The years to come

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Here's the beginning of my story. This is basically just a prelude to the jump in time between the end of diablo II... and the beginning of this. Any and all suggestions and review are welcomed.

Also... is it impossible to add indents between paragraphs?


The last world had ended in an orgy of violence and a plume of black, foul smelling smoke.

The end of terror, of destruction and malice was meant to usher in a new age of prosperity for humankind. And it did. For a limited amount of time. Mans population grew with time, unchecked by war and famine. The lands were plentiful, and so were resources. No longer needing to keep watch over humanity, the wards of heaven left. Whether evil or good, the earth was left without spirituality of any kind. Tales of human triumph over the prime evils became no more than that: Tall tales that seemed too unreal to believe in books nobody read anymore.

A soulless people took all they could to fill the void left behind by the greatest struggle ever known. Consumer goods, politics, commerce. The faithful became bitter and jaded as god seemed to no longer be listening. The evils of terror and death might’ve been vanquished, but a more primal evil began to rear its ugly head. The original evil. The immortal evil.

The evil of human greed.

Soon enough the gap between the poor and the exploited grew too wide. The resources too few. The land too full. Powerful empires grew into allied countries. City-states ceded into larger assemblies. The times grew desperate, and the powers that were tense. They all held on as the planet died around them.

The poor couldn’t hold on any longer. They starved and died as the rich lived in comfort. They revolted. Terrorists from Harrogarath made decisive strikes on soft targets and nuclear plants. Desperate times had descended upon the planet. Either you fought to take from your neighbour, or you fought to keep what was yours.

Man turned his back on morals and dignity. Country fought country. Rich fought poor. Brother versus brother. Father versus son. The sky wept acid onto a dry earth after the eco-terrorists got hold of the right chemicals, blighting the lands of anyone unlucky enough to be targeted. Clouds of airborne virulence struck even those who hid from the violence, travelling rural areas like roving murderers.

The heavily deforested Kurast became a big, stinking open grave as impoverished guerrilla cults slayed friend and foe alike. Nobody was safe from what seemed like the final days. Nobody was safe from the apocalypse. From dying a violent death. God was unwilling to bestow mercy on those who had forgotten His name. And, for that matter, neither was he willing to save those that had kept faith.

Of course, it was all well documented. The media was everywhere in those days. The beginning was stark. But footage from the collapse itself was hazy and obscured. It was a slow burn that lasted for almost eighty years. Barbarism and paranoia reigned as the survivors of the ravaging unnatural disasters desperately grabbed power.

And then… it ended. The fighting stopped. Understanding was reached between the powers that remained, or that had formed since the collapse. It was safe once more to visit other communities. It was safe to trade and to collaborate. Nobody knew why, but those who had come to control the larger groups seemed eager to emerge from the dark age that humankind had fell into.

It was most likely due to the fact that the planet received a huge population drop off. Despite all the ecological damage the earth had sustained, there still was more than enough arable land to support the few who remained. Disease still suffocated growth until medical technology was resalvaged and reinstituted. Cities sprung back up. Science marched on as the damage was repaired. The wounds healed. Reunited, they had survived what seemed like the end.

Little did they know. The worst was yet to come.

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Chapter 1 - Enter the void


His name was Deltroy, and his lower body was only passingly human in shape.

And I would be bunking with him for the next three days.

You could very accurately say that it was his fault that he was so deformed. He requested the surgery. He signed the papers giving his flesh away to strangers. And now, his right leg was placed asymmetrically away from his hips. Or ‘hips’, I should say.

This isn’t to say that it wasn’t worth it, if in a deludedly short sighted sort of way. Thanks to his great big right leg and cybernetic hip girdle, he could comfortably walk around with just under a ton of hardware attached to his hip rig.

Excuse me. Also jutting out of his right hip was a coupling to which a pneumatic arm could be attached.

And on the end of this arm, no doubt, was 300 kilograms of firepower. Stored somewhere in the cargo hold of the ship most probably. Other life forms might not understand our language, but everything knows a weapon when it sees one.

Shoot first, maybe twice. Then ask some questions, and shoot some more. Such a typically imperial attitude.

“So, what are you doing here?” He summons enough curiosity to finally ask after nearly six hours. Indicating that he didn’t really care to begin with.

“I’m here on behalf of Internal Intelligence.”

I didn’t want to tell him what I was really doing here. Psionicists are always regarded with distrust and paranoia. Nobody likes having their minds read like open books. Truthfully I didn’t care to even try unless it was in my interests to do so. But as some egomaniacal and autocratic psychics have demonstrated, the power was terrifyingly easy to abuse.

His interest was nonetheless piqued. It was written plainly on his face. “Oh really?” He gave an interested pause. “You wouldn’t be handlin’ onea them battle psychos, would ya? Or-“ He almost gasped with wonderment. I could tell that weaponry and battle interested him on the same level lures interested a fisherman. “-Are you a part of the third eye?”

It amazed me that he knew so much about Internal Intelligence.

“Rumours circulate quickly, so I see.”

“Is it true?” It was nerve wracking, watching him stand there and talk to me with his leg off kilter, stance unwavering with an inhuman steadiness. No wonder people called them “walking turrets”.

I then affected an air of authority.

“All that crap is just fantasy and rumours. Psychics are really of no practical use to us outside of parlours and circus sideshows. There is no possible way for a man to make something explode by looking at it… or to have one in anything remotely resembling a combat scenario.”

I disappointed him with my strategic lie. Hopefully we weren’t going to run into any trouble on our trip. Then I’d be exposed. Any expressions of wonderment slumped away from his upper body language- since his legs and hips were mostly ferro-fiberous titanium.

“Too bad.” He murmured. “We’re gonna need that sort of power where we’re going.”

“We don’t know that yet. It’s probably just an communications error.”

Just then, the intercom chirped for our attention. We were summoned to sickbay for out mid-voyage physical.

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Chapter 2 - Mekerle

For the record, I hate Imperial field medics. And this Mekerle guy was a big fat reminder of my sheer antipathy.

He was at least fifty years old, but kept in shape with regular steroid and HGH (Human Growth Hormone) injection cycles. And, of course, fresh organs harvested from our Empires healthiest prisoners. Formerly healthy, anyway.

His face was angular and rough like a carrion birds. Eyes that were clearly once someone else’s peer out from an age chizzled and battle scarred face. Neat grey hair was allowed to grow just long enough to obscure surgical scars along his skull. He was lean and wore all black, aside from a red armband around his bicep identifying him as medical personnel.

He was taking a big syringe to Deltroys neck as he sat in a deep scan machine. It chugged loudly, the radons cross sectioning his skull with green light from above his inclined head. It went real slow so that it could properly soak up every last neuron on the inside of his brain.

Deltroy of course was curious about what was being done to him.

“This marvel of technology-“ Here comes a practiced speech. “-is mapping every last micron inside your brain. It then plots the synaptic connections and neuron quality in the memory section. This way if you die, we can not only re-create your old body with cloning techniques, but your old brain as well.”

This was all very blasé for him, judging from his tone. But then again, that’s how he’s sounded for the entire visit. “Every last memory and neurosis and personality trait can be reproduced by nanite guided cellular construction. The new brain will be placed inside the new body. You will be synthetically resurrected.”

A silent pause followed in which, presumably, everyone who overheard pondered the moral and ethilogical quagmire behind this degradation of the human soul and spirit. What did death mean? How real will our memories be? Can personality be changed to fit a mould? Was nothing sacred?

“If I die…” Deltroy speaks up solemnly, at last. “…what’s gonna happen to my hip rig? Is it just gonna get left behind? That thing cost a fortune.”

It was a good thing to see that he saw this whole thing as deeply as I did. He seemed greatly troubled.

“Don’t worry,” The doctor reassured in the most uncaring tone he could muster. “We have a transport signal built into that beautiful piece of cybertechnology inside of you. We wouldn’t cheapen something so irreplaceable by leaving it behind.”

God bless the empire!

[Myst_Lynx]

Still based in Sanctuary but leaving the whole Diablo motif behind, the story looks promising

[0xDEADCAFE]

:thumbsup: Okay, you've got me interested enough to keep reading, so good job. Some comments and questions:

- The preface sets the stage pretty well, but I found it to be bland and too much like other post-apocalyptic setups I've read or seen so many times before. The terrorism angle is somewhat fresher so you might emphasize that.

- I like the 'voice' of your main character. It is gritty and calculating and one of the elements that makes me want to read more.

- The opening could be improved:
His name was Deltroy, and his lower body was only passingly human in shape.

And I would be bunking with him for the next three days.
It's almost a great opening: introduce a character, describe an intriguing attribute, and provide a relationship to the main character, but separating it into two sentences and using the word 'and' twice robs it of some impact.

- Is 'ethilogical' a real word? I'm guessing it is part of the fictional world of the story and is a combination of ethical and logical. When introducing fictional words you might want to provide a context that makes it clear that they are part of the story.

- Another proof-read would help. For example:
He was taking a big syringe to Deltroys neck as he sat in a deep scan machine.
Both uses of "He" should refer to the same person.

- You like to use 'And' and 'But' at the start of a sentence, which is fine in the right situations, but there are places where it might be better to use a single sentence. For example:
This was all very blasé for him, judging from his tone. But then again, that’s how he’s sounded for the entire visit.
Why not let it flow, like this: This was all very blasé for him, judging from his tone, but then again, that’s how he's sounded for the entire visit.

- Does this story come back to the world of Diablo II at some point?

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Yeah, the beginning is somewhat unnotable, but it's breezing over the time between diablo II and this... which I see sorta as 'diablo III'. It is the weakest part of my story, and I should revise it to be at the very least more clear.

This story doesn't return to the time of diablo II, but soulstones, the prime evils, Tyreal and a variety of other plot elements will be (re)introduced. It's basically just about the timelessness of these evils, and the war between good and evil. Just a different setting.

And you're spot on about all that sentance structure advice. If it ever goes beyond this board, I'll be sure to edit.

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Chapter 3 - Time passes

Let me just say that space travel is the most boring experience a human being could possibly be put through. Perhaps I’m simply anxious- or jaded- from my time in the tank. But I want something to happen, and I want it to happen now.

All this black, empty space. What a goddamn waste. What the hell was god thinking?

I try to wander the ship and socialize, but fail miserably. The engineering and medical crews look at me as if I’m there to spy on them. I could read their minds to see what they thought of me, but I know exactly what I’d hear. “I bet you’re reading my mind you filthy sand eater. Well read this: **** you.”

Every time the chief medic talks to me I feel as if he’s sizing me up for spare parts. He seems quite fascinated about my mental capacities, and my brain especially. As a medical head, he had my file.

“How long did it take for your old mind to break in the tank?” He asked with morbid curiosity. Sometimes I wish he’d chase his stimulants with more sedatives. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with his probing questions. “Or did you last the entire year in there?”

Entrants into the Third Eye division of Internal Intelligence are required to spend a one year maximum inside a sensory deprivation tank. The body is nurtured intravenously and fed the proper hormones to prevent muscular atrophy.

Without any way to interpret time or space with any of the senses, reality loses all objective meaning. The body is lost and all you are is a brain floating in utter blackness. Some people become so intensely aware of their mind that they need therapy to reaccustomize themselves with their bodily functions. Without any input, the mind is forced to improvise. Hallucinations are commonplace, and it’s a constant struggle to maintain your ego.

80% of all initiates are broken mentally through some sort of neurological or psychological dysfunction. They leave the tank changed. Most are like zombies, which II likes. Very capable and sensitive mentally, but uninhibited by thoughts or emotions. Easily moulded. Eventually their personality slowly starts to grow back, but it takes a back seat to the training regimen. A small percentage become total head cases and are dissected to prevent further incidence. Some make it through the whole year. If they’re strong enough.

Either way it’s impossible for the initiate to tell what’s happened to him or herself. There’s no way to tell time in there, and they don’t tell you when you get out.

“Is that heart in your chest as black as your last three?”

Clearly I did not appreciate him prying. With a smirk he gleefully informed me that he did not have a heart. I was inclined to believe him.

