The perimeter alarms at the police station noticed the intruders as they approached, three marks, moving slowly and inexorably from the outer ring of sensors. Troopers rushed to their barracks and retrieved their suits of powered armor. Seventeen young men and women disappeared under shells of plastic and metal, pulled over-sized guns from gun racks, mustered into a four-by-four square as their commanding officer performed a last inspection before combat.
The three marks pulled closer.
Orest Kelrast, once a captain, sat sobbing in a folding chair, arms crossed on a cheap table, his head lying on his crossed forearms. He was too busy feeling sorry for himself to notice Demonslayer sit up in her bed and open her watery blue-grey eyes.
The monitor on the view-screen behind her was unchanged -- she was still asleep.
"Stop with the tears, it is unbecoming for thee." Demonslayer approached the table.
Orest looked up at her, his face stained with tears, his eyes filled with horror. "You're awake."
"No. Not really. There is a sense and logic to dreams. If you can dream awake, you learn when things need to happen."
Outside, five snipers took positions at the concrete wall surrounding the police station. They carried bazooka-sized long rifles, and covered the arc where the three were approaching.
Six troopers launched. Backpack thrusters activated -- the troopers flew in a ballistic arc towards the intruders.
Half-way to the targets, one of the trio -- Killotron -- raised his arms, as if to catch the inbound troopers. An improbable array of guns folded out from his robotic limbs, and began to fire, filling the sky with plasma blasts.
Two troopers were shredded instantly. Four landed, readied their over-sized guns.
Inside, Demonslayer sat at the table with Orest Kelrast, holding him transfixed in her watery yet firm gaze.
"As for you, Kelrast... you come from a military family, yes?"
"Yes. How did you--"
"Your name. Before the bombs burn the home-world, the knights of the dark wizards called themselves 'thralls' -- 'kel' in the old language -- of their dreadful masters. You, your father, your father's father -- you all have been sacrificing yourselves for evil men who would be gods."
Orest was silent. He straightened his back, tried to look Demonslayer in the eye. His face was stained with tears.
"They taught them honor, and pride, married them to the fairest women, sent them to die for their ambitions. They would die, alone and unmourned on the battlefield, once the people found the courage and wisdom to join together and take them down." Demonslayer continued.
"And now we come to you. You, sad little man, so unworthy of love. Nasty, needy little men like you don't deserve to be cared about. All you can do is make others suffer."
Kelrast sat, helpless. Demonslayer retrieved a vial from beneath the table.
"I kept this in case they sent me to one of the places they will be sending you. They will read your mind, discover you know nothing of value, and torture you until you think of a capital crime -- and then you will die, a traitor in disgrace. It is a poison. Embrace death that you may learn the value of life."
Orest Kelrast stared at the vial. His lower lip trembled.
Outside, the last of the troopers tried to bring his gun to bear as Bearcat leapt upon him. The monstrous atavism twisted the trooper's helmet back and forth until his gun arm went limp, wringing the trooper's neck beneath his articulated armor. Bearcat cast the trooper aside, turned to his comrades, and asked, "Gotta can openah?"
Inside, Orest Kelrast reached for the vial. His face had tightened, and he looked at Demonslayer intently.
Outside, the snipers fired. Flechette shells sped towards the trio of attackers, burst in mid-air, began to spread out into a deadly wall of needles -- then fell to the ground as Red Menace's eyes flashed a brilliant green.
The snipers chambered their second rounds.
Inside, Orest raised the vial to his lips, hesitated for a moment, and sent the contents flying into Demonslayer's face with a flick of his wrist. Demonslayer kicked the table, lifting it into the path of the liquid.
Outside, a rack of rockets extended from Killotron's back. "The virtue of a sniper is his aim / That every shot will fall the same / But in virtue's arms does vice lay / He doesn't think to move away!" Five guided missiles launched from the robot's back, twisting in the air, homing into the hardpoints on the final concrete wall. Five warheads detonated. Fortifications and snipers disappeared in a cloud of shrapnel.
