“It was almost unfair…” War-Captain Mazarkin thought, watching through the opto-scope as his Dominator-Class War Tripod cruised over the alien landscape. The aliens here were so primitive: no force shields, no anti-gravity, only the most primitive of direct energy weapons. Most of the alien soldiers he’d run into had tried to engage his tripod with chemically-propelled projectile weapons, at least for the few seconds before the warmachine’s gunners brought their death rays to bear. 

It had been a while since any of the aliens had put up any sort of organized resistance. After their cities fell, the invaders had moved into mop up operations, stamping out the last bits of defiant natives before the process of colonizing this world could get underway in earnest. 

“I don’t envy the luckless civies who get stuck here…” Mazarkin thought, scanning the countryside as it went by, the endless klarks disappearing beneath the tripod’s three mechanical claw-feet at a steady pace. The alien sky, blue with white splotches, seemed so unnatural. He was given to understand those white things were clouds of water. This whole place had too much water. And green, so much green everywhere. Not like the normal, red foliage of the homeworld. Still, there was one thing that made this backwater world worth it…

“Contact!” One of the tripod’s crew called. “Bearing 294.769!” Mazarkin brought his opto-scope around to the heading. Sure enough, a half a klark ahead of them, aliens were scurrying too and fro through the dense foliage. Some appeared to be panicking, others firing their weapons wildly, not that the primitive small arms had any chance at piercing the shields of a full scale war-tripod. 

“Should we engage death rays, War-Captain?” One of the gunners asked, all too eager to once more unleash the power he controlled. 

To the gunner’s disappointment, Mazarkin belayed that. “Looks to be mainly civilians in this group.” Analysis from the scanners and data from the pathetic impacts of their rounds on the tripod’s shields showed they were armed only with civilian-grade weapons. Not that their military gear had fared much better, but a lucky hit could still get through and Mazarkin had no intention of adding his name to the list of ignoble War-Captains who had lost his tripod to carelessness and complacency. Still, there was little danger here…but potential profit. 

“Bring us in close and deploy the tendrils.” He ordered. 

Down below, the aliens started to panic, bursting from the thick stand of trees they had been taking cover in, as they realized the massive war-tripod was bearing down on them. Not that they had any chance of escaping on foot. In half a dozen long strides, the tripod was among them. From its metal body, long mechanical tentacles extended. They reached down into the fleeing mass, deftly wrapping one or two or even three of the aliens at a time. The squirming, screaming figures were instantly hoisted, high up and deposited in the tripod’s holding cages, then the tentacles descended once more. 

Mazarkin scanned the mob with his scopes, directing the tentacles towards those aliens that fit their needs best: young adults, fit for laboring for their conquerors. He made sure a large proportion of those captured were of the female variety. If pressed for an explanation, he could always say they would be more useful as breeding stock for the first generation of slaves to be born under their new rulers. Though he was given to understand the predilection for the alien females, strange as they were with their soft skin, flowing hair and alluring curves, was gaining traction among the invasion force, thus far no one wanted to admit to taking the native aliens as concubines…but they did all the same. 

After fifteen minutes or so of ‘harvesting’ as Mazarkin thought of the one sided battle, the War-Tripod turned, heading back to base. In its capture cages, nearly three score of the aliens were packed, sobbing and moaning in terror as they wondered what the future held for them as captives of the beings from outer space who had conquered their world so easily. Mazarkin leaned back in his command chair, quite satisfied. An unfair fight…just the way he liked it!