Tag: fiction

Bang

Zen looks up from the fabricator and turns around in time to see a bullet approach, less than an inch from his head. He exerts, and the lump of lead vanishes in an envelope of indigo energy. The soldier that fired it doesn’t hesitate, and pulls the trigger again.

Nadia watches as Zen raises a hand, and the soldier, except for his legs, vanishes in a flash. Gunfire erupts from all over the room, and she is nearly blinded as every projectile in the air is absorbed in a blink of light, then suddenly reappears to plunge into the skull of the soldier who fired it. Seventeen bodies slump to the floor, including the young man who had shakily shushed her, his pistol pointed to her neck. She reflexively grabs her throat, coughing, having only just processed what she has seen. They appeared from nowhere, as if formed from the shadows themselves.

[Joy. Where is Joy?] 

She looks, and beholds something unexpected. Zen clutches the doorframe, shaking. A strange white smoke curls from the edges of his prism head, shimmering and writhing like the tentacles of some sea monster wrapped around the hull of a doomed clipper. Light seems to bend around him, and in a moment, she is alone.

He holds his rifle in one hand, and wipes his brow with the other. No word from F team. He heard gunshots, however.

He inches forward, following his squadmates as they enter something like a cafeteria. Tables with benches stand at odd angles around the floor. A camera, deactivated by the pulse, hangs from its post in the corner. In the center of the room, a woman with snow-white hair sits at a table, humming softly.

A boot creaks. She turns her head, and he glimpses an eye like a ruby. Something glimmers in her hand. She stands suddenly, and the squad leader hurries towards her, then stops a foot away. He teeters, unsteady, then falls backward, the handle of a knife protruding from his eye.

Five guns erupt into fire. Then, they are surrounded. In the breadth of a thought, every table has a machine soldier standing on it, preceded by a burst of light. The woman is nowhere to be seen. Twenty seven disintegrators lock on target, and five find their marks.

Zen holds Joy in his hands. His eye searches her for wounds, and finds none. There is no time for relief. He raises a hand, and clutches a fist. The planet blinks out of sight, and reappears far, far away.

The automaton soldiers disperse through the building, and soon gunfire and the whine of disintegrators fills the air with a cacophony that brings Joy to tears, pressing her face to his chest. She whispers, unheard over the chaos.

“Failed. Worse, the planet has moved again, and the informant aboard has perished. If the subject takes another prisoner, measures may be taken to sever the connection. We will never get such a chance again.”

The advisor lowers the report and looks to the slight figure standing at the far end of the room. She says nothing. General Dupont, however, speaks up.

“It was a long shot anyway. A direct insertion is far from a preferable way to gain control of an enemy installation. If we could’ve risked sending half the fleet, we would’ve. All that remains-”

The woman raises a hand, silencing the general. She lowers the hand, and clasps it behind her back, continuing to look out onto the planetary city of Capitale, watching exterior elevators travel along gilded rails, floating trains deposit passengers onto flower-riddled verandas, and hulking ships drift in the sky above silvery buildings. It takes a full minute for her to look away.

“Reinforce all our installations. Have another fleet constructed and crewed. The Xalanthii shall have to supply us with more of their advisors.”

The advisor bows, and departs, leaving the two alone. Dupont clears his throat and catches the woman’s eye with his own. His grey irises wobble under the pressure exerted by the bronze discs peering out from under her modest brow.

“You have thoughts, general.”

“Your majesty-”

“A monarch in secret is no monarch at all, general.”

“I understand. Your orders suggest you expect retaliation. Why would a machine-”

“A machine wouldn’t. Our foe is no such thing.”

Dupont is silent. He leans back in his seat and straightens his suit. The woman resumes looking out the window.

Clearance level 5, eyes only. Do not copy, print, or otherwise duplicate.

Following the loss of the ZN001 prototype, progress on the subsequent models RG001 and PG001 have been halted. It is the opinion of this committee that the decision to hand over any considerable military power to a poorly understood entity was deeply flawed. Dr Beckherd’s project history is to be thoroughly scrubbed. All prototypes are to be liquidated, and all previous work partners are to be remanded to Capitale for cross-examination. To assess and develop countermeasures for the new threat posed by the entity hereafter referred to as “Zen”, a new unlisted committee is to be established, by order of [Redacted] and Gen. Dupont. All data concerning the construction and testing of prototype ZN001 is to be sealed and placed in the care of said committee.