"Yer poo-tree suckth," quipped Bearcat.
Inside, Orest Kelrast's death rattle echoed in the grim concrete room. Demonslayer stood, whispering killing words under her breath. On the far wall, her vital signs registered deep, relaxed sleep.
She gestured, and a large metal case appeared in the room in a cloud of mist. She opened it, and retrieved her weapons.
Outside, the trio approached the wall. Red Menace rose into the air, and, in her loudest voice and best Corporate, cried --
"CAN HAS DEMONSLAYER NOW!?"
Showing posts with label Suburbia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Suburbia. Show all posts
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
This Could Be Anywhere
The East Pole, now in crepuscular autumn light that would last for seven cycles, was a drab gray expanse of buildings, many abandoned, some hosting small packs of squatters who lit fires for cooking, warmth and light. The columns of smoke from their shelters rose straight up slowly to be driven away by the planetary jet stream.
The former site of a warehouse, long since burned to the ground, was now a collection of tents, forming a fragile sort of fortification. On the side facing the causeway, a half-dozen sleek space-craft were parked in front of the tent city, the vessels garishly decorated with bright, primary-color paint-jobs and huge spoilers.
A seventh vessel parked in the lot, and a young man in an improvised flight suit stepped out of the cockpit. He did not remove his helmet, and proceeded to the ring of gray-green tents.
Just inside the tents, a tattered collection of cast-off people slept on mats, as a huge view-screen blared a soap opera set in the prosperous and temperate equatorial regions of Suburbia, where the wealthy controlled vast manors and squabbled among themselves. On the walls were posters in primary colors, decorated with slogans like "PEOPLE ARE NOT PRODUCTS" and "LIVE AGAIN", stylized upraised fists, and a simple, squiggly sigil, an M and a 7, arranged to look as if the right descender on the M were a lightning bolt.
It was a simple logo; other posters encouraged residents of the shelter to spread the word by spray-painting it on abandonded buildings. Many had done exactly this.
A burly, bear-like older male watched the shelter. He waved the young man thorough to the inner courtyard of the tent city.
The young man bowed his head as the tent flaps opened and he saw the communal fire-pit in the middle of the courtyard. Here the fellowship feasts were held, where the lost and the lonely taught and sang songs forgotten generations ago and learned the strange language still remembered in fragments by their great-grandparents.
He proceeded around the firepit, crossing it on the left side. A flap opened on the tent facing him, held by an absurdly large hand ending in triangular black claws.
While the guard in the common room was large, the guard in the temple was gigantic; if he were physically capable of standing fully erect for more than a few moments, he would have easily been twice the height of his colleague.
"Thu come inn. I am Bearcat. Da mithstresh ish waitling."
The monster's fangs gave his speech a lisping quality. His eyes were gentle, but his face was a rough parody of the young man's, with heavy brows and powerful jaw muscles. The young man hesitated for a moment, but quickly regained his composure and entered the tent.
Bearcat nodded directly to the camera, and the floor descended into a hangar-like undergound complex. It was dark, illuminated only by overhead spots. Outside a polka-dot grid of yellowish light, the hall was in deepest darkness.
A voice came from that darkness, speaking an alien tongue.
"Pee my nah ghey peh zhnolazh. Nah dey medzh yo nagada. Djodo mah ghey?"
Convenient sub titles were added in post-production.
(You are not the one, but you will do nicely. We are being watched, secrecy is paramount. Do you understand?)
The young man hesitated for a moment, and then spoke.
"Umm. Snow my a delidoh. Nop peh-ha..." The young man struggled to find a word, and before he could stop himself, he said "...umm."
(Yes, proceed. I am a carrier of a message. How can I -- yes, proceed.)
A light came on in the darkness. An old woman sat on a folding chair, wearing a remarkable hat; a skullcap of bone-colored cloth with a veil in the back and two flaps, flipped down over the eyes. The flaps were decorated with a simple, stylized pattern of an eye in black ink.
