Hatred and Cunning (Original SF)
Posted: 2007-04-20 09:52pm
Grail system
Sailor's Delight bar and brothel
A well-groomed man, dressed in a clean, dark gray shipsuit, appears amidst a blast of frigid wind and a spatter of driven sleet, quickly shutting the old-style manual door of the port-city pub behind him. His close-trimmed hair matches his clothes, an ageing iron-gray, but to an intent observer, his smooth, youthful face might seem at odds with his apparent age.
Of course, the fact that he's bone-dry and not shivering from the sub-zero climate would be noticed beforehand. The only notice his entrance provokes, however, is a few glances and a general grumbling protest from those near the door as hot air momentarily departs the warm, hazy tavern. He seats himself at the bar and orders a drink, draining the weighted plastic cup quickly, then another, then a third. All the while, he listens, tracking nearby conversations, waiting, waiting for the topic to shift...
...As he knows it will. After a quarter-hour of drowning his sorrows, a group of spacers blow in from the storm still raging outside, stamping their feet and tossing coats on the nearby rack. One of them flips a coin to the bartender, who catches it and flips a switch under the bar, a heater unit flash-drying the heavy material. The weather-beaten barman gives the man in gray an odd look, remembering the lack of a coat...but then shrugs. Barkeeps who ask questions soon become customers, rather than proprietors. The four new arrivals claim an unoccupied table near the bar, catching the lone, barely-clad waitress's eye and calling for a round.
"Now that's better...ship's never been the same since that new owner shut down the goddamn still," one laments, halfway through what, if the grubby, oil-stained man has any say in the matter, will be the first drink of many tonight. "Not that it'll matter for long. Half-point to jumping ship while we're at port, and no mistake, forget the sec-bond. You heard about the Argosy?"
With a morose shake of his head, a rough-callused cargo-handler takes a drink of his own before answering, "Split right open, right down the spine...whole damned ship open to space. And not just the Argosy! Escorts, the rest of the convoy...same thing, all ripped open like a ration can. And the bodies..." He glances over to the lone woman in the trio, almost pityingly, "I heard tell they were pretty bad-off, too. Mangled, and all that. And worse."
Before the conversation can depart to more pleasant climes, the man in gray appears over the fourth, empty chair at the table, speaking in an odd, somewhat out-dated dialect, "I heard the subject of your discussion...might I have a seat?" When there's no immediate refusal, the man pulls the chair out and slips into it, his movements precise and sharp. "Because I know what happened to those ships. I know everything."
"You know, of course, of the Last War? I thought as much, even now, people would not forget. Then you know the technology of the combattants was far beyond anything employed in the known universe now, in all respects. Planets were seared to the mantle, stars torn apart, used to smother whole systems in torrents of plasma...and, more to the point, the very code of life was used as a weapon." The man in gray looks over his rapt audience, the three at his commandeered table, as well as keeping track of the growing number of heads turning towards him.
"One of the smaller empires, in danger of being extirpated from the cosmos, devised a new weapon, frantic for something to stave off the tide of destruction washing towards their domain. In haste, they combined two attributes in a new, sentient race, bringing forth life itself in their defense. Armed with the best ships, the best weapons that the empire could provide, this new race was to serve as a cordon, a blanket ward across their borders...and in that, it succeeded." A ghost of a bitter smile crosses his face, "Oh, it succeeded, perhaps too well."
"For the attributes the now-lost nation designed into the core of their progeny were Hatred and Cunning. The new race fulfilled their purpose, succeeding beyond the wildest dreams of their creators, but also even further beyond their most fevered nightmares. At the hands of their enemies, they would face only swift annihilation, worlds burnt to cinders. Under the aegis of their own defenses, however, the entire population of the rapidly dwindling empire was faced with terror, then pain, and then a slow, slow death, one at a time, their malicious children unwilling to offer any the peace of an easy death.
And yet, at the same time, pure hatred descended upon the empire's encroaching enemies. World after world disappeared from knowledge, only a torrent of endless screaming populating communications from stricken worlds. Always screaming, always, until none were left alive to continue, for the one thing the vicious children never destroyed was communication."
"In the end, of course, they were destroyed. Even in the horrors of the Final War, alliances were forged to turn aside the threat, enemies fought side-by-side to force back the legions of terror...and then, of course, immediately betrayed each other." Smokey blue eyes survey the rapt listeners, a thin, humorless smile occupying his face, "Some of the worst battles of the Final War were fought because of that crafted species. And that, of course, is what you now face. They were never destroyed...not entirely...and now Hatred and Cunning are loose once more. Ask yourself why 'pirates' would destroy a convoy, mutilate and massacre every last living being aboard, gut the vessels beyond repair...and simply destroy the cargo. Luxuries. Gems. Jewelry. Social fripperies for the core worlds of a growing nation...hatred has no need of such things. The destruction alone, that was the end they sought."
With that, the man stands up, inclines his head, and starts to walk towards the door. The barkeep forgets his earlier disinclination to question, and calls out after his receding back, "Wait a minute, how do you know all this..." He trails off as the man looks back, meeting his eyes...and then looks away again, opening the door and stepping back out into the cold and ice. Behind him, the suddenly-vacant face of the barkeep sags, drool starting to pool on the bar. As the door shuts, he slides to the side, one sweaty hand squeaking on the polished bar as the man crumples to lie limply to the floor amidst a clatter of falling mugs.
After all, if it was ever known that one of the original creators of such a vicious plague still lived, further existence would become...unpleasant.