One other matter remains to be determined, pending the findings of scientific scouting party XXXX. Should the outcome be deemed favorable, it is the opinion of this committee that the next step be pursued.

Frank groans and crawls on his stomach, not daring to look back at what he knows will be unrecognizable as Faith. His ears ring with the blast that descended from the sky and shattered the depleted uranium shell of the walker. A piece of shrapnel protrudes from his arm, and he can feel another embedded in his cheek. He does not stop to remove them. Somewhere out of sight, he knows one of the arachnid tanks is preparing to fire a second mortar shell, aided by a satellite overhead.

The snow stings his cheeks. His arm begs at him to scream, to vent his agony. He holds his tongue. He hears snow crunching behind him. Slow, methodical steps. Pain shoots up his bicep as he exerts himself, desperately trying to crawl faster. A clawed hand grabs him by the leg, and he grabs his pistol, turning and shouting. Un’Ktehl grabs the gun before he can aim it, and clamps a hand over his mouth. Frank feels relief and exhaustion dump into his system as the Khanvröst picks him up and slings him over his shoulder. Then, hearing the whistling descent of a second shell, his beast-like compatriot begins to sprint into the storm.

An explosion rings dullly in his senses, and he begins to fade out.

When he comes to, he is laid on his back, his coat folded under his head. A bandage covers his arm, and a parcel rests on his stomach. Looking around, he surmises that he is in a cave in the mountain, the wind howling outside. Un’Ktehl is nowhere to be seen.

He sits up and takes the package carefully, unwrapping it with one hand. Jerky, three strips. Salty and savory, he chews it with relish, staring out into the storm. His bandage is soaked near to black. After an hour, Un’Ktehl appears at the mouth of the cave, carrying an animal carcass with a slash down the flank.

Frank watches in silence as his last surviving troop member skins and guts the animal, hanging the pelt over a jagged outcrop of sand-colored stone, before starting a fire at the mouth of the cave and creating a spit with the bones. His shotgun he leaves in Frank’s care without a word. He eats as he cooks, chewing a raw slab of flesh. Frank understands; the cooked meat is for him, and the raw is for Un’Ktehl.

“We cannot depend on staying more than a little while, else I’d consider salting and drying some. If you haven’t eaten all the jerky, give it back.”

Frank hands him the package, and he stows it in his rucksack.

“What did you manage to take before the second shell?”

“Two guns, two ammo boxes, some of the canned rations, the utility axe, my knife, and-”

He smiles wickedly, and juts out his chin with pride.

“Two boxes of instant coffee, the salt jar, and lots of your lady friend’s bread!”

Frank smiles, and his vision blurs with tears. Un’Ktehl laughs long and loud, and the harsh sound is a symphony to Frank. 

When they wrestle their emotions back into check, Un’Ktehl packs snow into their canteens, and carefully places them near the fire. He pokes the smoldering coals with a rib bone.

“I did grab a hot plate, but I’d rather use the emergency coal first, as it’ll actually keep you warm, help you heal faster. The catch is for the same. Meat and fat. I did give you a good helping of disinfectant, but I’ll have to clean that wound when we change your wrappings.”

“Y’know, this is about the most I’ve heard you talk, big man.”

“Kreghhrah, only because there’s so little to say, Fr’keh. M’Rehn, you are lucky you needed to make water. That mortar made the turret split like a flower. Royce… Well, Johnson got a piece of shrapnel to his dome. I got two to the ribs, winded me.”

He pauses, and looks up from the spit, his eyes aglow in the orange light.

“I am sorry, Frank. I did not think to grab that picture of yours.”

Frank shakes his head and gestures for his canteen, which the other quickly brings to him.

“You got the bread, Ktehl. That’s already more than I could ask for.”

He takes the water, and stares out into the storm, watching shades of white slip and swirl past the yawning teeth of rock.

