StarDestroyer.Net BBS

This story is set in a broken future, where modern and ancient weapons exist side by side. The Protectorate, an overly powerful Church society both runs and intends to subjugate all known and yet unexplored space. Domination of humanity is their goal and they will use whatever means possible to achieve their bloody purpose. Constant war has guaranteed that, outside of the Protectorate, a minority has achieved vast wealth and a desire to live on beyond their normal life-span. Euthan Palace was created for that purpose.

With a simple signature, access is granted to the Facility, where miracles apparently occur; near-immortality is said to be offered for the chosen few. As none has ever returned from the Facility, no doubt can be cast on these claims. Irrationally new and willing victims clutch onto this belief and a slow but steady stream of men and women give themselves to the care of the Protectorate, only leaving behind their mortal estates.

Resistance has sprung up in the form of anti-machine sects, whose sole aim is to return humanity to its original condition. They will use whatever means and justifications to carry out their purpose.

Jan Olsen is the proprietor of Euthan Palace; the portal and front office to the Facility. He is their doorman, whose only function is to receive and dispose of their wealth. An easy job, or so it seems...

The chime rang, reverberated, rose to a crescendo and slowly died away. It was loud. Jan Olsen hated that chime. Another customer had entered his private place and that could only mean one thing, work. Grudgingly he rose from his disorganised desk, knocking the half-full glass of brandy over with a twitch of his hand. It was only ever half-full; a magical state which money and perseverance ensured.

He had not meant to be rich. Retirement from the Protectorate had left him with a modest sum, which he had invested in the facilities here. War had carried on; each day the Protectorate expanded its zone of influence and this innocuous rock had turned into a gold mine. A jump point had been found nearby, an unusual confluence of physics and impossibility. It was a nexus; warp space folded strangely here, allowing a myriad of connections and it had become depressingly important overnight.

Little men in grey suits had tried to buy him out, he had refused. Next followed threats, but Jan was not easily cowed. His aggressive demeanour, backed up by a heavy blaster and too many old friends had made them go away. That, of course, and the remains of an overzealous politician which he had nailed to the front entrance.

Eventually he had agreed to lease some of his spare land and the Protectorate had installed their research facility nearby. Things ran smoothly for a couple of years until there was no need, militarily speaking, for the nexus point. Battle fronts change, after all; a circumstance which Jan was comfortable with. He was granted the use of the assets now on his land, with only one condition; he must continue providing the service. This time his truculent nature was of no use, the Protectorate reminding him of exactly what they could do to him if they wished. So, he opened his new business, with his less than silent partner and the money just kept rolling in.

Trade was brisk. It was incredible the amount of people who were willing to pay for what, essentially was a one-way trip. They signed over all of their worldly goods to Jan, and his partner, knowing that there was no guarantee. To arrive here, they at least needed a referral and of course to be rich. All were old, many diseased, but with one thing in common; they did not want to die. The Protectorate�s facility gave them an option; die on paper and wait for the possibility of rebirth. No guarantee was given, no refund ever discussed and once you entered the facilitiy�s double doors there was absolutely no way back.

Jan did not ask what went on behind those doors; the staff was Protectorate recruited, as far as he knew military, and he just did not care. He had an unlimited supply of brandy, his own space, with only occasional interruptions. One of course was too many, but he could endure. The chime had signalled just such a disturbance and with bad grace he entered the reception area.

"Welcome. Please be seated. There are just a few formalities..." he began to slur before his brandy-fogged mind recognized the unusualness of the scene before him.

Something hard, metallic, wavered in his vision. He recognised and did not like it. There were too many people, at least six and all dressed the same. Jan recognised their uniforms and facial features and began to sober quickly. He tried again.

"Welcome...ugh"

The pain resulting from the harsh blow sharpened his senses. This was not how it was supposed to be.

"Be quiet!" This came from their leader, a harsh-faced woman. She was the one who had slapped him.

"Marti," she continued, "are you sure that the cameras are off?"

"Sure."

"Good," she returned to Jan, grasping his brandy-stained shirt and pulling him towards her, "now where is it?"

"Here," he mumbled, his knee slamming up between her legs, as his right hand curled round her throat, "but you're not going to be happy..."

Her hair was long, tied in a pony-tail which he used to good effect, tearing hair painfully as he dragged her round. Drunk no longer, reactions took over. Changing his grip, his hand dropped to her belt, drawing her pistol in a fluid movement. His first shot took a startled Marti right between the eyes, his second blew a hole in another's chest. They had begun to move, but shock had given him an edge. Jan booted his angry captive towards the tight clump of his remaining attackers; part of his brain laughing at the stupidity of huddling up so close together, even whilst he killed them.

