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Post By Manga Shoggoth Wed Aug 02, 2006 at 11:08:45 am EDT |
Subject
Core Dump - A slightly belated tie-in to the Parody War | |
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Suspended in the darkness... Deafened by the silence...
[*INTERRUPT*
Maintenance Cycle Complete: Restarting.
Hardware Startup Diagnostics:
Comms....OK
Servo....OK
Servo Controllers...OK
Weapon Systems....OK
Cybernetic Interface....OK
Comms....OK
Scanners....OK
BioInterface...OK
OS Loading............Complete
Upgrading Firewall....Complete
Custom Defensive Upgrade....Complete
Unit #7865 Platoon #87653 Ready]
It is still dark, but no longer silent. I can hear the noises made by the various systems in my armour as they warm up and settle down to a state of readiness. The Comms Systems write information directly to my cortex, so I don't really hear them, but after long usage I find that I imagine that I can hear them.
It is one of the very few things I can still do.
[*INCOMING MESSAGE*
ORDERS: Platoon #87653 All units transfer to Sol3 Co-ordinates 324985/783897/653486/8374 where enemies of the Parody Master are transferring artefacts demanded as tribute. High probability of metahuman presence; also high probability that future brides of the Parody Master will be in attendence.
OBJECTIVE 1: Acquire Markab crystals {Details: Archive Link #87652}
OBJECTIVE 2: If present, capture brides of Parody Master unharmed {Details: Standing Orders #34763}
WARNING: Only engage human/metahuman resources
*ACTIVATE*]
Oh. Some sort of snatch job. Well, I suppose it is better than being dropped on to some planet and slaughtering the inhabitants.
The hanger is flooded with light, and my armour moves itself to the transfer point. As usual, I go along for the ride.
This was not what I signed up for.
When he called for volunteers to become his elite warriors I was only too eager for the task. My intended mate was against it, of course, and intreated me to stay. Perhaps I should have listened. At least we could have died together.
The initial selection was hard. It started with a battery of physical, mental and psychic tests, rapidly becoming harder. I passed with flying colours, and bade my mate a fond farewell with the assurance that when we met again I would be one of the Elite. I boarded the Parody Master's vessel with the handful of successful applicants to the cheers of my people - even those who failed in the tests and were left behind. I envy them now.
Then came the off-planet training, followed by more and more tests. As the tests became harder still it became clear that we now had only two options. Succeed or die. But we were soldiers. We accepted it.
The days became months; the months may well have become years, but in space it is almost impossible to tell. You lose track of time.
At last, the day came. My training was complete, I had passed all the tests (with flying colours in some cases - the priests said that I had the strongest Astral Pattern that they had ever seen), and I was now ready to be fitted to my armour.
It looked impressive. A red and black full-body suit, an all-over helm that fitted on to the body suit to form an impregnable whole. Beside it was a shield with the black and red motif of the Parody Master, and a sword with a blade that looked impossibly thin and seemed impossibly sharp.
The priest informed me that the blade was in fact the thickness of a molecule (whatever that was) and would cut through anything. The shield was enhanced to protect against most projectile and blade based attacks and concussive forces. Anything the shield could not handle, the armour would.
It was - explained the priest as he helped me into the armour - a marvel of technology. Cybernetic armour conjoined with a living creature - attacks that would defeat the technology (like jamming) would be defeated by the living body inside.
He placed the helm over my head and everything went dark. I heard the snick as he activated the seals, and then the armour began to interface with me.
I screamed as my body was torn from me.
And so I joined the Parody Master's Elite. At least, my body did. The rest of me just hung on like a tattered cloak. I returned to my home planet, too. Just once, when it rose in rebellion against the Parody Master. Just one visit was enough.
I have eyes, but they see only darkness. Instead, the helm injects information from its sensors straight into my mind. My ears hear only the hum of the armour as it slaughters its way through the universe.
And I can feel nothing.
The years passed. I discovered that Avawarriors were not the invincible elite that I imagined. It wasn't that they were destroyed in combat. It was just that sometimes they never restarted after their maintenance cycle.
[*Unit #7865*
Transfer to Sol3 Co-ordinates 324985/783897/653486/8374 Complete.
Sensors indicate targets within range.
READY]
The platoon forms up around me, awaiting our orders. I can see (or at least, the sensors can see) the targets. A dark-skinned female is holding three crystals that - to the sensors - are glowing like stars. She is being helped out of some gelatinous mass by a lighter-skinned female, whilst two males are standing guard. Next to them is some form of primitive air transport.
[*Unit #7865*
Analysis confirms presence of objective 1: Markab crystals
READY]
They all appear quite unremarkable except for the lighter-skinned female. She is surrounded by a field of twisting probabilities.