To Ms. Elizabeth Fillianoire,

We have been entrusted with the following parcel of handwritten notes for you by one Corporal Un’Ktehl Kreg’ohr. We have pulled one attached letter from the group as it contained confidential information; however, due to staff shortages we are unable to screen the entirety of the package, and so impress upon you that you are not to share the contents with anyone else, and should you discover sensitive information within, you are required by law to surrender the offending document to the nearest installment of the United Settlements Intelligence Bureau.

Regards,

The United Settlements Civilian Postal Agency.

Eliza.

I realize that this will likely never leave this planet. But I have charcoal and parchment.

I am wounded, but surviving. Johnson, Royce, and Faith are gone. Un’Ktehl has taken it upon himself to oversee our survival. We’ve promised each other that, should either make it off world, we will inform the other’s family. It may be bold of me to call you my family already, but I’ve wasted too much time in denying my want for it to be so.

Our life is a hard one. We survive on meat and bread. Bread that you gave me. Eliza, you have most assuredly saved me, the bread has sustained my spirit as the meat has sustained my body. And Un’Ktehl, bless him, has been so good as to sustain my hope with his presence.

I do not know what day it is. My dear friend tells me it has been something like a week since our walker fell prey to mortar. My arm has healed much, and I seem to have avoided infection, but sadly, the bread is all but gone. We will soon leave the cave we have sheltered in, and attempt to make our way down the mountain. Based on memory, the nearest outpost is twenty one miles down the mountain, but finding it in less than perfect conditions requires a miracle. It is still our only hope. I believe that Un’Ktehl would be capable of making it by himself, as he has already proven quite adept at survival thus far. He hunts our food, purifies our water, and cares for me without apparent difficulty. I only hope I will not burden him too much.

A new cave, thank goodness. After the first, we were forced to make a sort of igloo, which was sufficient, but certainly could not be called comforting. This cave is less pleasant than the first, but it suffices.

Un’Ktehl has said that there is a reasonable possibility that the machine has already chased the ground forces off the planet. Given that we had not heard from HQ in days prior to the attack, it seems a little too plausible for my liking.

Another nightmare last night. I dreamt I was drowning in oil, just below the surface, unable to get anything more than my fingers out.

I miss you. 

There is something out in the storm, something big. It shakes the ground, groans into the wind. Even my companion is made uneasy by the sound.

A walking fortress. The thumping and groaning is all from a structure on eight legs as big around as houses, bristling with cannons. We watched it pass down the mountain, in the same direction as we now head. We are certain it shares our destination. Eliza, my hands shake as I write. We must follow it, we must enter it, and we must bring it to a stop before it marches over our only hope of escape.

It is like watching a landed dreadnaught drag itself across the ground.

Our plan is simple. There will certainly be some kind of engine, with some variety of fuel. We will sabotage this so as to explode. We have very little firepower between us, but we also have no choice. If we do nothing, we will die here, to either the cold or the enemy.

It is a ponderous creation. It marches along rather like some kind of dense mammal, like the elephants from the old videos. It’s cannons sweep from side to side, and a great big tower in the center churns out steam. Un’Ktehl supposes it may be using nuclear energy, and I concur. We may have the chance to really shake things up.

Eliza. This is it. We are close to the beast now, and it seems to have become still: we can just make out the settlement in the distance. It seems the beast is waiting for something, perhaps a team inside to lower the shield. I fear the terrible cannonade that will follow, should such a thing occur.

The outlook is bleak. The beast will surely be crewed, and will probably catch us before we have even scaled the leg. But we will be trying, regardless. Un’Ktehl has clapped me on the shoulder, and called me his brother. We now seek to grasp fate with our own hands.

Dinner tonight is the very last of the drake jerky, coffee, and a can of sliced peaches.

Un’Ktehl regaled me with a story, one I think meant to inspire us both for what is to come. With the way the wind howls around us, I can imagine that I am living on the very home world he described.