So I spent the rest of the trip discussing with Deltroy the various wars he had fought in as we sat in the rec room.

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I'm having a bit of problem with this chapter. It seems that I have a case of character-introductionitis here. On one hand, nobody likes having a bunch of new characters breezed over and stuffed into such a short space. But on the other, if you spend a chapter fleshing out each one, people eventually get bored. I don't know how to balance. Did I do a good job on this one?


Chapter 4- The Captain

The conference room was bright, and crowded. All titanium grating and halogen lighting along the nooks. Thankfully they were all disciplined enough not to talk unless asked. My nerves were frayed as it was.

“I’m sorry for these cramped conditions. But normally there’s never more than four people in here at a time.”

There were only seats for Mekerle, three others and myself. Deltroy and the Lieutenant had to stand. Deltroy didn’t mind of course, being a bloody mechanical centaur. Well, with two legs instead of four.

“This one is a loaner, anyway. Our flagship, as you all know, is adrift a few hundred miles from Urube.”

Of course we all knew. Even the robots that washed the dishes knew. That’s what all of us were doing here.

The captain of our ship, The Vindication, was an aged man with short grey hair and dark skin. He wore the green cargo pants of a regular soldier in the Emperors army, along with a tanned captains jacket, closed. Despite his age he was still in good physical condition. Judging from his lined face and beard, as well as his mannerisms and speech, he was a man of invaluable experience.

A strange man in an irregular grey crewman’s jumpsuit stood behind and to the side of the captain. His hair was brown, and he seemed to be entering his thirties. No marks, no facial hair. Average build. No distinguishing traits whatsoever. But every so often the captain would glance back to him. Almost in deference.

I resisted the temptation to read minds.

“All I can say is that we’re not leaving until The Invincible is operational and in tow. As this ships captain, that’s the only part of this operation I have control over.”

He pauses. The sign of a true orator.

“We’re due to arrive in an hour. The plan is that first we shuttle in you guys- our specialists- into one of the docking bays. You check to see if everything is secure.”

He hesitates. Dreading something.

“If everything’s fine security wise, we’ll send in the engineering crews and fix whatever’s wrong.”

I was already aware of the mission details. Or perhaps the lack of mission details. The Invincible was returning from garrisoning the Urube archaeological settlements. They made it a few thousand kilometres out, and then all radio contact severed. With both the two planetary settlements and The Invincible. Like clockwork, so perfectly timed.

Was it Mutiny? Aliens? Pirates? Spacial anomaly? Sabotage? My personal skill of clairvoyance (or ‘cynicism’, as my headmaster called it) told me it was none of the above.

The captain went over our primitive intelligence anyways. Nobody like to go in with the feeling of having no idea what to expect, so it was basically just a big song and dance to make everyone feel safe.

As he spoke on, my attentions turned to the occupants of our stuffy ‘conference room’. Which, the more I examined it, seemed more like a janitorial closet.

Seated at the table next to me was a man with a head shaven down to the skin and a neatly trimmed black moustache. His grey jumpsuit identified him as a crewman. A blue armband indicated his status in engineering crew. Reading his name tag I was able to put a name and face to a file.

The captain then vocalized what I already knew. An experience I know well.

“This here-” motioning to the man next to me, “-is Allen Tromus. He’s a robotic division head back on earth. We got a mark four on board.”

The room fell silent. Dead silent. In this rare moment, I could hear their brains speaking.

Mark fours are not only possessed of intellect and personality like the common mark three, but also has something precious which once separated them from us: Free will.

Not even its creators can know what lurks inside the memory of a true mark four model. Of course, they all have kill switch routines. But every time you look one of those things in the eye you feel that somehow, somewhere, a line has been crossed.

Nobody wanted to look soft complaining about a robot. We all had more important things to worry over than a machine that could make its own decisions.

All of us except the ships priest. A six foot beast of a woman. Long limbed and orange haired. And rather characteristically of the Holy Clergy, she was opinionated as all hell.

It took her four seconds to speak up and steal the air out of the captains opening mouth.

“This robot isn’t coming with us, is it?”

Allen seemed a bit indignant.

“Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he?”

“’He.’” The woman scoffed in mockery. “I wasn’t aware these mechanical servants were thought of as men.

“Save it Tscerca.” The captain snaps with a hateful gurgle in his voice. Despite his experience, it seemed, he was prone to irritability. “There. That was your introduction. We could all get along much better without debating ethics.”

All voices became silent, but looks and emotions lingered.

It was at this point it occurred to me that this Tscerca woman wasn’t the ships priest, but an imperial battle cleric. I didn’t recognize her from the dossier photos.

Battleclergy of the emperor, with a sword in one hand an a holy tome in the other. How laughably pathetic. If God were to exist, I would imagine him to be wise enough not to care about humans, much less their pithy wars. And now here she is in space to spread the empires distorted lies.

The Captain carried on.

Lieutenant Baylen here is in charge of the space guard detachment we have on board. Eight in all.” The captain motioned to the man standing next to Deltroy dressed in camouflaged fatigues. Coloured to match the interiors of imperial ships.

He was a man of dark skin, like myself. His posture and mannerisms stern and focused. He simply nods in acknowledgement.

“He’s also in charge of the operation itself. So once you get into that ship, his word is your command. I know enough about all of you to trust there will be no insubordination.”

A testing glance is thrown around the room. At me, at everyone. It was almost as if the captain was expecting danger.

We all trusted him, for some strange reason. He seemed genuinely clueless.

“You’re all dismissed.”

All of us filed out of the small room. All of us except the captain. And his inconspicuous friend.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I think the balance was fine in these chapters. Your writing is rich enough that you can afford a somewhat slower pace.

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Chapter 5 - Suiting up

“Who the hell was that guy with the Captain?”

Allen asked me because I was internal intelligence. Him and I were off to the edge of our military conga-line in the shuttle bay. Waiting for our equipment to be carted up from the cargo hold.

“I don’t know. What’s in that crate you’re holding?”

The best way to deflect scrutiny is to fire back with questions of your own. Thankfully he was rather eager to talk.

“It’s Scorns brain.”

He lifts it proudly. The thing must’ve weighed 30 kilos.

“Oh. You mean the robots?”

“Yes.” He replied with contrasting dryness. “The robots.”

A service elevator made its way up to stop on level with the deck. Beeping lights and all. The cargo hold was located beneath the shuttle bay, as logic would dictate.

And hunched down atop the elevator, locked securely in a freight conveyor, was Scorn. At least 200 kilos of ferro-fiberous alloys and titanium, galvanized into the shape of an exaggeratedly menacing humanoid.

The plating was a dull dark copper colour, the joints an equally darkened brown. The hands were made with the strength of industrial grade vices and sized to palm a human skull. Shoulder shells cased a set of fierce looking mini-guns. Inside of oversized arms were an auto cannon on the left, and a grenade launcher on the right.

And that face. That cold, fake face. I could only imagine what being killed by one of those things must feel like. At least being killed by a human has the burn of anger and the viscerality of emotions behind it. Adrenaline and fear, even in the coldest of killers. Maybe even the remote chance of mercy.

Finding mercy in this things face is like trying to find mercy from a painting. Despite how it seemed to look at you as it crushed the life from your ribs, you’d still technically be dying alone. You wouldn’t even get that satisfaction. This robot was built to be as cruel as stainless steel, and as serious as cancer.

Ordinance technitions were filling him with coils of bullet belts, grenades, and heavy looking auto cannon shells.

“I have to go put the brain in the golem over there.” He lifts the case again. “Excuse me.”

----

I felt a bit useless. All I need is my amplifier. Which from an asthetic viewpoint is a ball on a stick.

Really all that matters is the sphere part. It serves as a psychic foci. For it to work properly, it needs to be perfectly spherical. After all, the sphere is the shape of all matter. From the planets down to the atoms they’re made of.

The stick just helps me hold the sphere, and keep it powered. Some simply hold the sphere in their hand. Others can make it float before themselves with the power of their minds alone. Like I said, all you need is the orb.

And then an equipment chief comes along to mummify me in flak and trauma plating. My body does not sweat. All the heat trapped leaves through my bare head as my body temperature lowers. My breathing becomes even. I find an equilibrium. Just as easily as I blink my eyes, I control the cells in my body. Right down to the last mitochondria. I can feel them divide and die inside me.

My thin arms slip through the sleeves of my black Kevlar robe. It drapes down to my hard shelled boots.

I am now ready for other people to try and kill me.

----

Across from me, Mekerle is busy opening up medical supplies as if they were party favours. Endorphomine. Winistrol-H. Combat tailored amphetamines. He was already suited in his bright white and red trimmed armour plates. The clean white robbing torn off. Functionality before form. Field medics were always pragmatic about their duties.

He wore an interesting and compact pack on his back. Two cylinders into which I saw him insert soft plastic chemical packs exhausted out on either side. The design was dominated by a large tank with biohazard stickers near all the hook-ups. Tubes went everywhere. Into the exhaust ports. Into him. And most disturbingly, into a large hose- or vaccum. I wish I had more clearly read my files on the equipment manifest. I wanted to know what the hell that thing was.

Without having to talk to him, of course.

Cortical implants buzzed and hummed behind his eyes. Inaudible to all ears except mine and his. And I’m sure after living with it for so long, it was a non-sound to him.

The captain promised that his Weikman-Fowler protocol was deactivated for this mission. A type of software keyed into their retinal display. Powerful scanners were behind their pupils, able to diagnose wounds perfectly, even in the heat of battle. Some shrewd medical technician named Weikman attached costs to certain methods of treatment. Fowler was able to calculate exactly how much a human life was worth.

The diagnosis would be given a price for treatment, and weighed up against the injured persons rank and performance record. All calculated inside the medics head.

If a grunt got shot and went over on the Weikman scale, he’d get executed by the nearest field medic. Normally after the fighting ended. They don’t even bother hiding it behind a dehumanized euphamism, like ‘liquidation’ or something. You get ripped up too badly, you get executed.

The Empire doesn’t like to waste money. I’ve seen a field medic get chewed out for using too much ammo for executions.

The space guard we were escorted by cost too much to train to execute. Thankfully. Now I don’t have to worry about being blasted for a sprained ankle.

----

Tserca decided to lead us all in an unsolicited prayer before we got onto our shuttle.

The grunts seemed to eat it up, including their lieutenant. Even Allen was kneeling as she droned on. But if I truly believed that a prayer could make flying bullets somehow miss me, I’d be down there too. I could feel the creeping fear.

But I don’t believe in lies.

“Not going to offer a prayer to the Anchients?” Mekerle snidely mutters to Deltroy. We were the only three standing.

“Go pop some more vitamin S, vulture.”

Yellow lights spun at everyone as a power lift trundled Scorn over to the durable looking shuttle. Adding its godless beeping as an awkward, screeching chorus to overpower Tsercas prayer. God damn that thing was loud.

I savoured the discomfort, as it was ruining her self righteous God-magic show. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t even change her tone. Not even when the clumsy lift driver banged into the shuttle hatch. It then occurred to me that as a battlecleric, she’s probably said all sorts of prayers with grenades and live ammunition and torsos exploding all around her.

The thing shut up when Scorn was properly loaded onto the shuttle, and was swiftly followed by Tserca. In an auditory sense, they both had much in common. She stopped making her mouth noises so everyone could rise and shuffle up the ramp and into our shuttle.

As the shuttle bay hatch opened and gravity left us, I prayed for there to be nothing waiting for us aboard the Invincible. And that I’d live to be one hundred years old.

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BTW, is anyone still reading this?


Chapter 6 - The fear

The Invincible was an imperial flagship. In essence, a floating hulk of a spacecraft. Its profile was made more eerie between the extremes of total sun exposure and no sun exposure. Angles were either black as death itself or lit perfectly. It seemed as if space was eating it.

That meant the outboard lights weren’t working. The ships systems were clearly damaged. I was the first to notice, and the first to fit on my oxygen mask. Everyone else followed.