[*Unit #7865*
Analysis confirms presence of objective 2: Bride designated Probability Dancer
READY]
The targets notice us. The probability field streams towards us, but flows over our armour, repelled by some new feature of the defenses. The dark-skinned female looks at the gelatinous mass for a moment, then ushers the others towards the air transport. The two males do not appear to want to go, but are dragged towards the craft by the two females.
[*INCOMING MESSAGE*
ORDERS: Unit #8746598747 acquire target designated Markab crystals
Units #7865 #7865435467 #3456945376 acquire target designated Probability Dancer
Remaing Units attack
ENGAGE]
The probability field swirls around my armour as it advances towards the Probability Dancer. I feel more keenly for this one that I did for the uncountable multitude that my armour has slaughtered. At least they died. This one will be forced to live.
For a moment I feel a tingling feeling, as if life was returning to my limbs. My armour staggers, knocking #7865435467 and #3456945376 sideways into the path of the platoon. I manage to swing my sword towards the Probability Dancer, but to my dismay she gracefully dodges the thrust. My body becomes numb again.
The confusion caused by my armour's fall is sufficient to delay the platoon long enough for them to reach their craft and escape. I suppose I should feel glad that the Parody Master has been denied his prizes, at least for a while. For me, there is no escape.
[*ALERT*
Multiple dimensional anomalies approaching from rear.
WARNING: Comms Failure: Lost Contact with Control.
WARNING: Comms Failure: Lost Contact with Unit #8765598764
WARNING: Comms Failure: Lost Contact with Unit #7659867675
WARNING: Comms Failure: Lost Contact with Unit #8374698734 #8745756298 #8745569658
WARNING: Comms Failure: Lost Contact with Unit #8765765879 #6576875685 #5948756784 #8745743765 #9823763445
WARNING: Comms Failure: Lost Contact with Unit #7865435467 #3456945376
RETRE&^%£$B*GB834DB7579NV SYJRCNY49N56 2Y/S0;' ]
As the Comms System cuts off, I look round to see the remains of the platoon, their helms torn from their bodies. My armour is standing in a pool of gelatinous matter that was not there before.
[*Unit #7865*
WARNING: Lower Servo System Failure
*NO COMMS*]
I am sinking into the matter, as if I were attempting to walk on some form of quicksand.
[*Unit #7865*
WARNING: Middle Servo System Failure
WARNING: AntiGrav Systems Failure
*NO COMMS*]
For a brief moment, I remember what hope was like...
[*Unit #7865*
WARNING: Upper Servo System Failure
WARNING: Sensor Array Total Existence Failure
WARNING: Helm Seal Breach Imminent
*NO COMMS*]
Light...
The light burns my eyes. It seems strange to be perceiving light after all this time. I am lying on a hot surface. For a moment I think of the legends my people have of a fiery judgement, but it soon becomes clear that I am not engulfed in flames.
As my eyes become accustomed to the light I look down and see a pale female body, its muscles so atrophied that it looks like the victim of a grotesque race between emaciation and poor muscle tone. With some shock, I realise that the body is mine. It is so long since I was last aware of it that I had almost forgotten that it existed. I am lying on something that seems to be a granular silicate surface, energetically excited by intense starlight.
I shake my head weakly. This is no time to think like my sensor array. I am lying on hot sand.
I become aware of a figure kneeling beside me. A pale female humanoid, garbed in a white robe like those of the priests. It...She is talking to another of the strange gelatinous masses. More disturbingly, it is answering. I realise that I am actually hearing her, although I seem to "hear" the creature she is addressing much the same way that I "heard" the comms chatter in my armour.
"Why did you bring her here? She looks like she needs an Intensive Care department!"
I don't really trust in the mercy of a race of humans at war. At least here she has a chance.
Although I understand it, I don't recognise the language they are talking.
"And I would have thought that mercy was the last thing you would think about when dealing with an Avawarrior."
I have something of a soft spot for those who manage to strike back against an enslaver. This one managed to override her armour long enough for the humans to escape. She made a good attempt at denying the Parody Master his bride as well. She deserves a chance.
I gave the rest of the Avawarriors the only mercy I am prepared to give: a quick termination. When my estranged biomass reaches their masters, they will find that mercy is in very short supply.
"Well, she won't be walking for some time. I'll head back and get a stretcher party."
I can feel the warm breeze on my skin. I can hear footsteps in the sand, fading into the distance. I can see the female walking away, the blob flowing beside her. I can smell something other than the inside of my armour. I can taste salt on my lips, borne by the wind.
I can do six things I thought I would never do again.
As is always the case with my writing, please feel free to comment.
I welcome both positive and negative criticism of my work, although I cannot promise to enjoy the negative.
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