It was a story of the hunt of the drake, of how, as a young buck khanvröst, he had to participate in the hunt to demonstrate his maturity. Every khanvröst, male or female, goes through this harrowing experience, it seems. They set out with the trackers and the harpoons, and they leave the valley to go stand on the upper crust of the glacier, and they wait in the storm for the flap of magnificent leathery wings. They make lots of noise then, using carved horns to imitate the call of their alien bison, to entice the leviathan down so they may spear it.

It is a game of chicken, waiting till the last moment to leap out of the way and throw the spear, praying that it finds the mark. The beast is huge, and has the strength to lift three full grown off their feet. If it is perfectly executed, the beast can be dragged down and slain on the first throw. His, however, was not so lucky a hunt, and he found himself clinging onto his rope, desperately climbing to mount the monster and slay it with his knife.

As he told his story, I found myself caught in the suspense, wondering if the fledgling warrior would make it out alive, all while hearing the tale from he himself.

He felled the beast, and claimed his place in the village, and when the Pliktik came, he enlisted in the navy, and eventually wound up here beside me. My heart burns with great pride at hearing what an accomplished person my friend is, though I understand that all his kind must endure the same to be considered adults. I have faith that, should I fall tomorrow, he will deliver my words to you.

Eliza. I have, do, and will continue to love you as I have no one else. I yearn to one day return to you, fling my arms about you, and never let go. I cannot wait to again smell the wonders of your little bakery on the corner of Lestrade and Main, under your father’s apartment. I will see you again, in this life, or the next.

Yours, 

Frankie.

(Translated from language: Middle Vrösh) 

Eliza. You know me not. I am a friend of your lover. He has asked me to here make my mark, and promise that these words reach you, should either of us survive. He is a great man, and I would be honored to die in his stead, that he may rejoin with you. I once loved a strong and beautiful woman from afar, and found myself unable to reach her. My friend has succeeded where I failed. If I am to depart this world for the black maw, know that my wishes are with you.

Un’Ktehl

Eliza sets down the last of the notes, and sits back in her chair. A small clock ticks away the time from the mantelpiece. A few dying coals in the fireplace hiss angrily, splitting and crumbling. A child laughs in the street.

She looks out the window to the amber and rose sky, and pushes the package away from her with a pained breath, that catches in her throat as she hears something small and metallic fall out of a small fold of parchment. She leans forward, and reaches out, picking up a small, plain ring of silver.

The doorbell rings, and she slams the ring on the table, standing and rushing away from it to answer the door.

She swings it open wide, and stares up at the long, white-furred face. Un’Ktehl lowers himself a modest amount, dipping his head, and speaking more softly than one might suppose is possible.

In the street, a child holds a toy ball in her hands and watches with unabashed curiosity as the woman in the doorway gasps loudly and hugs the giant thing in the military uniform. The girl stares and stares, and watches as they enter, closing the door behind them.

Two months into the war, a discovery was made as to the method employed by the machine in the colonization and consumption of worlds. On the frontier world of XXXXXXX, near orbit radar detected what was initially believed to be a dense meteor falling to the planet’s surface. However, two days later, a full force began to siege human emplacements in a radius centered on the estimated point of impact. The theory put forth at the following military conference on Capitale suggested that the meteor was in fact an unpowered capsule with a previously unobserved type of unit designed to begin the process of full scale production.

Admiral Fontaine stands at the bridge of his capital ship, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder length apart. An ornate pistol sits in his hip holster, polished and gleaming. Gelled rows define his combed hair, which becomes his rich brown side burns, which in turn become his bushy mustache. His uniform is a shade of oxford blue, trimmed in a silver braid with two rows of buttons. Beside him is advisor Nithee, who wears a white robe with layered sheets and bronze bangles.

Nithee’s ventricles flare and pop, and Fontaine’s hand pops up and clenches into a fist. Without so much as a word, the pilot pulls back on the throttle, and looks up to the view screen, an act that is copied by every other person on the bridge.

Through a foot of reinforced smart glass, the sweeping disc of dusty grey rings around an icy blue planet is contrasted with the baleful light of a rust-red nebula behind it. And in the murk of the powder cloud systems of the planet, small specks like pores glitter in the light of the star behind the fleet.