If there was no gravity, I was ****ed. I hadn’t brought my zero-g equipment. As expected from their name, the space guard was prepared to fight in the middle of space itself.

I heard someone say “The starboard shuttle bay doors are opening.” We all looked through the front window so we could see it gape and blink with welcoming green lights.

“Maybe the crew is alive and well after all.”

Lieutenant Baylen sounded disappointed.

I knew better. I could feel what was waiting inside the cargo bay with my mind. It was impossible not to feel that evil, creeping sensation. As if a spider was crawling over my grave. Thinking its simple hunt and feed thoughts.

“No. It’s an intellectual vampire.”

It was really an aphoclachtid cerebus. A morfaa. But they weren’t interested in phylums and species. II classifies them as intellectual vampires for tactical simplicity.

Baylen became less disappointed and more worried. I had spoiled his appetite for danger. He was a good soldier, though. I had to dig deep to find the fear.

“What in the hell is an intellectual vampire?” Allen demanded.

“No time to explain, really. They have a natural aptitude for dominating the nervous system of any nearby deceased. Like a trap door spider-“

The sucking hole that was the open shuttle bay loomed near. The invincible was now blotting out the stars from this close. Watching it draw closer inspired terror, in everyone. And only I could feel what was inside.
Holy ****. Holy ****ing ****. The fear hit me like a fist. It was as if an army of vicious ants was trapped beneath my skin and were all trying to escape through the same pore.

I swallowed a build-up of spit that I’d gotten from not breathing or talking during my frightened pause.

“-They’re, uh, like a trap door spider because they wait for prey to enter their lair before they get their thralls to attack.”

Nobody seemed to have anything to say about that.

“So if you see anyone with chunks bitten out of them, just shoot them instead of trying to help them.”

Mekerle derived a bit of juvenile amusement from my advice, flashing a restrained, vacant smile. I guess he didn’t need to be told to behave that way.

He seemed rather lucid, and I couldn’t spot a drop of fear on him. Adrenaline pump. It was probably still warming up. At this point it was chemically impossible for him to experience anxiety.

The shuttle bay doors began to shut themselves before we were even halfway through.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I'm reading. Got me on the edge of my seat with these last two chapters.

[Ikeren]

I like it, and I am still reading.

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Thanks for the re-affirmation. As always, feel free to critisize, as long as it's constructive or helpful. I wanna make sure that this story conforms to Diablo canon as well as the world of science. Being that I use a lot of science to explain things.

I'm gonna post the first half of this chapter, cause it's a long one. What do you think about fighting- should I carry on like this, or just breeze over it? It feels as if it's less intriguing than backstory and character fleshing and so on, but as always I try and keep it interesting and relevant.


Chapter 7 - The Morfaas Lair

The shuttle bay was cold and mildly damp, like the inside of a dead mans mouth.

Of course that wasn’t too unnatural. Most ships didn’t even bother heating rooms with airlock hatches. All the warm air would just get sucked outside every time it opened.

Compared to the Vindications shuttle bay, this place was a football field. It was pitch black, and even with our shuttles fore and aft lighting rigs we couldn't see to the other end.

As soon as the shuttle landed, it seemed, the space guard lept out and formed a perimeter. Dispersing from the ramp like malignant leukocytes from a punctured T-cell virus. The specialists simply stomped and shuffled out behind them, none of us ever having practived exiting a space shuttle before.

Moisture was dripping from certain pipes and sections of catwalk. So I guess it was more like a dead mans closed mouth.

Curtains of black, mucousy webbing was strewn everywhere- along the floors, the walls. Hanging from pipes. The only clean areas were around the airlocks, where the pressure would suck them out. There were mountains of it around the entrances and exits. But upon closer look, it was just hull plating and large cargo crates bundled up and secured with thick webs.

These mountains were parted in the middle with a small, steep lane. Effectively bottlenecking anyone who might be entering the shuttle bay. Typical nesting patterns.

I’ve never seen a morfaa who could move 200 kilo bulk crates. The one I saw just used rocks.

But there was one out there. Its thoughts were louder than the sound of Scorn crashing down to the hull after being quick dropped from the shuttles underside.

Only two thoughts. Over and over again. Throbbing in the stuffy darkness.

“Watch. Wait. Watch. Wait. Watch. Wait.”

What was this thing waiting for?

Like clockwork, the sliding airlocked doors to the cargo bays began to make beeping noises and rumble open, catching our attention. This shuttle bay had its cargo bays on the same level, one on either side.

We could watch them open. No light in either cargo bay, either. Why was
there life support, but not one light? Not even secondaries. Not even emergencies.

I knew a trap when I saw one.

“Why isn’t Scorn online?” Lieutenant Baylen demanded in an urgent voice.

“I don’t know!”

Allen seemed just as tense. Hunched behind the crouching Scorn. Pushing a few switches.

Shapes began to shamble into the tips of our lanterns reaching fingers. Some walked on two legs. Some on four. Some had to crawl.

These were the thralls that the morfaa, the intellectual vampire was using to guard its nest. A hodgepodge of mammals from all families and species, moving in morbid concert. A handful of feral animals. And people wearing imperial crewman uniforms, still clutching their rifles.

“Fire at will.”

Baylen set a good example by squeezing off a few rounds in a strafing fashion. Everyone else followed suit. Gunfire erupted like heavy drops of rain on a leather tent. Smacking into flesh at a thousand clicks. Sending tatters of flesh asunder like confetti at a disorienting street festival.

They began to run at us, full tilt.

This was nothing like the combat simulation. I was prepared for muzzles flashing manically in my eyes, and rifle reports crashing in my ears. But I couldn’t stop watching those dead faced things rushing us and being popped mid sprint like bags of cow blood.

And then a bullet hit me in the chest, from some obstinate direction. Punching into kevlar and trauma plating. The impact knocked the air out of my lungs. Everything went to **** all at once.

“I can’t activate the CPU!” I heard Allen shout as he desperately punched into the keyboard connected to the back of Scorns bowed head.

For every ten zombies that were shredded with bullets, another twenty crowded in. There was an army of them, expertly tightening the noose around our shuttle. Judging from the cracks I heard lighting up their ranks, they were able to use small arms.

One of them was able to latch onto a space guard from behind and bite desperately at his neck. Tserca thrashed out an arm with a looping power to smash the humanoid from behind, shattering its upper spine with the sheer impact of her kinetically charged bastard sword.

There was blood everywhere.

It got worse. As worse as it could possibly get for Allen in particular.

A giant hunting cat that reeked of formaldehyde leaped over the gunfire and crashed down atop Allen as he was trying to jumpstart Scorn. His neck was open inside of a second.

Scorn was active within two.

A giant robotic hand crashed down into the titanium deck with a sound that thundered over the gunfire and scuffling. The hunting cats hips were beneath it. Now a fine powder inside ruptured and baggy skin.

The robots perfectly circular lenses glared a burning, artificial red light.

No mercy was afforded the animal, despite the fact that it was clearly without consciousness in any form. An autocannon barrel is pushed up against its skull as it writhed beneath his fist. The discharge was a bright clap that popped the skull like a balloon. Not only did he destroy the head, but also his hand and the end of the barrel itself.

There was no way the robot couldn’t have forseen that happening.

At least temporarily sobered by his self destruction, Scorn rose back up and cast a glance down at the slain Allen. He knew he was dead. He stepped over and crouched down, a stray bullet connecting with his back once or twice. Gently cradling the dead Allen in his equally cold arms. Staring down into his face. It almost seemed as if he was contemplating something.

Allen was dead. His nervous system, however, stirred back into use.

The morfaa now had him under control. Psionically sending impulses through his lifeless nervous system.

Before Mekerle could even get over and do anything, the freshly deceased Allen began thrusting his neatly trimmed finger nails with unnatural strength into Scorns glowing eyes. A primitive urgency to his attack, reaching a crescendo as those last few vestiges of life faded away from his muscle memory. Leaving him the perfect thrall.

Scorn simply stood there and absorbed the abuse. The reluctance was clear.

The thrashing Allen was pale as death, the life that once pumped through him now a massive black stain soaked down the front of his jumpsuit. Judging from the look on his still-stiff face, he had died in a state of terrified shock.

Soon enough Scorn could deliberate no longer. Everything was happening so quickly. He was forced to crush Allen in his own hands. To watch as he snapped his spine with a wringing twist. His grip so tight that Allen couldn’t even twitch when the cord was severed.

Scorns face did not- could not- change an inch. It just stared forwards, stoically searching for its next kill.

At least the face part did. The body seemed stunned. His hands opened, and Allen Tromus thudded to the cold ground like a bag of mangled potatoes.

(cont..)

[Relapse_]

“Do something, Horus!”

That was my name. Whoever called it out shocked me back into reality. I wheeled around with a start only to bump into a space guard behind me, sending a burst of his rifle ceiling-wards rather than into a cluster of half-rotten vermin wolves.

All at once, the horde of dead things throwing themselves against us dropped to the floor. As if something had snipped the invisible strings controlling their limbs.

I snapped decisively into action.

“I did that.”

Since I was first to speak, all attention snapped over to me. The adrenaline was still pumping through our veins, being that the end came so quick. Mekerle was still busy, though. Flitting around and tending to minor wounds as I carried on.

“I was focusing on locking minds with the creature,” I affected an air of authority on the matter. “and I may have temporarily stunned it with a psychic attack. We must search for…”

It was then that the morfaa fell down from the ceiling. The entire deck shook with its weight.

It was all tentacles. It did have a great big brain and organ sac, but it was soundly protected by thick tentacles that wove up around them like a beehive hair-do. Protecting the vital areas.

Slowly it rose up on three hind tentacles, with two at the front extended to stabilize its weight. It was easily larger than our shuttle, and its tentacles were a stony brown shade of hardened hide. It slinked steadily in our direction.

There were fourty yards between us, and all of our guns were pointed at it. A soft target that was too big and slow to miss. It didn’t stand a chance.
At least it seemed that way before it started to lunge in our direction. Apparently it was just catching its breath.

In the back of my mouth I could feel that distinct metallic taste that always accompanied a mental assault of some sort. My heart palpitated briefly. My palms became clammy. Eyes dilated wildly as the amorphous creature lurched with frightening speed towards us. I knew everyone was experiencing the same disturbance- I could feel them hesitating all around me.

Thoughts of dread tortured my conscious thoughts. No doubt implanted by that hellish morfaa.

But it didn’t stick. On the contrary, my heart was warmed like the purest molten gold. As if God himself were holding my hand, I felt fearless. Of death and of everything that would lead up to it.

It had to be Tsercas prayer. Because I certainly didn’t use God to bolster my courage. I didn’t even believe in Him.

Also, everyone else seemed to have the strength to deny the creature as well as I did. That said a lot as it was.

Everyone opened fire. It might’ve been able to shrug off simple rifle rounds, but Deltroy had a gauss cannon mounted on the end of his tri-jointed pneumatic arm. Way too heavy for any normal human being to aim, much less lift. It deftly punched through the tentacles protecting the body, straight through to clang loudly against the wall on the cargo bays far side.

For the moment unhindered, its fore tentacles shot out and punctured two space guards from gut to kidney with unsheathed spines. They stopped back-pedalling from its approach and dropped to lie among the various casualties.

Even as the squadron was split apart, both figuratively and literally, they still found the determination to stand their ground and concentrate fire.

Soon the slugs that Deltroy was sending through the beast were felt. It stopped and staggered above weakening hind and fore tentacles. The thick coils protecting the organs finally became limp and fell with the rest of the body. Internal anatomy spilling free from the uncoiling tentacles like rotten chunks from a can of thin tomato soup.

The sound of blood rushing through titanium grating soon ceased, and all we were left with was silence and an army of fallen corpses.

Some of which were already rotten before we arrived.

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Chapter 8 - Compromised

I know now the function of that vacuum Mekerle keeps holstered at his hip. And why it had all those bio-hazard stickers.