Sailor's Delight bar and brothel
A well-groomed man, dressed in a clean, dark gray shipsuit, appears amidst a blast of frigid wind and a spatter of driven sleet, quickly shutting the old-style manual door of the port-city pub behind him. His close-trimmed hair matches his clothes, an ageing iron-gray, but to an intent observer, his smooth, youthful face might seem at odds with his apparent age.
Of course, the fact that he's bone-dry and not shivering from the sub-zero climate would be noticed beforehand. The only notice his entrance provokes, however, is a few glances and a general grumbling protest from those near the door as hot air momentarily departs the warm, hazy tavern. He seats himself at the bar and orders a drink, draining the weighted plastic cup quickly, then another, then a third. All the while, he listens, tracking nearby conversations, waiting, waiting for the topic to shift...
...As he knows it will. After a quarter-hour of drowning his sorrows, a group of spacers blow in from the storm still raging outside, stamping their feet and tossing coats on the nearby rack. One of them flips a coin to the bartender, who catches it and flips a switch under the bar, a heater unit flash-drying the heavy material. The weather-beaten barman gives the man in gray an odd look, remembering the lack of a coat...but then shrugs. Barkeeps who ask questions soon become customers, rather than proprietors. The four new arrivals claim an unoccupied table near the bar, catching the lone, barely-clad waitress's eye and calling for a round.
"Now that's better...ship's never been the same since that new owner shut down the goddamn still," one laments, halfway through what, if the grubby, oil-stained man has any say in the matter, will be the first drink of many tonight. "Not that it'll matter for long. Half-point to jumping ship while we're at port, and no mistake, forget the sec-bond. You heard about the Argosy?"
With a morose shake of his head, a rough-callused cargo-handler takes a drink of his own before answering, "Split right open, right down the spine...whole damned ship open to space. And not just the Argosy! Escorts, the rest of the convoy...same thing, all ripped open like a ration can. And the bodies..." He glances over to the lone woman in the trio, almost pityingly, "I heard tell they were pretty bad-off, too. Mangled, and all that. And worse."
Before the conversation can depart to more pleasant climes, the man in gray appears over the fourth, empty chair at the table, speaking in an odd, somewhat out-dated dialect, "I heard the subject of your discussion...might I have a seat?" When there's no immediate refusal, the man pulls the chair out and slips into it, his movements precise and sharp. "Because I know what happened to those ships. I know everything."
"You know, of course, of the Last War? I thought as much, even now, people would not forget. Then you know the technology of the combattants was far beyond anything employed in the known universe now, in all respects. Planets were seared to the mantle, stars torn apart, used to smother whole systems in torrents of plasma...and, more to the point, the very code of life was used as a weapon." The man in gray looks over his rapt audience, the three at his commandeered table, as well as keeping track of the growing number of heads turning towards him.
"One of the smaller empires, in danger of being extirpated from the cosmos, devised a new weapon, frantic for something to stave off the tide of destruction washing towards their domain. In haste, they combined two attributes in a new, sentient race, bringing forth life itself in their defense. Armed with the best ships, the best weapons that the empire could provide, this new race was to serve as a cordon, a blanket ward across their borders...and in that, it succeeded." A ghost of a bitter smile crosses his face, "Oh, it succeeded, perhaps too well."
"For the attributes the now-lost nation designed into the core of their progeny were Hatred and Cunning. The new race fulfilled their purpose, succeeding beyond the wildest dreams of their creators, but also even further beyond their most fevered nightmares. At the hands of their enemies, they would face only swift annihilation, worlds burnt to cinders. Under the aegis of their own defenses, however, the entire population of the rapidly dwindling empire was faced with terror, then pain, and then a slow, slow death, one at a time, their malicious children unwilling to offer any the peace of an easy death.
And yet, at the same time, pure hatred descended upon the empire's encroaching enemies. World after world disappeared from knowledge, only a torrent of endless screaming populating communications from stricken worlds. Always screaming, always, until none were left alive to continue, for the one thing the vicious children never destroyed was communication."
"In the end, of course, they were destroyed. Even in the horrors of the Final War, alliances were forged to turn aside the threat, enemies fought side-by-side to force back the legions of terror...and then, of course, immediately betrayed each other." Smokey blue eyes survey the rapt listeners, a thin, humorless smile occupying his face, "Some of the worst battles of the Final War were fought because of that crafted species. And that, of course, is what you now face. They were never destroyed...not entirely...and now Hatred and Cunning are loose once more. Ask yourself why 'pirates' would destroy a convoy, mutilate and massacre every last living being aboard, gut the vessels beyond repair...and simply destroy the cargo. Luxuries. Gems. Jewelry. Social fripperies for the core worlds of a growing nation...hatred has no need of such things. The destruction alone, that was the end they sought."
With that, the man stands up, inclines his head, and starts to walk towards the door. The barkeep forgets his earlier disinclination to question, and calls out after his receding back, "Wait a minute, how do you know all this..." He trails off as the man looks back, meeting his eyes...and then looks away again, opening the door and stepping back out into the cold and ice. Behind him, the suddenly-vacant face of the barkeep sags, drool starting to pool on the bar. As the door shuts, he slides to the side, one sweaty hand squeaking on the polished bar as the man crumples to lie limply to the floor amidst a clatter of falling mugs.
After all, if it was ever known that one of the original creators of such a vicious plague still lived, further existence would become...unpleasant.