As quickly as it had started, it was over, Jan standing over his first aggressor whose pitiful cries did not move him.

"You'll be sorry," she gasped.

"I already am," he said, as he calmly squeezed the trigger.

The report had barely died away when the front door exploded inwards, throwing Jan back towards his office. Armour-clad figures raced in, spraying the area liberally with weapons fire. Half-conscious, Jan heard the snapped, "Take him!" just before a rifle-butt slammed into his head, relieving him of all the troublesome questions running through his mind.

Resurrectionist Bomber
Upper Atmosphere

Light, noise and pain hit Jan all at once. He tried to move, but found his hands and feet bound. Blood had dried against his eyelids and so it was a hard struggle to open at least one. When he managed this gargantuan task, he really wished he had not bothered. From what he could see life was about to get even worse.

Vibrations indicated that he was in some form of transport and the rapidly widening crack in the floor suggested that he was airborne, with a distinct possibility of crashing back to earth. A pair of metal-shod boots stomped into view and a rough hand dragged him upright via his hair.

"Scum!"

The word was spat with hatred, and as he rose up the uniformed body he saw the sign he had been dreading. Resurrectionists; the day really could not get any worse.

"You killed our team, who were only trying to cleanse that abomination below," snarled the bristle-haired figure, whose shoulders sported a Colonel's rank insignia, "so you too will die. Fittingly, we are sending you back attached to our instrument of purification. You can contemplate your sins and pray for forgiveness on your long ride down."

Jan knew that talking was pointless, religious fanatics were nothing if not single-minded. Closed, bigoted, usually irrationally positive, they were not his kind of people. Instead, he just grinned and let them manhandle him towards the waiting bomb. He would get one chance, when they loosened his bonds in order to strap him to his ride. How much he could make of it, he was unsure, especially the state he was in, but he was determined to take at least one of them with him.

Feigning even more pain than he felt, he scanned his surroundings. There were four of them in the bay, including the Colonel. Two waited by the bomb and another was controlling the opening mechanism; parachutes there were none and jumping out unaided from a perfectly good craft, was not his idea of fun. Then he saw his only chance and relaxed, slumping a little to make himself even more of a dead weight. His captors, in their arrogance, expected nothing less; they were after all superior.

When the first cord was roughly cut, there was no need to pretend; blood rushed back into stiff fingers and he grunted reflexively. His captors smiled and dragged him by one of his free hands to the body of the bomb. They would have to untie his legs too, but were treating him with a healthy respect. He needed to act.

Jan threw his weight forward, his bound legs levering him into the nearest man, who automatically caught him. He let his hands hang slackly by his side, making his opponent take the full impact of his unresponsive body.

"Give me a hand," the soldier grunted, bending his knees.

"You look like you're having fun..." laughed his mate, reaching down for Jan's feet.

Jan jerked his knees towards his chest and used the first soldier as his support, as he slammed the heel of his boots into the second soldier's stomach. An explosion of air confirmed his accuracy and the reaction of his attack, pushed the first soldier over. Now was his weakest moment. He could not afford to wait for feeling to return to his abused limbs and so he struck, using his swollen hands as clubs. He had half-risen, as best he could, and pounded both hands down into the soldier's upturned face. It took four blows, and too much time, to render him ineffective. The hand grasping Jan's hair told him that.

"Scum"

It was the Colonel, whose repertoire seemed particularly limited. Jan did not speak. Instead, he concentrated on finding an advantage, any one.

"Look at me!"

There it was. The Colonel twisted Jan around, allowing him to use the only weapon he had available. Jan bit hard. Skin tore, as he wrenched his mouth from side to side, and ripped a chunk of flesh from the Colonel's hand. One arm swung over as he fell, smashing into the whimpering Resurrectionist's face. It only bought him a little time, as feet tied he slammed full-length to the floor.

*

Colonel Radimir Vladic stopped cursing and smiled. It was over. He had the heretic clearly in his sights. His hand hurt, but that was nothing in the greater scheme of things. Carefully he took aim, fired and missed, as the heretic rolled away from the shot and slid out into the void. He took one of the soldiers with him; a casualty of war.

Grinning, Vladic moved to the controls and punched in the firing sequence. The plan could not be stopped now. His name would be remembered.

*

Desperation is a funny thing; Jan�s choices were extremely limited. He took his decision quickly, grasping the still groaning soldier by his belt and taking him with him as he fell out of the ship. One of his hands half-worked, and it was the fingers of this hand which activated the contra gravity belt. It struggled with the extra weight but his feet caught over one of the stanchions helped. The upwards motion twisted him round, leaving one of his feet half in the bay and his torso crushed against the underside of the craft.