Fontaine lowers his hand and provides a stern visage for his crew to contemplate when they look to him with poorly concealed unease. Advisor Nithee makes a noise like a bursting grape.

“Admiral?”

“Battle stations. Arm Torpedoes with EMP and nuclear options. Divert twenty percent shields to forward flak arrays.”

As his orders are transmitted through the fleet, the bridge begins to release its tension into the rhythm of combat prep. The Admiral is stoic, unreachable. A row of diamond pins on his breast indicate a proud service record. The edges of the view screen become dark with interceptor and fighter craft, wings folding into their most agile state.

The pores on the planet appear to darken, becoming fuzzy. Blue gas is dragged into the vacuum in a crowded moss by the incredible number of ships racing to meet the fleet in force.

“Brace!”

Light fills the sky in blinding bursts. The view screen dims automatically, and the flickering red fabric of an energy shield blossoms to absorb a flurry of projectiles. Flak and shrapnel fly in abrasive sheets of debris, catching stray torpedoes and shredding fighter armor.

As the chaos develops, Fontaine peers through the corner of his eye at Nithee. The Xalanthii advisor is still, giving no indications of concern. A flock of drones zips past the bridge, pursuing a fighter with extensive damage.

Nithee jolts, and turns suddenly, their face flashing red, their ventricles flaring and shuddering. The Admiral curses and turns to an officer at his side.

“Make ready for boarders! Close the bulkheads and prime turrets!”

The officer salutes and departs the bridge. A moment later, three heavy impacts rock the ship, and the shield blisters brightly.

“Admiral! Breaches in the hold, crew deck, and second portside cannon bank! Administering alerts! Shield experiencing heavy sheer drain!”

“Have a squadron clear us, coordinate with the crew for partial shield deactivation. Direct teams to the afflicted sections, equipped for rapid depressurization.”

“Sir!”

Nithee shuffles forward and grips a railing, swaying slightly. Fontaine reaches a hand out, but the advisor dismisses the concern with a wagging Tentacle.

“Admiral! Gunfire detected in corridors A2, F7, and H2!”

The officer falters and looks back to the Admiral, an ugly gleam of fear in his eyes. Fontaine can only glare and wait for the young man to turn back to his post. He understands full well the reason for the officer’s alarm. The corridors in question lead to key points in the ship: The Jump Drive, life support, and the bridge itself.

In spite of himself, Fontaine watches the progress over his shoulder, hiding his emotion when a report from life support declares the invaders successfully repelled. Nithee offers a gurgling wheeze that Fontaine recalls hearing on the rare occasions the individual expressed relief.

Outside of the ship, the battle is too close to call, but Fontaine is resolute, even as one of his allied dreadnoughts suddenly erupts in a blossom of indigo light, decomposing before his eyes as its jump drive succumbs to damage. The same fate awaits him, should the crew fail to defend their own.

“Corridors F7 and H2 clear of boarders! No word yet from A2!”

“Seal the doors.”

The bulkheads hiss as they are shut against the very first whispers of gunfire. Fontaine presses a hand to his face and rubs his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. One of the enemy cruisers takes a torpedo to the engine and careens to the side, jettisoning its fighters without hesitation before self-destructing.

Nithee looks worse for wear, beads of briny perspiration forming along the base of the vestigial fin at the back of the head. They jerk and quiver, turning in place suddenly and making a loud popping noise before taking cover behind a console. Fontaine shouts, crouching beside the advisor.

“Cover!”

The portside bulkhead explodes. Plasma and disintegration beams clutter the free air of the bridge. Nithee is an unhealthy shade of violet. Fontaine pulls his pistol and fires wildly over the console, clipping one of the boarders.

The soldiers are different from those used in ground conflict. One in three has a full length riot shield and a machine pistol. The others are decked in light armor, and carry short range disintegrators with an under barrel flamethrower. Their bodies are scuffed and scored with moderate damage, but their movements are precise. Fontaine ducks just in time for a spray of bullets to slip over his head. His shield steams from intercepting a handful of stray disintegration beams. Nithee slumps against him, and he is forced to prop them up before returning fire. Something is wrong. Between Nithee’s behavior and the number of boarders, something is very awry.