"It is regrettable that Corporate culture keeps you from your proper tongue. A better hesitation word is 'erm'. In addition, forgive me for not removing my hat. It is for dreamingfor which I sit in the dark. You, of course, need not remove yours."
The young man was chastened, and sunk his head. "I apologize, Demonslayer. Honor Guard is coming! They will be landing soon, near here."
"I am aware of this. Don't panic. It is not your concern." Demonslayer sat back in her chair.
As Bearcat came up behind the young man, a second form emerged from the darkness with heavy, metallic footsteps. It was a robot, a very large one, another parody of the Fe Arran form in shiny alloy, curves and angles.
Its had two glowing yellow lights where the eyes should have been; they glowed like a campfire, flickering to orange, and were strangely mesmerizing.
"Today I salute you, reckless youth facing death. Know now it awaits you, empty space takes your breath."
"Very pretty, Killotron. Now shut up before he wets himself." Demonslayer reclined back into a sleeping position. "Bearcat, see him out. Pleased to meet thee."
Approximately one thousand kilometers above their heads, the Nightstalker began its descent. The hull, for what it was worth, was pristine.
Jolt was still in command, and did her best not to look nervous. To her right, the First Mate scanned the rest of the crew. Thresher didn't need an acceleration chair, but the Eye and Arsenal did.
The Eye was optimistic, but Arsenal was badly shaken. He had restored the ship to its former state, but not completely; the state of the internal registers in the ship's computers no longer matched the data in memory. Every single system failed, nearly simultaneously.
Nearly everyone agreed that while the superficial damage was gone, the Nightstalker still needed some time planetside to ensure that critical systems were still working. Feeling guilty, Arsenal resolved that he would not make the same mistake again.
Suburbia loomed large below, and the sphere gradually became a horizon. A powered descent down a military corridor began, and the crew was tense.
It was over rather soon. The star-ship dove through the sheath of insubstantial flame, entered the frigid upper atmosphere, fell beneath the clouds decelerating as the planet's gravity began to clash with the artificial gravity aboard the Nightstalker.
A few moments later, the spade-shaped starship hovered over the military starbase, and, silently, descended to the cheers of a waiting fire crew.
"All crew, prepare to disembark." Jolt relaxed visibly, and Honor Guard filed out of the bridge to the dull gray landscape of urban ruin in which they would be spending the next cycle.
The former site of a warehouse, long since burned to the ground, was now a collection of tents, forming a fragile sort of fortification. On the side facing the causeway, a half-dozen sleek space-craft were parked in front of the tent city, the vessels garishly decorated with bright, primary-color paint-jobs and huge spoilers.
A seventh vessel parked in the lot, and a young man in an improvised flight suit stepped out of the cockpit. He did not remove his helmet, and proceeded to the ring of gray-green tents.
Just inside the tents, a tattered collection of cast-off people slept on mats, as a huge view-screen blared a soap opera set in the prosperous and temperate equatorial regions of Suburbia, where the wealthy controlled vast manors and squabbled among themselves. On the walls were posters in primary colors, decorated with slogans like "PEOPLE ARE NOT PRODUCTS" and "LIVE AGAIN", stylized upraised fists, and a simple, squiggly sigil, an M and a 7, arranged to look as if the right descender on the M were a lightning bolt.
It was a simple logo; other posters encouraged residents of the shelter to spread the word by spray-painting it on abandonded buildings. Many had done exactly this.
A burly, bear-like older male watched the shelter. He waved the young man thorough to the inner courtyard of the tent city.
The young man bowed his head as the tent flaps opened and he saw the communal fire-pit in the middle of the courtyard. Here the fellowship feasts were held, where the lost and the lonely taught and sang songs forgotten generations ago and learned the strange language still remembered in fragments by their great-grandparents.