The wind tore his breath away, the soldier beneath him struggling for air. Jan saw the external hatch controls and clumsily punched the standard entry code. As the door slid open, the belt's action pushed him chest first into the widening space, stripping skin from his face as he was forced inside. There was little chance of releasing his foot and he screamed in pain as ligaments tore in protest. He was inside, the soldier pushing him further, although incapable of joining him there. One more ridiculous decision to be taken; he entered the code to close the hatch.

A cry of agony was torn from him as his ankle broke, twisting at last free from the stanchion's hold. He used his knees to effect, pushing up on the body below him, but it was taking too long. The door closure was mechanical, ignorant and uncaring of his predicament. He screamed once as his ankle was crushed between flesh and metal, his frantic movement and distorted bones releasing the bindings. One free foot was used to push himself up on the now terrified soldier, who grabbed onto his ankle. Jan screamed again. There was nothing he could do.

Momentary relief came as the door slid shut, cutting off both the soldier's pleas and Jan's right foot.

*

Colonel Vladic ignored the alarm flashing on the control panel; he was far too interested in the numbers counting down on the display before him. Soon, very soon, all of their wishes would be fulfilled. A beatific smile crossed his normally grim face as the bomb began to move forward, servo-mechanisms positioning it in its optimum launch mode. He laughed as it was elevated hydraulically and cried in salutation as its rockets fired.

The insistent alarm broke his jubilation. From the video feed inside the emergency capsule, he saw Jan Olsen as he lay bleeding out. Life was good. Perhaps the heretic could not physically join the bomb in its righteous journey, but he could at least share in its final deliverance. Grinning savagely, Vladic sent Jan to meet his fate.

Hunter Delta Two-Niner
Upper Atmosphere

Stealth mode was a b**ch. Captain Dale Harding swung between emotions as he watched. The Resurrectionist bomber was preparing to dump its load and he had it lit up, ready to fire. Orders were slow in coming though and the whole mini-drama of falling bodies, re-entry and amputation had played out before him. The detail was clear via his HUD, and although monotony breaking, was not his reason for being here.

“Hunter Delta Two-Niner, you have a go, repeat you have a go...”

Harding snorted in disgust; the controller sounded as bored as he was. He flicked off his safety and ran through the humdrum verbalization of his tasks.

“Weapons Hot...”

“Target Acquired...”

“Firing...”

Twin Lightning air-to-air missiles spat free from their restraints, arrowing purposefully towards their relatively lumbering target. Now Dale was happy; death and destruction, baby.

One missile speared through the open bomb-bay doors, the other slamming into the main engine housing. The second hit twisted the bomber on its horizontal axis and Dale laughed as pieces of metal exploded outwards; one piece trailing a large contrail of fire behind it. A slight, and it was only slight, delay occurred between the skewing of the bomber’s flight path and the double detonation that followed.

Inside the vessel, Colonel Vladic still wore a smile as he was consumed by the seething ball of energy released by the missile’s impact and the bomb’s gleeful reply. This fusion bomb had been meant to bring a cleansing light to Euthan Palace, to remove all unwanted taint. That it had done, just not in the way its designers had wished.

Captain Dale Harding’s excitement was short-lived; actinic fire caressed his camouflaged craft, melting and volatilizing its constituent parts too quickly for him to react. The bloom of fire scoured the upper atmosphere yet found nothing else to destroy. One large piece of debris continued its tumbling descent, its only occupant unconscious and dying.



Protectorate Tracking Station
Euthan Palace Installation

“We have co-ordinates for impact,” the controller’s tone had not changed, even the awful destructive power of the bomb had failed to pierce his professionalism, “life-signs detected but failing rapidly...”

“Give us the co-ordinates, we will take it from here...”

The Controller rattled off a string of numbers and then leaned back in his chair. It was no longer his problem. Shift change would take place shortly and he could relax in the oblivion of alcohol. This was the arse-end of the Universe, an assignment you got out of two ways; death or invalidity. He was working on the latter, and just hoped it worked before his ashes joined those here on this dirt-ball. One thing for sure though, there would be no way the facility could make use of him when he was gone.

His replacement sidled in, hawked and spat, before sitting at his chair. There was no relationship between anyone here, they all wanted out, the quickest way possible.

A message crackled in his head set.

“We have the survivor. Debris confirmed as an Escape Pod. Transferring the body to the Facility. Over.”

Curiosity piqued for once, the Controller responded, “You said a survivor? Why the Facility? Over.”