Fontaine manages a perfect hit in the shoulder of one of the more aggressive drones, severing the limb. He crouches down again, and glances at the advisor. He looks up, and sees something that sends a chill up his back, and tightens a knot in his gut.

Behind the defensive formation of the soldier drones, there is a figure, one he has not seen on the battlefield even once. It stands half a meter taller than the others, and has a head rather like a rectangular pillar. It holds no weapons, and seems to be wearing a cloak of rubber cables, through which Fontaine sees a completely armorless body. The figure seems distracted, and Fontaine points his gun, shaking with the certainty that this is a leader machine of some kind. He squeezes the trigger.

The bolt of white-hot plasma flies through the air, a comet of destruction. It threads a gap between the soldiers, spitting sparks as it nears the gaunt thing. The blocky head turns, and the bolt fizzles out of existence in a blink of blue light.

Fontaine stumbles backwards as the thing stares at him without eyes. The soldiers spread out into the room, and one neatly disintegrates the gun right out of his hand. All falls silent but for the tromp of metal feet and the pitiful gurgling made by Nithee.

The tall thing stalks right up to Fontaine and leans down, the black shine of its geometric head reflecting his face back at him, before it is lit from within by cerulean light. A young woman leans through the door, and calls out with a lightheartedness that makes his head spin.

“Is it safe, Zen?”

The voice of the machine is guttural, a growl of some electronic beast recently evolved to stand on two legs.

[All clear.]

The woman claps happily, and enters the room, swaying her arms and squatting down by an unblinking corpse, poking it with her finger.

She is pale, and seems to have faded tattoos of ever-branching angled lines and mirrored circles. Her hair is pure white, long and straight. Straight bangs hang over her bright red eyes. She wears a black tee shirt and tattered jeans, and flits about the room as if she is exploring a garden, sampling the scents of flowers, rather than the sight of fresh carcasses.

The machine leader turns away from Fontaine and crouches over Nithee, who has begun to convulse on the floor. Two of the soldiers approach, evidently keeping an eye on the Admiral.

[Hum. This one is actually surviving for a while. The last three expired before I was able to get close. I’ll need to develop something to remedy the condition without altering the physiology. Perhaps a mild paralytic.]

He extends his hand over the advisor, palm facing down. The tips of his fingers glow with blue light, and Nithee vanishes in a flash, just like the bolt from Fontaine’s pistol. The woman notices the Admiral and gasps, running over and grabbing his face by the cheeks. Her voice is silk.

“Zen! Zen! This one is so fuzzy! And you left him alive! Can I have him? Please?”

[What will you do with him? He is dangerous, even as he is.]

The thing turns and looks, and seems to wait on the woman with a nature that approaches doting. The look in her eyes is pure, innocent, genuine.

“I want him! I want a Tim of my own!”

The noise made by the thing must be laughter, a strange guffaw of intermingled voices. It seems more a composite recording of dying breaths. Outside the view screen, two more of the dreadnoughts are disabled. Seven more loud impacts rock the ship. The thing leans its head to one side.

[Him? I doubt he will be as long lasting as Tim has been. What will you do if he falls apart?] 

“Won’t you rebuild him for me? Or, or, could you show me how to do what you did? He doesn’t have to be just like Tim…”

There is a prolonged pause. Fontaine hears more gunfire and screams from the corridor, the voices often getting cut short, becoming ghostly as their sources evaporate.

[Okay. We’ll take him back, and we’ll see what we can do.]

2,1,2167

Eliza,

I had a terrible dream last night. I was out on the mountain, alone, in the blizzard. I felt as if something was following me as I walked. I had none of my gear. I arrived at some kind of bunker, and got in, locking the door behind me, but it was as if the thing following me had been waiting inside all along. I woke up in a sweat, and Un’Ktehl said I had been calling your name.

Things have been quiet since Boggs. No sign of the thing that shot him. We picked up a signal on the scanner, Johnson says it’s our target. So we’re headed that way now. We updated HQ, but got no response.

Dinner was coffee and stew. Both were warm, but I’m still shivering.

Yours,

Frankie.