He proceeded around the firepit, crossing it on the left side. A flap opened on the tent facing him, held by an absurdly large hand ending in triangular black claws.
While the guard in the common room was large, the guard in the temple was gigantic; if he were physically capable of standing fully erect for more than a few moments, he would have easily been twice the height of his colleague.
"Thu come inn. I am Bearcat. Da mithstresh ish waitling."
The monster's fangs gave his speech a lisping quality. His eyes were gentle, but his face was a rough parody of the young man's, with heavy brows and powerful jaw muscles. The young man hesitated for a moment, but quickly regained his composure and entered the tent.
Bearcat nodded directly to the camera, and the floor descended into a hangar-like undergound complex. It was dark, illuminated only by overhead spots. Outside a polka-dot grid of yellowish light, the hall was in deepest darkness.
A voice came from that darkness, speaking an alien tongue.
"Pee my nah ghey peh zhnolazh. Nah dey medzh yo nagada. Djodo mah ghey?"
Convenient sub titles were added in post-production.
(You are not the one, but you will do nicely. We are being watched, secrecy is paramount. Do you understand?)
The young man hesitated for a moment, and then spoke.
"Umm. Snow my a delidoh. Nop peh-ha..." The young man struggled to find a word, and before he could stop himself, he said "...umm."
(Yes, proceed. I am a carrier of a message. How can I -- yes, proceed.)
A light came on in the darkness. An old woman sat on a folding chair, wearing a remarkable hat; a skullcap of bone-colored cloth with a veil in the back and two flaps, flipped down over the eyes. The flaps were decorated with a simple, stylized pattern of an eye in black ink.
"It is regrettable that Corporate culture keeps you from your proper tongue. A better hesitation word is 'erm'. In addition, forgive me for not removing my hat. It is for dreamingfor which I sit in the dark. You, of course, need not remove yours."
The young man was chastened, and sunk his head. "I apologize, Demonslayer. Honor Guard is coming! They will be landing soon, near here."
"I am aware of this. Don't panic. It is not your concern." Demonslayer sat back in her chair.
As Bearcat came up behind the young man, a second form emerged from the darkness with heavy, metallic footsteps. It was a robot, a very large one, another parody of the Fe Arran form in shiny alloy, curves and angles.
Its had two glowing yellow lights where the eyes should have been; they glowed like a campfire, flickering to orange, and were strangely mesmerizing.
"Today I salute you, reckless youth facing death. Know now it awaits you, empty space takes your breath."
"Very pretty, Killotron. Now shut up before he wets himself." Demonslayer reclined back into a sleeping position. "Bearcat, see him out. Pleased to meet thee."
Approximately one thousand kilometers above their heads, the Nightstalker began its descent. The hull, for what it was worth, was pristine.
Jolt was still in command, and did her best not to look nervous. To her right, the First Mate scanned the rest of the crew. Thresher didn't need an acceleration chair, but the Eye and Arsenal did.
The Eye was optimistic, but Arsenal was badly shaken. He had restored the ship to its former state, but not completely; the state of the internal registers in the ship's computers no longer matched the data in memory. Every single system failed, nearly simultaneously.
Nearly everyone agreed that while the superficial damage was gone, the Nightstalker still needed some time planetside to ensure that critical systems were still working. Feeling guilty, Arsenal resolved that he would not make the same mistake again.
Suburbia loomed large below, and the sphere gradually became a horizon. A powered descent down a military corridor began, and the crew was tense.
It was over rather soon. The star-ship dove through the sheath of insubstantial flame, entered the frigid upper atmosphere, fell beneath the clouds decelerating as the planet's gravity began to clash with the artificial gravity aboard the Nightstalker.
A few moments later, the spade-shaped starship hovered over the military starbase, and, silently, descended to the cheers of a waiting fire crew.
"All crew, prepare to disembark." Jolt relaxed visibly, and Honor Guard filed out of the bridge to the dull gray landscape of urban ruin in which they would be spending the next cycle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