“This one the Doc’s been waiting for a long time,” the voice was cruel, gleeful, “let’s just say that ownership of the Palace is about to change hands...”

Sterilised Theatre
Protectorate Facility
Euthan Palace

Bang!

Jan opened his eyes.

Crash!

Someone had dropped something. He strained to activate his muscles. No response.

“Wh-aa-aa-a...”

Even his mouth did not work. What had happened?

“Aah, Mr Olsen, I see that you are awake.”

He recognised that voice. Doctor Alberto, the Protectorate’s liaison officer. Now he remembered; the crash, the psychotic Colonel...his goddamn foot! What was he doing here?

“No doubt you are wondering why you are here,” continued the Doctor, “well, it’s really because of me. I’ve had my eye on you for a while. Never forget a slight, my father taught me, and I never have. Your treatment of my men, when they were trying to reach an accommodation with you, was less than civil. So, circumstances have given me another chance to convince you to sell, one which I will use wisely.”

Jan found himself raised upright, he was strapped to some sort of medical gurney, which the Doctor had manipulated.

“I could, I suppose, be gentle,” said the Doctor, “but I really have not the patience...haha...a medical joke.”

He moved to a nearby table, pulling back a covering cloth to reveal a series of horrific implements. A serrated knife appeared to take his fancy.

“You are drugged, neurally blocked, but will remain awake throughout the procedure. By the time I’ve finished, you will sign away your life...”

Jan screamed silently, neck muscles taut with agony, as the knife broke his flesh and began to saw back and forth.

“This,” commented the Doctor, “is but the beginning. The Protectorate has a use for you, don’t worry, just not in the form you are now.”

There was nothing Jan could do, but watch, as the Doctor dropped his bloody implement and reached for another...

*

“Schedule him for full resurrection...” the Doctor seemed preoccupied.

“Did he sign the papers?” laughed his hulking aide.

“Who cares,” replied the Doctor, “we never needed his signature, I just wanted to break him. Sane, he would have been useless to the programme. Thinking machines are not what we are looking for.”

“Well,” his aide grinned as he looked at the drooling and blood-soaked body which had once been Jan Olsen, “no worries there then.”

Walton’s World
Protectorate Disputed Zone

“Power it up,” James Kirby said to the technician by his side, “we have reviewed all of its system constraints and they are functioning perfectly.”

The technician ignored him, engrossed in his favourite task; no-one knew how each awakening would progress, it was a lottery. He had seen machines go berserk, killing and maiming their own side. Granted, those had been the earlier models, not these new ones. Resurrection Prototype Delta; the all new and improved version was to be field-tested here on Walton’s World. It was a momentous occasion.

“All lights are green. Artificial intelligence module fully suppressed. You should have direct feed on your monitor.”

This was what Kirby had been waiting for. Hours on an RPD simulator just did not cut it. Reality faded as he pulled down his visor; neural connections over-rode his normal corneal activity, giving him the live RPD experience. Kirby was held within a mobile frame, which mirrored the myriad responses of the machine’s body. From within this cocoon, Kirby would decimate a world.

*

It hurt...

He remembered the pain, it was a constant companion, and centred him. There was no other reference point; no more alcohol to hide behind, only memories, which Jan had suppressed for far too long. In the privacy of his own mind, he screamed...

*

“What was that?” there had been a power spike, unexpected interference causing the feed to flicker. There it was again!

“Kirby, can you stop playing with the merchandise and finish the check routines?” the technician was angry, soldier-boys always regressed to their juvenile natures.

“Not me,” Kirby’s reply was crisp, considered, “everything is in the green here.”

It seemed to be generated from the AI suppression loop, a quick bypass and the screen settled down.

“You should be alright now.”

“Great,” said Kirby, “I’ll move the RPD from the bay. The next part is relatively straightforward; once we breach the atmosphere, we can see how this baby really performs.”

*

Falling...

Jan wanted to vomit as the familiar feeling of weightlessness struck him. It was somehow different, not helped by his almost total sensory deprivation. He recalled such a sensation when doing a planetary combat drop. Had Euthan Palace been but a dream?

Light speared his eyeballs; sharp, burning brilliance, which tore at his feeble grasp on reality. A tremendous roaring accompanied the return of vision and now he wished for the peace of his previous isolation.

*

“Now, what the f**k have you done?”

“Nothing,” Kirby’s reply was resentful, “we’ve just entered the planet’s higher atmosphere and I’m showing interference again. The visual readout is screwed.”

“I think you need to bring the RPD back. Let’s carry out a few more tests here first. These preliminary trials need a rethink.”