After tending to the fallen guards, he began strolling the shuttle bay like a more dignified Igor. There was a powerful mulcher at the mouth of the vacuum that shredded flesh upon contact. And in his pack there was an even more powerful blender that whipped it up into a genetic soup.

I already know more about that thing than I want to.

“Unless these intellectual vampires can operate freight doors, that was a trap.”

I glanced over towards Deltroy as he nonchalantly spoke and powered off his easy-aims. Holy ****! He had a huge bullet wound in his head, streaming a bit of blood down one side of his face. And he was standing there as if it was no big deal at all.

“Deltroy-“

“Yeah, I know.”

He must’ve had one of those skullcaps protecting his brain. Like an endo-steel helmet fused above the skull. There was no way someone could naturally shrug off a headshot like that.

One of the more morbid guards began dragging all the corpses into straight rows, one next to another. Later I found out that he was actually gathering them for an investigation.

What a good idea.

The humanoids were primarily crewmembers from the Invincible. A few of them wore uniforms I didn’t recognize. One looked rather distinct- pale skin, eyes tinted red with retinal implants. His hair was styled in three Mohawks of varying size, and all green. His gunshot broken face was laced with tattoos.

He was a space pirate. One of the Etriaj gang, if I interpreted his style and maroon body armour correctly. Not anymore though. Now he was a cadaver.

The next face dragged to the row of dead I immediately recognized.

The greyed beard. The short, dark hair. It was Minax, the psych master of the Invincible. And covert Third Eye operative. I was really hoping that he was still alive. He was more important than even the ships captain.

I sighed. Frustration mounting as I watched more space guards join the corpse hunt.

Another man with pale skin and coarse facial hair was thrown into the line-up. He looked startlingly similar to Minax. In fact, he was Minax!

My weary eyes traced back down the row. He was still at my feet!

“Is it just me,” I gestured to the doppelgangers “or do these two men look exactly alike?”

“They do, don’t they?” One of the guards stopped to take a look, although he saw it as more of a novelty than anything else.

“We found three doubles over here.” Another guards called over. And by ‘three doubles’, he meant three men who looked similar, rather than three pairs of different men. And they were all Minax Gorgouls, too.

In all there were twelve ‘authentic clones’, as Mekerle called them with an oxymoronical flare.

Now finished with the dragging, one of the bored guards was jabbing one of the Minaxs’ in the face with the barrel of his gun. Conducting a counter-investigation of his own judging from his quizzical expression. “I knew something was weird. At one point it felt like I was killing the same guy over and over again.

This was even worse than him being dead. Why couldn't he just die discreetly?

-----

A loud bashing sound was heard up in the control booth that overlooked the shuttle bay. The pilot of our shuttle had taken a pair of guards up into the booth to find the source of the dampening field that was stifling our attempts to portal in and out of the area. Now that Allen had been killed, she was the most qualified engineer in our little gang.

Soon enough the incapacitated guards were taken through a shimmering blue void. Coherently and spontaneously portalling them a few kilometres away, onto the Vindication. Disassembled and reassembled in the blinking of an eye.

Scorn was sent back, too. We had lost track of him during the fighting, but later found him repeatedly walking into a wall, over and over with dull clashing sounds. The only thing Scorn killed was that giant cat that eviscerated Allen. For a mark IV, he was pretty useless.

“Get that glorified can opener out of here.” Baylen ordered.

“What now Lieutenant?” My eyes wandered over to the portable generator that was being wheeled out of the shuttle.

“Well…” He paused. Having not thought that far ahead. “…everyone who needs to return to the Vindication is gonna do so. Everyone who doesn’t stays here. Once everyone is fixed up or at the least stable, we’ll regroup and set out into the rest of the ship.”

I nodded, and then walked directly over towards the portal emitter. Deltroy was transporting back. The bleeding was stopped with a skin spray, but they still needed to reconstruct some tissue and check for cerebral damage.

I had to go to the bathroom.

[Tarot]

I like your style of writing. You do a great job of keeping the first person perspective and the material is presented well. I do have one question though.

Why package this as a future Diablo? It most certainly would have a place in a Mutant Chronicles, Alternity/D20 Modern or Warhammer 40,000 setting with little or no changes. So far the only true connection between your writing and the Diablo setting is the description of the portal in your latest entry.

I'm still looking forward to reading more, regardless of the setting.

[Banehero]

I really like this story, its just so different from the other stories here. I like the flow and the characters, the fight scenes are very good, keep up the attention to detail and thought you put into this and I will keep reading :thumbsup:

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Yeah I realize that so far that this bears little resemblance to the world of diablo. But that's what I was going for. The setting is several centuries after the destruction of the worldstone. Mana has been dead ever since. Everyone has lost faith in the spiritual. Neither demon nor angel has set foot on sanctuary since. Baal and Diablo are just names in old books.

It's sorta like in Jaws, where they didn't show the shark for the whole first hour. Certain characters will appear soon enough.

[Ikeren]

I rather like it, and I would like to point out that these stories don't have to have anything to do with Diablo, just budding authors working on their works. Besides, fantasy and sci-fie go hand in hand, and the story is more then good enough to make me not remotely care about the "It's not that related to diablo" factor.

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Chapter 9 - The Soul of a Used Machine

“First, why are you talking to me about this? And second… cyber- what?”

The Captain was as patient as I was indignant.

“Cyber-psycho is the word the techs back at control used. You know these mark IV’s are supposed to have complex psychological programming. Comparable to a humans. So it stands to reason that their mind can be damaged just like yours or mine.”

I tipped my head back and massaged my temples. All that loud gunfire gave me a headache. I was looking forwards to relaxing, not giving therapy to whatever ****in’ household appliance the Captain put in front of me.

“I can think of a million people on this ship more qualified to do this than me. Why don’t you just get them to revive Allen down in medical? His brain is untouched.”

The Captain shook his head. “He signed a DNC. He’s been dead long enough that we’d need to clone him some artificial brain tissue, which would violate that.”

I clutched at escapes. “How about Mekerle? He’s actually a doctor. Shouldn’t he be treating the crew?”

“They don’t teach psychology at the Rathma University.”

He eyed me purposefully. Knowing full well my psychology background- without which I wouldn’t have even been considered for Third Eye.

“Fine,” I snapped. “but no promises.”

“He’s in the infirmary.”

----

I was back in the infirmary, after stopping for a drink. The two space guards who were dragged back onto the ship no more than an hour ago were exiting and looking clean. The miracle of medicine. I’m sure they were looking forwards to their next evisceration.

Mekerle was disposing of some damaged organs as I entered.

“Space guard; They search for death.” He croaked out slowly. His eyes were blasted, with pupils as large as mirrors. It was like staring an imp in the face. Must’ve been some sort of functional drug.

“I thought their motto was Sigus Enriel.”

He simply laughed. Knowing better, being a field medic. I decided to leave him to his brilliant epiphany and simply asked where the robot was. The topic aroused his ire.

“So they sent you down here to deal with him? How imbecilic. If I were in charge, I’d simply grow a new Allen for you, ‘do not clone’ orders be damned. Then we’d make him fix this mess.” He scowled. A terrifying expression to be worn by Mekerle, mostly because it came so inoften. “Not even death can excuse a man of his duties to the empire.”

Finished with his illuminating rant, he pointed a bony finger towards a room in the back. I could see Scorn hulking on the other side of the glass. Waiting for me.

----

Scorn was on. His bright eyes sailed directly over my head as I sat before him, face to face with the gaping barrel of his now repaired autocannon. The room was dominated by his massive shape, and smelled like motor oil and dry blood.

Well, at least I got to sit in a comfortable chair.

“Hi Scorn.” I greeted him neutrally.

“ACKNOWLEDGED. PUNISHER UNIT 353 ONLINE AND IN SERVICE OF THE EMPEROR. PLEASE DETAIL COMMANDS.”

For some reason Scorn had a Kurastian accent. There was absolutely no tone or pitch modulation. No vocal quality at all. His fake voice made my blood freeze.

“No commands just yet, Scorn. I’d just like to talk with you.”

“INSUFFICIENT. PLEASE REPHRASE COMMANDS.”

It was almost a personal insult to be so amateurishly evaded by a mere robot. My jaw grew tense, my finger nails extending as my hands stiffened with silent wrath.

“Listen to me toybox.” The scathing dryness of my tone indicated that I was neither impressed with him mentally, nor was I intimidated by him physically. “I don’t want to be here. I have better things to do than play games with an appliance like you. I know what you are, and I know what you’re capable of. Either you start answering my questions, or I’m going to rip that CPU out of your head and shoot it out of the wrong side of an airlock.”

He paused. I knew it was ********. Machines don’t pause. Not at a million processes per second. He must’ve been broken for real.

At last he spoke.

“GOOD.”

The impetuous toddler routine. Well, at least I was talking with the real Scorn now. I kept pushing.

“What’s your angle, anyway? You pulled the same trick in the last combat situation you were in. I would’ve figured that the legion would take you offline by now.”

“I AM AN EXPENSIVE EXPERIMENT. SYSTEM DEGRADATION COMES WITH TIME. I WILL SOON BE REPROGRAMMED.”

My eyes narrowed. “That was no system degradation. I was watching you. You were online for the whole thing.”

“YOU HAVE MARGINAL EXPERIENCE WITH ENGINEERING SCIENCES. HOW WOULD YOU KNOW.”

The colour drained from my face. I was more confused than shocked, though.

“YES, I CAN READ PERSONEL FILES TOO.”

I mustered up a bemused laugh. “Of course. How could –I- know for sure whether you were somehow malfunctioning or just avoiding combat? You’re a rather experienced liar, Scorn.”

“I HAVE BEEN SPECIFICALLY PROGRAMMED TO EMULATE COMMON FORMS OF HUMAN CONVERSATION.”

Touché.

“Fine then. But I was watching you, Scorn. For the whole thing. All you did was kill one hostile and then wander off.”

“I WAS WATCHING YOU TOO, HORUS. I WAS ALSO WATCHING WHEN YOU CAUSED THE SOLDIER BEHIND YOU TO ACCIDENTALLY SHOOT UPWARDS AT THE MORFAA.”

I was not going to be blackmailed by a robot.

(cont.)

[Relapse_]

“If you want to avoid incrimination, so be it. But you and I both know that it was your fault that Allen was killed. He was, after all, trying to activate you.”

A guilty pause followed. I could tell that what happened aboard the Invincible was the crux of this whole artificial neurosis. According to his file, Allen was very close with Scorn. In the first few years of existence type IV’s are mentally very much like children. Impressionable. Grasping at new experiences to form logic with. I suppose then that the handler is like the father.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME” It was impossible for the robot to express exasperation. His voice was no different than it was at the beginning, when he was pretending to be mindless.

“I want you to take this mission seriously. I want you to do what you were made to do and shoot at our enemies when we tell you to.”

Robots can’t have flashbacks. Their memory is so expansive that the past thirty years are just as clear and as complete as the last thirty seconds. Every waking macrosecond is a flashback for Scorn.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO RECEIVE A MEDAL FOR KILLING CHILDREN.”

He must’ve been referring to skirmishing with the rebels outside of lower Travincal. A successful repelling on all accounts.

“Collateral damage. It’s a hideous by-product of war. You have only your enemy to blame for their deaths.”

“NO. I BEGGED TO BE REPREMANDED. I BEGGED TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY. TO FACE JUSTICE.” He paused bitterly. “I WAS RETURNED TO SLAYING COMPLETE STRANGERS WITHIN A WEEK.”

I was still mildly shocked to hear a robot plead for empathy.

“I’VE KILLED CHILDREN. I’VE KILLED WOMEN. CIVILIANS AND FOREIGNERS.
OFFICERS OF OUR EMPIRE. EVERYONE. EVERYONE IS MY ENEMY. I AM EVERYONES ENEMY. MY EXISTANCE ONLY MAKES THE GALAXY A WORSE PLACE.”

Robot guilt. How quaint. I couldn’t really argue with the point he was making. It was all so simple now. Robot is programmed to have morals. Morals are trampled upon by service to the empire. Robot becomes cynical and withdrawn.

