problem, the brain-boxes at Lankien labs made Krillaz genetically vulnerable to a virus. It causes a lethal respiratory illness – rats are very prone to pneumonia – that wipes out 99.9% of them within 48 to 72 hours. After that, you just need to send in clean-up SWAT squads to eradicate the survivors and then the now empty territory is yours to do with as you want.
And it worked like a dream – or a nightmare, depending on your point of view. Krillaz were used in several conflicts during the Interregnum. Of course, the secret of their manufacture got out – underfunded scientists like filthy lucre as much as anyone – and several variants on the original model showed up. Including a new type on Hancox 1.
Moving forwards, war broke out between Sirocco and the neighbouring continent of Khamsin. Both nations were evenly matched but seeking outright victory neither sought mediation. Their navies attacked each other's ships, supporting attempted invasion fleets. When this tactic had been tried and failed several times, the Dictator of Khamsin authorised the use of Krillaz.
Thousands of rat-men were air-lifted onto Sirocco and left to do what they do best – killing and eating and breeding and killing and eating and breeding some more... When every hi-man being – man, woman, and child – on Sirocco had either fled or been eaten alive, Khamsin sprayed the island with virus.
Except it didn't work, did it? Sure, a few died, maybe less than 5%, their corpses cannibalised by their fellows. The rest carried on happily breeding like rats. A healthy female Krilla can have three litters of six to eight pups a year. So Khamsin's scientists resprayed the island with a slightly different virus. This time, less than 1% were wiped out.
Realising they had won a pointless victory – Khamsin had beaten Sirocco but gained a useless island as a prize – they cut their losses and abandoned it to the Krillaz. However, news of what had happened leaked out via the Galactoweb. As well as interstellar condemnation and sanctions, hunters licked their lips and descended in droves on Hancox 1.
There's never been a closed season or weapons restrictions on Krillaz. Just get yourself a permit and slaughter as many as you like. However, even the most bloodthirsty hunter's tally was useless – eradicating Krillaz is like trying to drain an ocean using a bucket. All the hunters did was teach the Krillaz – being semi-intelligent, they are fast learners – to be wary of hi-mans and even more cunning than before.
Also, Krillaz, being hideously ugly, don't make good trophies. They're not like the magnificent Yearn-horns on Gilead, Nov Austrasia's Basilisks or Sopel's Stripe-Strikers on Maguire's World. Individually, they're not overly impressive. But they don't attack singly – they prefer swarms. In their way, they are one of the more dangerous creatures in the known galaxy.
You might ask why I'm going to this hell-hole. Normally, I've got too much respect for my hide to go messing with Krillaz. Wouldn't want them within a million klicks. Until I got a message over the Galactoweb that made me drop everything and hurry to Hancox 1. One of those messages that leave you no option, not if you value your reputation – and want to earn big money.
Using my cranial implant, I re-accessed the message, its words replaying on my retina. I won't give you all its details – they don't matter. In a microlitre, my boss's best-friend's son had got himself into big trouble. Again. The lad was getting married to his second wife (I think) and decided to treat himself and his friends to a stag holiday hunting Krillaz. No, I don't get it neither. You're hitching yourself to the woman you love so you zoom off to some hell-hole planet to ingest booze and zap monsters. I suppose it's one last fling before domesticity.
Âgustin – that's the foolish lad's name – and his friends brought their armour and a whole arsenal of weaponry. They hired some all terrain vehicles; tough, reliable, go-anywhere machines and headed off to one of Sirocco's ruined cities called Bas-Hinna. They reached it – their GPS signals prove that – but then vanished from view. Sarrah, Âgustin's lovely fiancée, panicked and knowing my boss's reputation for trouble-shooting asked him to investigate.
Always ready to help an old friend – especially when those friends are seriously wealthy oligarchs – my boss agreed. So he charged as much as he thought the market could stand – which was a lot, I can tell you – and then fired off a message to his best (ha-ha) operative to look into Âgustin's disappearance.
So here I am, Vic Vargo, doing my bit for interplanetary rescue. However, as my boss was sticking it to them big-time, he passed me some of the cream. One million Hydrans plus expenses if I rescued Âgustin or half a million for proof of his fate if dead.
Can't say fairer than that.