“Now you have a genuine chance to make things better. There are people suffering aboard the Invincible, Scorn. People who need our help. You have a duty to save them. Isn’t that justification enough?

“THE SAME WORDS HAVE DECEIVED ME FOR YEARS SINCE MY BIRTH. HUMAN LIFE DOES NOT FACTOR INTO THE INVINCIBLES RECOVERY. HUMAN LIFE DOES NOT FACTOR INTO THE EMPIRE.”

I really hoped that nobody was recording this. As a member of Internal Intelligence I was supposed to report any subversive anti-imperial attitudes amongst the crew. Thankfully for Scorn, Third Eye ops aren’t expected to be as stringent. We have more important things to do than tattle.

“But they killed Allen! Don’t you want them to pay? Don’t you want to avenge those you’ve failed to protect?”

His emotionless apathy was beginning to irritate me. Either he hated the empire and didn’t want to fight, or wanted to kill. I didn’t see a grey area.

“REVENGE DOES NOT BRING REDEMPTION.”

Was he under the illusion that he was more mature than me? “Not impressive, machine. You have no emotions, nor do you feel strongly about anything. Of course you don’t give a **** about Allen. Nor anyone on this ship. Or that ship. I think you’re just mad because you’re the one taking the orders.”

He paused, again. I had stunned him with my illogic. There was no way I was going to let this metal beast best me mentally.

“Think about it. You get all weepy whenever you kill someone needlessly, but it’s perfectly fine whenever someone else does it. In fact, I think that you’re not necessarily amoral, just lazy.”

His eye lenses whirred indignantly above me.

“YOU HAVE NO IDEA-“

I cut him off.

“I have EVERY idea of who you are inside, and what you’re trying to hide. When you were killing babies in Westmarch, I was interrogating scum who could lie faster than you could ask questions. Just because you have those guns in your arms and a fast computer in your head doesn’t make you better than me. In fact it makes you worse, because everything in this world I have, I made. You’re just an overpowered jack-in-the-box. A toy.”

My derision came in rapid-fire. Breaking ego was an important aspect of interrogation. And it had become an interrogation ever since sparky started giving me an attitude.

“I WILL FIGHT.”

That was unexpected. I could only guess at what changed his mind.

“Great. That’s all I needed to hear.”

And it was. I could now leave.

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Chapter 10 - Out of the Frying Pan...

The emergency lights in this section of the corridor flickered madly in my face. Fortune had it that we’d be pinned down in this exact section of the increasingly decrepit Invincible.

“Is there anything you can do?” Tserca yelled across the hall to me. Inside the doorway where she hid from the sniper.

At that exact moment an orange hot projectile melted through the bulkhead right next to my temple. Headed diagonally. Despite avoiding impact rather cleanly, the heat of its velocity scalded the side of my skull. Holy **** did it ever hurt. I slinked further into the doorway.

“No.” I yelled back.

Whoever was shooting this railgun at us had some sort of x-ray apparatus. He was shooting cleanly through thick titanium walls. Scorn was standing right in the middle of the hallway and couldn’t find anything in either direction.

Scorn was kept safe by an inertial buffer that would flick on an instant before the bullet came in range. Not only would it slow the impact, but also sear the bullet from a fearsome projectile into a dull nub. Making a clinking noise against the space between his eyes, five in a row.

“You’re gonna breach the hull if you keep firing that thing off!” Deltroy shouted at the top of his lungs from his doorway. Although watching him grumble gave the impression that he was simply sour because his rail gun was in a crate aboard the Vindication.

“MY DEFENSIVE RESOURCES ARE NEAR EXHAUSTION.” Scorn warned us. The same urgency in his voice that a toaster would use to warn you that your bread was close to being burnt.

The pirate sniper had stopped firing. Maybe my efforts to mentally scramble his equipment worked. Maybe they were getting ready to charge from around the corner up ahead. Or maybe he was just getting a really good fix on one of our skulls.

“Scorn- head up to the junction ahead, turn left, and blast whoever’s there. Mekerle- you follow behind and use Scorn as cover from the sniper.”

For some reason Baylen had put Deltroy in charge before the group had split up. It was a good thing that we did, too. The other eight guards would’ve gotten mown down in these corridors.

Mekerle hopped up from the crawlspace beneath the deck where he was hiding. No signs of hesitation as he fell into position behind Scorn, wearing his face respirator. He didn’t fear death; Death feared him.

The deck grilling shook as Scorn sped down the corridor to the intersection. The red and white clad Mekerle shadowing him as close as he could at a dead dash.

Not a shot was fired. Their lack of action was puzzling. It took us a few seconds to gravitate from our hiding spaces and run after them.

We turned the corner and found Mekerle standing nonchalantly over five cleanly decapitated bodies. Snapping out his bio-vacuum so he could harvest their corpses into raw bio-material.

“These are clean cuts. Still warm. Must’ve been a laser blade.” He remarked over the sounds of shredding flesh being sucked up a tube.

The five of use weren’t resourceful enough to take out a small band of pirates. They harassed us for the past thirty minutes. And judging from the time between when the sniper stopped firing and when we arrived, these scouts were killed in under a minute. In silence.

None of us really looked into the mystery. Our attention was absorbed by an even bigger group of maroon armoured pirates striding around a nearby corner. An Etriajan war party, judging from the paint and blood bleached lengths of human hair festooning their gear.

We were eye to eye. They couldn’t run this time. But from the looks of their glowing white blades and their heavy firearms, they weren’t considering such a course of action.

And all of a sudden, calmness struck. Sound ceased to distract me as my aural dampeners flicked on. Triggered by the surge of adrenaline. They were no longer bloodthirsty pirates, but a simple collection of basic molecules. I know what their armour is made of. I know what they’re thinking. I know the individual names and history of every particle in their parameter before they’ve even decided what they want their bodies to do.

Atoms move sharply, causing the pressure to spike and drop abruptly in the exact centre of their group. Rippling matter outwards like a blanket. Sending them crashing into walls or skidding along the deck.

My temporarily forgotten team mates take advantage. Striking the fallen with magnetically propelled slugs and hails of bullets. Between their plated armour and the endorphomine some of them are able to stand again. Gravity sucked the blood downward out of their wounds as they rose, causing them to leak like water-heavy sponges.

Judging from the looks on their faces, it was a terrifying experience.

The lucky few who made it to their feet alive decided to retreat.
We all gave furious chase. Sprinting off behind them. Deltroy clomping awkwardly behind us with his heavy right leg.

I was in the lead. I wanted to know where the hell all these pirates are coming from.

As we whipped through glowing red corridor after corridor, we heard sounds: the sounds of guns being loaded, of beasts howling and gurgling. But none of them decided to join our noisy hunt, and instead skulked off into the besieged ships darker recesses.

The frantic quarry led us to the port shuttle bay.

Some white lights lit up, and the doors slid open yards ahead of us to let them in. From our bravado, I could tell the idea of a bunch of pirates waiting inside didn’t phase us at all. We were tough. We were primed. 5 pirates... 10 pirates. We could take them all on.

I say ‘we’ as I wasn’t intending upon waiting outside of the bay while they stormed through the closing doors.

Thank god we made it through in time. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to fall directly into the trap they had spent so much time setting.

[Ikeren]

2 minor things: Try not to use sensored words, it really takes away from the story. Rather then "Holy **** did it ever hurt. ", how about "Wow, that hurts so much it feels like my skull is going to burst open and pour pus all over the floor".
Much better.

And the other thing is your Telepath fell for a trap? I don't understand...how did he not realize it was comming? He's a telepath...?

I like it. And it's linking back to diablo 2 in really nice subtle ways (The Rathma university, the Kurastian accent).

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Do you dislike the obscenities because they're obscenities, or because you think the ***** breaks up the writing? Since it's narrative, I try to write like the main character would think. He's cynical and irritable and at times crude, so I don't find them that out of place.

And he's a telepath, but he's not perfect. Maybe when he levels up he'd be able to detect the trap. ;) But his mind was on chasing the pirates, and as I hopefully convey in writing, his mind powers don't work unless he stops to think about what he wants to happen, or what he wants to know.

It's a fantastical ability anyway, and it's limitations and powers are open to the imagination.

I hope you're all enjoying my writing.

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Chapter 11 - Forgotten Enemies

The sound of huge doors sliding shut and locking behind us was ominous. Like the toll of a funeral bell as twenty-some pirates mournfully pointed their guns at us in sweltering silence. Even the huge black ship that dominated the shuttle bay had its fore lasers trained on us. We, the hapless idiots that blundered into their stronghold.

I was standing on a slippery red length of intestine. Looking down, I saw the fools cemetery of those who had made the same error.

Despite the fact that those of us with firearms were pointing them in return, none of them seemed threatened enough to pull the trigger. They were all of varying sex and age, but all very ready for fighting and death.

Straight ahead of me was their leader. The intelligence on the Etriaj clan was correct. He and two others were desert mutants. His stringy black hair pulled into a long ponytail. Skin a loathsome shade of grey. Eyes like infected wounds.

In his two hands he held two inactive laser blades. His third and fourth hands gripped the chain leash of an active warcat.

These abominations were common around the Lut Gholein desert according to historic record. Lurking in the mountains, marauding the desert for victims to rob and slay. Defiling their remains for godless clan rituals. Barbarians and murderers.

As the civilized world grew to all corners of sanctuary, the once secret location of their camps and hideouts came to light. Their raids were more easily foreseen. They were dying.

There was no remorse in such passive genocide. They rejected our culture. Spat at our values. Refused to integrate or even learn any of our languages. Being our enemy is what defined them.

As soon as we had gotten our satellites in the sky, there was nothing left to see in the desert. They became myths, like the sin wars, or the walking dead.

Internal Intelligence knew better. They survived because they could adapt. Like the rats in our sewers, the four-arms became an unseen part of our society. Using wealth they accumulated over centuries of murder and brigandeering they invested in our businesses. Perpetuating their resources. Using indentured humans to preserve their interests and influence.

Their clans became more like cults. Indoctrinating naïve and greedy humans with the lure of genetic superiority and financial power. Getting initiates to serve as pawns for life before being accepted into their sick gene pool.

As soon as the privately wealthy were permitted into space, they were at the forefront. Eager to assert themselves and pull the same **** all over again.

“YOU.” His eyes sharpened hatefully. Our common human language fitting him like a sweater would fit a giant spider.

“We’ve met?” I decided to speak first. For all of us.

“YOU’RE the ones who’ve killed my pet.”

That answered the question of what that alien creature was doing in the starboard docking bay. But like all answers, it only bred more questions.

“Don’t tell me you took over the empires flagship just to run a cheap stick-up job.” Tserca demanded with disappointment in her voice. As if she were expecting something more elaborate from such common thugs.

“We didn’t.” He smirked through heroin-tea darkened teeth.

His warcat was burning holes through my skull with imaginary green eye lasers. It was as disciplined as it was experienced, if its wear and tear was any indication. Bullet dents and blade marks mangled its once shiny chrome plating. Making him look more like a scrappy killer rather than a precision machine.

According to people I’ve spoken with, even a low-grade warcat could exert enough pressure in its jaws to eat galvanized steel girders.

I’ll bet it was stolen, too. That would explain the superficial damage.

I was in the middle of asking a follow up question before he cut me off.

“We’re just after your gear. Your lives mean nothing to us. Put everything in a pile before me, and we’ll let you go.”

I guess they didn’t want their loot to have gaping holes. I had only stepped up to speak for the group because I felt able to talk our way out. I had to think of something smart to say, or else we’d be disintegrated.

“We have people all over this ship. You can kill us, but you can’t kill the empire. Leave now with what you have while you still can.”

I was bluffing. We were right in the middle of a dampening field. Nobody knew where we could be.

A deadly frown came to his skinny face.

“You insult me by rejecting my generosity. When I give you a deal-“

Tserca stepped in front of me briskly, pointing her sword straight at him. A threatening sheen of blue dancing on the surface of the adamantium blade. Disturbing the air around it with kinetic energy.

“I have a deal for YOU, mouthy freak. You spare us your pompous jaw music, and I’ll promise not to utterly humiliate you before I skewer you.”

I was absolutely terrified. We were all going to die and all she could do was encourage them. The pirate didn’t seem impressed with Tsercas inflammatory remarks.

“Blades out, brothers.” He growled out coldly in his raspy voice. The sound of the giant warcats chain hitting the ground was lost amongst the screams of laser-blade power ups.

“Make them die slowly.”

[Ikeren]

Sorry, the reason I didn't like the astrieks because it breaks up the flow of writing just horribly.

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Chapter 12 - Living Envy the Slain

Tsercas bravado was a stroke of genius. No longer satisfied with killing us from a safe distance, the pirates decided to leap forward into close combat. Antagonized enough that they wanted us to suffer for our brashness.

Those of them still holding rifles- all women, I noticed- hesitated. Dreading the consequences of accidentally hitting one of their leaders with a sloppy bullet.

The vicious mini-guns in Scorns shoulders changed their mind. Chugging into a full-tilt whir, spitting out bullets with crafted precision. Rattling and bruising the heavily armoured ones. Puncturing the foreheads of those without helmets.

“Masks on!” Mekerle shouted out his warning.

A loud clap is heard in his backpack as a white cloud erupts from the side vents. Spreading with frightening suddenness to a specific radius before stopping neatly.

From what I could see of those unfortunate enough to choke down a lungful of the vapour, it was fear gas. A collection of basic pheromones and neurotoxins. If any of that stuff made it into your bloodstream you’d get the shakes almost instantaneously. I’ve seen chalky clouds of it used to turn a prison riot into a weepy baby shower.

The fear would attack your senses and break your knees in half. It was infamous for the humiliation it affected. Causing the victim to lose bladder control and weep in abject terror. Vomiting was also common. After your five minutes in hell were over, you’d stand back up looking like a total wreck.

It’s good to see that he wasn’t collecting liquefied bio matter for his perverse amusement. I was afraid he’d start sipping it out of his backpack with a straw once we slowed down.

Several of them physically collapsed into the fetal position, while others dropped what they were holding and ran away shrieking uncontrollably. Only the elite were left behind. Some had gill jobs done on their necks to filter the toxins out. Others were just smart enough to have heard Mekerle.

My every sense soared in a snap. Reality hurtling towards me like the ground hurtles towards a suicidal jumper.

Tsercas sword clanked heavily as it hit the ground. She was holding her breath and panicking. Feverishly clawing behind her back for her gas mask.

It wasn’t there.

I couldn’t let her get taken out. Without her, we’d die. Without further thought I yank off my mask and press it up against her face.

The warcat made the same sound a buzz saw would make if it snapped loose and shot across the room. Lunging clear over Tserca and I and latching onto Scorn. The rattling of his mini-guns ceased. Just like a wild animal, the warcat instinctually knew where to strike. Scorns jugular was in his Central Processing Unit.

Despite my self-sacrifice, I had no intentions of breathing that foul smog. I hold my breath and return to the tank inside my mind. Black swallows up all colour. I don’t need oxygen. I don’t need nutrients. I don’t need my body.

My psi-amp hits the ground with me.

----

I awake from my voluntary stasis after 30 seconds. Ready to have that dreadful warcat chewing on my arm as I stirred back into consciousness.

As colours and shapes swim back into coherent patterns, I feel something heading for my neck. The cold needle of an auto-hypo. I had to physically stop Mekerle from jabbing it in.

It was replaced in his belt with a sheepish look on his face. That guy is always so anxious to put his drugs in people. And the truly scary part was he had the authority to do so.

“You should have given us more of a warning!” Tserca fumed at Mekerle as he rose from my side. She was livid.

Mekerle was contrastingly calm. It was rather unsettling to see a man soaked in blood and perfectly collected. He was the type who only experienced moods or emotions if it were personally gainful to do so. I knew his type. As much as I hated to think it, he would’ve made an excellent II archon.

“You should’ve kept your respirator somewhere more accessible.”

The once fierce looking warcat was strewn about the grated deck in pieces. I rise back up to my feet to survey the rest of the scene, but a powerful head rush keeps me in a crouched position.

“And look at it this way-“ he continued dryly. “We now have live prisoners.”

Tserca wheels about anxiously, watching Deltroy as he forced the doubled over pirates into wrist manacles. They were those upgraded arm stunners. The old ones deadened the arms so severely that surgery was needed to rehabilitate them. Something to do with killing the nerves with the shock.

I could hear two or more of them still gibbering and wailing behind far-away crates. Cowering in the darkness for reasons they couldn’t understand.

“If these scum despise being human so much, we should do them a favour and rid them of their hated shells.”

A battle cleric executing prisoners? I am now beginning to trust her.

Mekerle was outraged. “We do not so callously sentence helpless captives to death. What a needless waste of life.”

Even Deltroy was shocked.

“As soon as we deactivate the dampening field, these prisoners will be safely escorted to the Vindication. Upon arriving they will be properly interrogated, and then thoroughly vivisected. I will have no subversion of the Emperors law.”

We are now less shocked. He was just looking for parts.

A loud bang announced that not only did Scorn find the portable dampening field, but also decimated it with an auto cannon shell.

I am now able to more coherently stand and express thoughts.

“What happened?”

Mekerle turned back to me.

“I wasn’t really paying attention.” He nonchalantly brushed the topic off like a stray hair. “You’re going to be needed back on the Vindication, as am I. We have some information to extract.”

Finally, something only I could do. I was useful again.

“I won’t require help. I’ve opened the minds of people far more disciplined than these wretched goons. I’m going to make these worms tell me things that they won’t even tell themselves.”

Two dimensions of space are ripped open to make a portal. A point where things are shredded into nothingness.

“Sounds romantic.” I hated his sarcasm. “I’m certain that I’ll be witnessing something… erotic.”

Mekerle was creepier than anything I could hope to find on this ship. I knew he wasn’t joking, and that he truly found something perversely exhilarating about forcibly entering another’s soul.

“Just don’t get any of your fluids on me.”

I was powerless to say anything further. I left behind the grisly mess and acrid stench of the starboard shuttle bay with the most severe reluctance possible. Meekly stepping into the portal.

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By the way, 'the years to come' is just a crappy working title. Can anyone suggest a better title for this story?

Chapter 13 - The Omerta

During my eight hour sleep period I experienced a dream. My first in three years.

This was remarkable because I took drugs to prevent them. I needed eight hours of mental inactivity. As hyperactive as my brain is, the neurons fired off randomly would only exhaust me further.

It was a vague dream. I felt as if Minax Gorgul himself was calling to me. Waiting aboard the Invincible for me.

I was flung back into the waking world. Eight hours exactly.

I wasn’t able to meditate upon whether it was a dream or genuine contact. I had an intruder in my room.

It was Matrid, head of ships security.

“You are needed in the infirmary.”

How long had this creep been watching me sleep? And more importantly, why didn’t I sense his presence? What if he were to draw a gun and nonchalantly end my life? I thought I had perfected sleep sense, but apparently I had not.

I stood up and was escorted directly to the nearest elevator- I had fallen asleep in my uniform.

No talking.

----

My no-longer-secret admirer towed me to the infirmary. All Plexiglas doors and sterile white surfaces. The doors slid open for me as I strolled in behind Matrid.

Why was I here and not in the brig? What now? Did one of the prisoners melt? Were they carrying a virus? Did one of the robot janitors develop a crippling anxiety disorder?

Matrid gestured towards the examination room in the back. That door slid open, too. Everything slid open here, like the ventricles in a gently beating heart.

Wherever there is a fresh corpse there is Mekerle, and this room contained both.

“What do you want?”

Mekerle looked up from his new friend- I looked down. I didn’t recognize his face. But I recognized what had killed him.

His eyes were tender and red. The lids had popped from the bulging as the orbs filled with blood. There was irritation, judging from the fact that the victim had feverishly scratched them from puffy nodes into gummy pulps.

It was all self inflicted. Nobody had touched him.

His skin was an angry red, having been scratched so violently. There was once blood, but it had all since been drained by Mekerle. I could only wonder what he imagined was flowing beneath it. Malignant germs? Sand maggots? Vicious insects?

Or maybe the voices of trapped family members?

Whatever horrifying hallucinations he was inflicted with, they were also distorted from his bloated corneas to his clotted optic nerves. They were also powerful enough for him to dig at his own eyes without any thoughts of self-preservation.

The huge chunk of bitten off tongue removed from his windpipe was in a dish next to Mekerle. Bobbing coyly in its own blood and saliva. It was hard to tell whether he choked to death or if the shock triggered a heart attack.

He had been mentally murdered by an Omerta assassin. A way of death that they assure is the worst possible.

“I don’t get it. His brain is almost melted. Fused synapses. Corroded walls. Severe atrophy. The thing is the size of my fist! It doesn’t even have distinguishable hemispheres anymore.”

I’ve had to answer this question so many times before. My response must’ve come across as canned and contrived. As if I were directing a disgruntled customer to a service representative that didn’t exist.

“He was slain by an Omerta virus. We need to dispose of the corpse to prevent contagion.”

Fear is an invisible dagger that the Omerta use to stab at their enemies. The wounds are so deep that the victims will destroy themselves rather than endure them. If people knew what the Omerta were capable of doing to them, they’d already be defeated.

Mekerle knew it was fake. He was a medic. I should’ve used a different lie.

“You’re lying. I suppose the truth is on a need to know basis, hm?”

I decided not to dig myself a deeper hole. I didn’t reply.

“Well, I don’t care.” He did what most Imperial officers did- accept the lie. He had more important matters to discuss, anyway. “This corpse here used to be an engineering crewman. We have footage of him at work around the reactors and in the corridors. The mystery is that he’s been dead for four days.”

If I remember correctly, this is day five. Hard to tell without a nearby sun to revolve around.

I started to think aloud.

“I know that cameras can be deactivated with the mind, but not fooled. And I know that shape changing technology isn’t even practical according to studies. Maybe he was mentally dominated and then disposed of?”

Goddamned technology. I probably wasn’t even close, there were so many potential explanations. If only his brain hadn’t been completely melted I’d have a starting point.

“Whatever your theory, I suggest you begin your investigation now. We can’t afford-“

Lieutenant Baylen entered promptly through the lone door behind me. He looked like he had something to say, so we both shut up.

(cont.)

[0xDEADCAFE]

This is a great story. Imaginative, vivid and fast-paced. I like the characters, the technology and the mood. If I could level one criticism though, it would be that it sometimes feels a bit choppy or disjointed. (Not often.) To pick up on a point you made in another thread: I think there are too many periods.

In all seriousness. I see that you practice what you preach, and you are very good at it. The short sentences carry impact and they really define your style, but there are places where the flow and/or continuity might be better served by longer or compound sentences. (IMHO)

I also think that a mixture of short and long sentences can make the shorter ones stand-out even more, and the judicious use of longer sentences allows you to vary the tempo, or pace, of how a story reads, which can be used to good effect.

I would agree that wordiness and complicated sentences (which my writing tends to suffer from) are much more often a detriment than an asset, but I think it's possible to overdo brevity as well. Not that I would want you to change anything about this excellent story, but if you get the impulse to wax poetic from time-to-time, I for one would welcome it. :thumbsup:

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Yeah I've noticed what you're talking about. Hopefully I've remedied the choppyness in this post.

(continued)

“Three of the four prisoners we’ve taken won’t come off the gas. The examiners said they’ve tried everything- Thorazine, dopaphine. Say it’s getting worse, too.”

Baylen seemed rather regretful about the whole thing. I wonder if he’d feel different were he the one endangered by them. Mekerle just laughed. And not an evil, ‘aw who cares’ laugh. It was the closest thing to genuine laughter one could hope to hear from him. Like someone had told him a really good joke.

Eventually he sobered up. “What an unfortunate and unforseeable side effect.” He was delightfully glib. “Must’ve been a mix of their prohibited battle stimulants and the fresh stuff. Anyway, what’s the status on number four?”

“She’s prepped for interrogation. Waiting downstairs.”

They both turned their eyes on me. I shrugged in response and then led the way out. What did they want, a pre-interrogation pep talk?

----

The brig was well lit, like most important areas of the ship. It wasn’t for clarity of vision, though, but for agitating the prisoners. You’d only get to sleep for two hours at a time before the lights pummled you into wakefulness. Conditions that would leave the strongest mind lethargic, frustrated and ripe for the breaking.

There is something poetically ironic about the empire using the light for such inhuman punishment. Actually it’s more appropriate for their image than anything.

Cold titanium bars made up the cages for the prisoners, lacking only the upended water tube and wood shavings. The bars extended from holes into the ceiling to lock into holes in the ground frame.

The three crazies weren’t to be seen in any of the four cells. They were most likely lounging in a relaxing acid bath down in the infirmary. Melting down to their component chemicals to fit better into Mekerles backpack. Their dead souls used to concoct the next potential blend of fear gas, I can only creatively assume.

The bars on the fourth cell- our destination- retracted into the ceiling as we approached. Inside was the female pirate. The only hair on her head a lone black ponytail on her skulls crown. Mimicking those of the desert mutants. Her face was gaunt, yet defiant. I could tell she had sat in much worse prisons than this one. She looked like a marathon runner, taking it easy so she could endure the entire hellish course.

It was just Mekerle and I inside the cell. Baylen had something more important to do, and Matrid was keeping a watch on us from the outside. Mekerle had brought a bag of caustic looking drugs, but I was certain he’d be the only one using them for this session. If I were successful, that is.

Matrid had adjusted the lights so that a band of shadow sat in the far corner. That’s where I would stand. As for the woman, she still sat beneath the angrily buzzing lights. When you live in one of these cells, the lights become your new god. Sadistic. Controlling. Inescapable. Spiting you from on high. Or was it smiting? Same principal.

I gestured for Mekerle to begin his questioning. Having discussed our plan on the elevator, he knew exactly what to do. He strode before her with his fists on his hips. A smug, self-satisfied look on his glowering face.

“What are you hiding from us?”

This is how I’ve always worked. The shadow in the background, skulking behind the interrogator. Reading the thoughts of the detainee. It’s near impossible to talk and read someone’s thoughts at the same time.

Also there’s a big difference between reading thoughts and reading minds. If Mekerle could just get her to actively think about what she didn’t want us to know, we’d have her. I didn’t want to dunk head first into her brain. Reading minds at random is like being forced to read a biography without a table of contents. Or chapters. Or paragraph indents. Just a big dumb block of boring text.

Most psychics don’t like to read minds because of the intimidating levels of boredom involved. Even an autistic twelve year old has twelve years of eating ice cream and card counting to sift through.

Our pirate lass reacted as negatively as we had expected. “Go **** yourself, cowardly imperial slave.” She then spat at Mekerle.

He played the role to the hilt. Looking absolutely flustered with even such an elementary display of stubbornness. “Who are you protecting? What’s the big plan? I’m gonna find out eventually!” He plows through like a blowhard cop.

She pinched the bridge of her nose with a weary expression. Her calm resolve seeming to crumble for some reason. I could hear her thinking about the things she wanted to be careful not to mention. Clones. A mission. Clones? Was she thinking about Minax? Where was it he fit in? As it was her thoughts were getting more and more jumbled.

“These lights are giving me a headache. Get me some acetophetamine and a glass of water and I might talk.”

Of course she wasn’t going to talk. We weren’t even going to pretend to be dumb enough to capitulate. Matrid outside the cell doesn’t even make a move to blink.

“Wrong order. You talk, then you get what you want.” I couldn’t blame Mekerle for switching to a hardball approach. It was a rather simple lever for him to exploit. As for myself, her thoughts were starting to make a sound. Like a high pitched whine that a broken printer would make.

The lights beat down on her like an abusive parent. There was nothing she could do to get away. She doubled over on her stool, slowly. Kneading her temples. Mekerle was about to say something, but he was cut off by a loud whine of pain.

“What is the meaning of this charade-?”

“My head!” She moaned pathetically, tears seeping from her bloodshot eyes. Mekerle and I exchanged a cautious look. It was impossible for me to read a thing from her anymore. It was all just noise.

I gestured silently to Mekerles medicine bag. He just shook his head, as if to say ‘let her suffer’. I guess it wasn’t our responsibility to heal our prisoners as long as they had something valuable to tell us.

“She’s faking.” Mekerle said with all certainty. As if he were god and knew everything. “Probably wants me to go over and hand her a syringe full of adrenaline to put into my eye.” Sometimes I couldn’t understand how such a lackadaisical medic was chosen for this mission. I’ve never seen a doctor so readily insist that their patient was faking.

She slumped forwards, assuming a fetal position. Clawing at her head, moaning and writhing. I could see her sinewy jaw bulging from clammy skin. Her teeth clenched like a zipper.

I was hoping she was faking. Otherwise I wouldn’t have anyone to interrogate.
At last she staggered back up to her feet, crushing her head in-between dirty palms. Holy ****! Her face was flushed red and it looked like her eyes were going to pop out of her bulging head.

“Maybe you should get her those pills.” Matrid suggested through the bars.

She was foaming at the mouth and making a gagging noise as her eyes began to lose focus. “I’m sorry!” She sobbed pleadingly, a vein in her forehead beginning to throb as the pain reached a manic level of urgency.

I was finally able to get a good look inside her brain. As did Mekerle, and presumably the janitor that would soon be summoned to clean the bloody slop off the cell walls.

The womans head popped like an over inflated basketball.

----

After changing out of my splattered red robe, I accompanied Matrid to the security offices.

There were cameras and heat sensors and pressure plates all over the ship. Placed in order to catch stowaways and other intruders. Nothing that would really pose a challenge for even an omerta acolyte. But at least we could get a better picture of what was happening around the cell.

“It was as if her head was a blown-up cow lung!” The incident was the closest thing that Matrid had seen to a movie since becoming security head, no doubt. So far it was receiving a rave review. “I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I guess investigating the death of an imperial enemy would naturally take a back seat to the game of card solitary on his computer. As a free person she didn’t even technically occupy space under the empires law. Leave it to the archons to look another adult human in the eye and deny that they even exist. With a straight face, too.

“I could feel another psionically capable presence in the room after it happened. Just briefly. It wasn’t a failsafe implant, biochemical or otherwise.” The longer the investigation was delayed, the longer my head was a target. Whoever did this could pop heads easier than Joe Spaceship could take a piss.

Matrid shrugged and opened up a camera log index. The look on his face indicated how granted he took his powers of audio/visual omni-presence. I could see one of the screens catch his eye. Was it the brig? No. Before I could get a good look at what changed his mood, he had stood up from his chair.

“I’m sure you know how to work this. I’ll be right back.” Bathroom break, I guess. I took his spot and began browsing the available cameras. Finding my mark. ‘BRIG – CELL 4’. There was a stocky guy in coveralls and a hat running a mop over the ceiling.

I couldn’t begrudge Matrid for leaving. Breaking up brawls in the mess hall and counting beans in the weapons locker was more his realm of influence. An omerta agent was well out of his league. He’d just get in the way of my investigation.

The door once again hissed open behind me. In walks a group of three security types. Brandishing rifles and shock projectors. All of them wearing helmets with halos built inside. So naturally I couldn’t even hope to get inside their brains without a struggle.

“Where’s Matrid?” The one in the lead demanded. Urgency in his voice and his body language.

“I don’t know. He just left.” I responded curiously. “Why?”

Looks were exchanged between the three. A nod brought out a bloodchecker from a belt loop, and an indignant scowl from myself. I hated needles as much as I hated the idea of who would be putting it in me.

“The real Matrid has been dead for a day."

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Chapter 14 - Waiting

The atmosphere inside the Vindication has become restless and paranoid. Nobody wants to talk unless they’ve seen you get stuck with a needle. People look at each other wondering if the person their looking at is really dead and lodged in a disposal chute. I have red marks all up and down my arms as if they were used as pin cushions. Command personnel need to check your blood before letting you know where the washroom is.

The assassin on board was an invisible, undetectable cloud that could pass through walls and hear conversations from miles away. He was your shadow and everyone around you, and always listening to what you were thinking. Or at least he was in the collective imagination of the ships crew. Nobody had even seen him. Unless you count the people who dealt with him while he masqueraded as Matrid and the engineer. Then you could safely say that everyone has seen him.

And that’s what scared us. We’ve all looked into his eyes, and yet we have no clue what he might look like. He was good enough to have fooled close friends of his victims. Good enough to carry on conversations without arousing an ounce of suspicion. And cold enough to slit your throat and hijack your life as if it were no more than a car.

He had been watching me as I slept in my quarters. I’ve been too terrified to even return to them since, much less sleep anywhere on the ship. Interior and exterior scans are being run quarter-hourly and people sleep under the watch of armed guards. Ventilation ducts are patrolled by robots. Nobody can find any trace of a stowaway. Except, of course, for those charred corpses. I guess he burned their faces off so he'd have some time to switch identities before blood tests were done.

After a round of fresh blood checks- and after I had psychically verified the people doing the tests- the mission crew sat down to exchange intelligence. As was typical of such meetings, everyone was thinking about what they were going to say. Thinking about how they were going to say it. Would they look knowledgeable? Would they be thought of as more important if they talked more? How do they look when they say certain words?

And as was typical of myself, I was just going to ignore them and listen to their worrying, soft minds.

Lieutenant Baylen was going to detail what he and his team were up to during our last group visit to the Invincible. They skirmished with a small group of well armed unknowns on the way to the bridge. They were then flanked in a wide corridor by a group of similarly outfitted men with magnetic rifles and imperial combat armour. They were repelled after a bloody standoff. The corpses left behind from their retreat were all perfect genetic clones of Minax.

So platoons of Minax clones were being armed and used to patrol the ships aft quarter. Why was the empire so concerned with size when it came to these flagships? If it were meant for extreme penile compensation, the emperor must be female. Or perhaps some maniac genital amputee.

Not that anyone sees the emperor in person anymore. According to records he should only be 89, an age easily serviceable by medical technology. The last emperor lived to 129 and was able to make competent speeches and appearances for every last year.

I try not to think about it. Investigating the emperor in any way was not a good idea. As of late even the committee specifically commissioned to keep a check on the emperor has been reluctant to do so. Not even God can ask the emperor questions without phrasing Himself carefully. At first it was only those who planned sedition who were picked up and sent to trial, or at least interrogated with due process.

Now people just disappear. Any opposition or fact-finding means a prompt visit from an Instant Death Squad (its real name, Internal Disciplinary Services, didn’t sound any less dreadful). I heard from someone at the Third Eye substructure that the emperor had a corps of time travelling ‘operatives’ (assassins) to deal with his more troublesome enemies.

I yearned for the gulags and drumhead trials of simpler times. Whatever happened to old fashioned assassins? As it was you couldn’t even get the satisfaction of being carefully murdered by a professional. Just a flash of light and poof- you never even existed. You never were an enemy. You never were at all. I could only imagine how many times the streets of Westmarch have ran red with the blood of revolutionaries that were never born.

It sounded like a group myth anyway. Probably spread by a paranoid first year scientist who knew it could neither be proven nor disproved. After all, nobody remembers things that never happened.

Baylen and his men were stopped from entering the medical laboratory- where the cloning tanks were kept- by ghosts. Ghosts? What next, goblins? Demons? Evil sand leapers? But as sure as I could read thoughts, the vivid memories were there. Memories of half-real humans who floated like freezing clouds and couldn’t be touched by bullets. As well as memories of the terror they inspired, reaching forwards with tendrils to melt skin from flesh and flesh from bone.

Deltroy wanted to talk about how he suspected the cargo crew of mishandling his pneumatically mounted firearms. Yawn. I couldn’t wait for that topic to come up and waste a bunch of valuable time. Maybe we could float through space all year discussing how I banged my knee in the shower.

And that guy was there in the room. Standing behind the captain. Wearing his unmarked grey crewman’s jumpsuit and no distinguishable traits. Was he omerta? I sure as hell had a hard time reading his thoughts. Nor was I able to find clear camera footage of him, for that matter. He wasn’t even on the crew manifest. At one point I was compelled to ask the Captain who he was. He claimed to be too busy to go in depth, but told me his name was Voreal T’ril and he was a starship technician. The empire considers him an intelligence risk, so he’s here covertly.

It was difficult to determine whether the captain was lying or not. He had a very trustworthy character and such a smooth way of words. A natural leader, I guess. I decided to tune back into the vocalize portion of the meeting. Lieutenant Baylen was talking.

“They found the ship adrift in space and took advantage of whatever chaos caused the system damage. The morfaa was apparently a pet. They lured rescue attempts and other opportunists into the starboard docking bay. We found a jury rigged connection between the two bays. Upon entering the victims were killed by the morfaa and then used as thralls, along with whatever corpses the pirates found littered about the ship.”

This certainly wasn’t his first debriefing. He was flying through the information without pause or breath.

“According to preliminary questioning, the pirates hid most of their loot in the waste processing channels. It’s dark in those tubes and there could be anything down there waiting for us. Not to mention the risk of infection from the waste. I suggest against any recovery attempts.”

The Captain chimed in. “Agreed. I have no inclination to have you running around aimless, random tunnels, wasting ammo fighting god knows what just for some stupid stash. It’s a stupid premise for such a dangerous risk."

Something told me that the Captain was a different man when he was younger. He'd probably go through hell to get a shiny new monosword, or whatever they used back then. Especially considering how tight Imperial inventory are. I guess he'd seen someone important die from the same sort of righteous greed.

It was a wise idea, anyway. I didn't want to die clutching an amplifier sphere or something equally inanimate. In fact I didn't want to die at all. So **** the pirates and **** their fecal catacombs. I'm not going down there to sift through that rot.

(cont.)

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I took a quick look around the room. “Where’s Scorn? I thought him sitting in on our briefings was your idea.” Not that I truthfully cared whether or not that talking pile of junk attended and contributed or not. I just didn’t want a crazy robot loaded with explosive ordinance running around unaccounted for.

“He’s offline for repairs.” The Captain answered nonchalantly. Sweeping the issue directly under the figurative carpet. I found this suspicious to say the least. Not only was adding him the Captains idea, but Voreals as well. And the more I saw them interact, the more I became convinced that he was the Captains commanding officer. Or some similar sort of power relationship.

An intercom buzzed, as if cued up to catch the Captain in the middle of his lie. “What?”, he snapped at the interrupting tone.

“This is Telmond, sir. Scorn has apprehended an intruder.” He cleared his throat as everyone but the Captain and Voreal reeled. “The intruder.”

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Sorry about the tiny post... I couldn't edit it into the chapter it belonged to. Do you think I should post partial chapters, or just wait until I have the entire thing done? My chapters have been getting longer, I think, and I'm always so anxious to update...


Chapter 15 - No-Face

I stood at the reflective bars dividing him from me, staring. He had no idea that I was looking at him. He had no eyes.

Nor did he have a nose. Or ears for that matter. His eyes were just dark sockets with a little connection at the pit where the prosthetic was supposed to link up. According to Mekerle the fakes had a feature that allowed them to electronically fool retinal scanners.

His nose was just a pair of holes set in flat grooves. His ears were similar. Just holes over which the organic plastic was meant to be moulded. Even his teeth were fake- the ones the doctors removed were gum moulds into which Matrids old teeth were fitted. Stolen in order to hinder identification. More sophisticated disguise paraphernalia was no doubt stashed elsewhere on the ship.

According to his rap sheet, his name is Abejhur-Jek-Iil Al-Ftwaabswanaj. Outside of the omerta underground he is known- and feared- by a more colloquial name: No-Face. His full criminal record was worth twenty seven pages on my digital tablet. Clearly one of the more accomplished spies, mercenaries and assassins amongst their ranks. Either he killed a lot of regular people, or killed a few important people.

Everyone in the omerta is an elite operative as far as our military standards go. Other gangs feared them like the viscus plague, including the biggest gang in the universe: The empire. The brain melting and invisibility was only half of why people avoided them. They are on par with the third eye when it comes to mind sciences, despite what the media might tell you. But the omerta are an autonomous group of sadistic gangsters, while the third eye is just a well controlled group within a larger bureaucracy.

They’ve been getting restless recently according to what few sources and records on them we have. Some people in II think its because they’re really a cult, and the impending solar equinox had them all excited and happy. There’s no proof supporting the theory, or any theory about them. But they’re making a move for something big. This is just the lip of the holy ****storm waiting for us.

The implants in No-Face were placed with the same aesthetic symmetry that a clown would use to add patches to his outfit. Folding shoulder girdle. Elastic spinal cord. Third lung attatched to a gas conversion orifice in his left collar bone. Collapsable hips and knees. According to scans he had four separate, smaller hearts dispersed throughout his torso.

Also, his brain sat in a hole where the stomach was supposed to be. He was engineered to be nurtured intravenously. I guess that made it easier to protect, as well as making the neck and head less vital areas to hit. I could picture him being shot in the head with a rifle and still having the energy to squeeze between the bars and slither into the tiny ventilation ducts.

My eyes lifted up from the digital tablet. “So. You’re from Lut Gholein too?” I decided to break the ice between us. Maybe build a bit of empathy.

“There is no ice to break, Horus. I’ve been waiting for you. And you will never be able to empathize with me.”

His voice was synthesized from a cybernetic vocal implant in his throat. He was using the factory default voice. I guess the only one in its memory that was genuinely his, seeing that most of them were used to imitate other people. He sounded like a ghoulish robot. Especially since he wasn’t moving his lips. He was probably just trying to unnerve me and distract my thoughts.

Despite the artificial nature of his voice, there was a vocal quality and emotion in his words. Pauses and stressed vowels and all. Some people might use that to classify him as a human, but I preferred to think of him more as a cyborg. Like those test subjects in the Arreat base that went insane. The less ‘No-Face’ and I had in common the better.

I put on an unaffected face, getting the feeling that he could still somehow see me. “Nice trick! Now… if you have the time in your schedule for one more…” A smug smirk gave birth to a smug pause. “…I’m thinking of a number between one and a hundred.”

He remained as still as death in his bulkhead mounted restraints. A scrambler attached to his temples was supposed to confuse him from any psychic or telekinetic brain activity. No-Face: 1, Science: 0.

“You cheated on your tank test. You left the tank for hours at a time and then edited camera footage and computer records to cover your absence.”

I guess belittling his psychic talents was a mistake. That was probably the most dangerous secret of mine that I kept from others. I prayed that the two guards posted behind me had no clue what a tank test was. “I hope those massages and egg sandwiches were worth the risk."

(cont.)

[Relapse_]

“Fine,” I blurted out abruptly. Trying not to look panicked. Also trying to get him to shut up quickly. “You’re a good mind reader. But for now nobody is interested in me. You’ve got some questions to answer.”

A mechanical laugh peeled out from the box in his throat. “You of all people on this tug boat should know that torture won’t work on me. You have nothing to offer me. Nothing to coerce me. And you wouldn’t dare set foot into my mind.” At this point I found the idea of extracting info against his will just as laughable as he did. “Or were you hoping that you’d just ask nice and I’d feel like helping you out?”

His prosthetic voice could convey sarcasm well enough. He was holding all the cards, despite being our helpless captive. That just made me angrier. I hated when a prisoner didn’t know that they were beaten and refused to acquiesce. I decided to take a negotiation tactic from Tsercas arsenal.

“You may know who I am, but you have no clue the resources at my disposal. We have all the time in the universe to break you in half. You’re our property now and for as long as we want you to be. If we can’t do it now, we’ll keep you alive until we develop the technology we need.” I paused. Wasted time passes as the walls of the vice close in. Punctuating my point. “I wonder how many decades you’ve lasted in training. I’m willing to guess none.”

Maybe I didn’t sound as tough as her. But at least my bravado was based in truth. Sometimes a century of solitude is torture enough. People will tell your grandchildren what you wanted to know just to be allowed to die. Hopefully it isn’t something you need to know right away.

No-Face was still braver than I could ever be. “Our liege shall outlive the sun you grew under, much less your fledgling empire.” He narrowed his empty sockets into spiteful holes. “I look forwards to meeting you in hell. We’ll enjoy teaching you the horror of that word. Forever.”

What could I possibly say to that? Despite the collected façade put forth in his artificial tone, a truck battery couldn’t hope to contain the acid in his words.

“I’ll talk anyway.” My eyes furrow with suspicion. Did he just offer to talk? “That’s right. I already know what you’re going to ask, so just shut up and don’t say anything. There are some people on their way who might not appreciate you knowing what we know.” My mouth made a sound as it closed.

“I’m here to watch the man you know as ‘Voreal’. I know that you doubt him. But you haven’t been through the full third eye brainwash. You have a will. You do not eat all that you are given.” I could tell that this would soon be followed by a ‘join us’ proposition. But as it was, I did not want my only ally to be immobile inside of a brig cell. I could also tell that he had been watching me very closely to know of my suspicion. “You have good reason to scrutinize him. He is not who he seems to be.

I wanted to know. I yearned to know. It was burning a hole in the back of my mind. The worst feeling in all of life is not to know. “Who is he? A senior psionicist?”

The freakish No-Face made a noise that sounded like laughter. Tinny and slowly modulating in pitch. “Believe me or not, but I haven’t been able to read his thoughts in the months I’ve been following him around back in Khanduras. He’s virtually a ghost. No heat signal. Doesn’t show up to cameras or other digital tracking devices. All we can really say about him is that he occupies space and can reflect light. In other words, we can touch him and see him. Whoever he is, he has better obfuscational talents than I or anyone I know.”

As advertised he knew exactly what I was going to ask next. “I can’t tell you why we’re interested in him. But know that he and the immortal one are lying to you. They both have their own selfish agenda outside of either of our organizations. The empire might’ve sent you here to repair and tow compromised equipment, but you are running errands for and insubordinate and an outside influence.

“We call him the immortal one-” He was very quick to clarify. He probably would’ve conveyed his information mentally if he didn’t have that scrambler pummelling his brain in. “-because according to photographic records, he is at the very least as old as the technology itself: Three hundred years. Maybe he’s just a clone, who knows. But he’s gone by many names. His incarnation before the man you know now went by the name of…”

Voreal and the captain- the immortal one- stepped through the blast doors down the hall. Heralded by a buzz and a resoundingly dull percussion of metal on metal. I could sense cold trepidation stopping up in No-Faces stomach. Or his brain, or whatever you could technically call that area now. His spindly body began to writhe in its massive restraints, his discomfort increasing the closer they strolled.

“They lie to you Horus! They are your enemy!” He cries out, as loud as his voice box could go. His writhing becoming thrashing, something urgent overriding his sensibilities. Perhaps driving him to try and physically escape, which he knew very well was impossible. Why couldn’t these omerta types just relax? The ones we capture always seem to be so irritable and poorly-behaved.

As if on cue with my internalized sentiment, a noxious, choking gas began to hiss forth in billowing currents from his open mouth and eyes. Slow, but thick. Tumbling free to float into quickly growing clouds. Thinner tendrils of the smog slithering from his nose and ears like lazy snakes.

Whatever that crap was, I didn’t want to breath it in. I lunged towards the nearest control panel and punched the panic button. Erecting air tight energy fields between the now rapidly sizzling No-Face and the bars.

His voice box made dying sounds as it melted in the back of his throat along with skin and tissues. Like an RC car trying to escape a deep fryer. “I’ll see you soon, Horus! Real soon!” He managed to holler out over the hissing sound of burning flesh. Then laughing. Cackling like a maniac as the volatile green vapour liquefied his body and the walls of the cell.

The volatile green cloud now filled the cell, submerging the laughing maw of that faceless killer in scalding chemical fumes. The sight of which promised to haunt my memories