“Okay,” said Kirby calmly, “but first things first...you need to re-establish control. I have nothing!”

*

He could see! There was something wrong though, his vision was restricted to a recognisable display. Data scrolled down the right side of what was a combat screen. No eye movement greeted his frantic attempts, only a smooth transition of view. Status lights flickered on his left; they showed power levels, armament load, speed, height above the gro...frak! Jan was thirty-seven thousand feet above the surface of the planet and moving at Mach 2!

Where was he? The right side of the screen changed, superimposing a tactical overview. The planet below was teeming with red unfriendly icons, above him the blue of what must have been his ride here. Now, all he needed to do was talk to whoever was in charge and maybe make some sense out of this.

Alarms blared; missile lock and proximity alerts screaming their strident messages. He was under attack, but not from the planet below...

*

“I have no choice!” snarled the technician as he entered the seven digit code into his panel, “This technology cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands!”

“Give me a little longer,” pleaded Kirby, “I can regain control of the RPD.”

“Sorry,” returned the technician, “Protocols dictate such actions.”

The automatic sequence enabled by his entry of the code kicked in, launching three air-to-air missiles, as well as an onboard sub-routine; no chances could be taken with the second RPD unit on board. It was only a machine, reprogramming was always an option.

Jersey City
Walton’s World
Protectorate Disputed Zone

“What´s that?”

James Cameron pointed skyward where blue-white flame burst into life. His Sargeant looked once, shrugged and continued cleaning his rifle.

“Concentrate on the task in hand,” snapped the older man, “we know they are here and daydreaming is a luxury we can´t afford.”

Cameron shaded his eyes, but whatever it was had disappeared. He picked up his own rifle and followed his senior´s example. Jersey City was expecting an attack; professional soldiers and conscripted troops busied themselves with final preparations. The Protectorate vessel had been identified as soon as it exited from fold space. This was no diplomatic mission; grey-suited men were no longer thronging the Presidential Palace, the time for discussion was over. War had come to Walton´s World and James Cameron was about to face his first battle.

“There it is again!”

This time there was a blinding flash and the distinctive fireball of an explosive impact. A roar of sound quickly followed.

“Tell me you didn´t hear that!”

The Sargeant stood, lowered his weapon and slapped Cameron harshly.

“I told you what to do, boy,” he snarled, “pick up your f**kking weapon!”

Shock made the boy slow in responding, and the veteran swung back his fist to reinforce his command. He never connected with the blow as the world turned upside down. Men screamed in terror, firing their weapons blindly at the rapidly approaching shape. It powered towards them, jinking away from the anti-aircraft batteries which had now opened up and slammed to earth.

*

Oh, yes! Jan revelled in the power which surged through him. His legs absorbed the impact and he surged upwards, arms raised instinctively towards the incoming missiles. Numbers streamed across his screen; vectors, distance, weapons choice. Now he had what he wanted. He screamed in sheer exhileration as beams lashed out from his arms, which he could see for the first time, silvered metal framework, within which span a triple tube.

Crazed laughter ricocheted around his head as pulses of raw energy speared into the oncoming munitions, turning them into miniature suns. Jan roared his anger to the skies. What had they done to him? Small weapons fire interrupted his thoughts and he span, his display automatically targetting his new enemy.

*

James struggled back to consciousness, his first vision that of the monstrous shape which towered above him.

“Die you f**kker!” he heard the Sargeant shout once, followed by the sound of rifle fire.

“Wait!” James screamed as an enormous foot narrowly missed his head.

Further action was negated by the brilliant light which flashed across his vision. Just before he lost the ability to see, he captured the disintegration of his erstwhile tormentor.

*

Kirby watched the lights wink green and then one by one turn red.

“It`s done,” he grunted to the Technician, “one less problem to worry about.”

“Maybe…”

“What?”

The Technician pointed to the tactical display from which all of their missiles had disappeared. He then tapped one pulsing icon, which expanded to show the first RPD weapons blazing as it cleared its landing zone with cleansing fire.

“It seems that we were mistaken,” mumbled Kirby, “it’s following its programming.”

“I don´t think so,” the Technician disagreed as jets flared and the RPD took to the air, aiming straight for them.

Protected Facility
Euthan Palace Installation

“Data burst received.”

Doctor Alberto motioned impatiently with his fingers and the Technician passed him a data pad. He had been waiting for this. Walton´s World would be the start of something immense; none would complain over the funds poured into his programme now.

“What…?”

The word was torn from him as the damning evidence of his failure scrolled across the screen. This data packet had been fired as a last gasp emergency measure; all Protectorate personnel would now be dead.

“Images unscrambled, relaying to your pad…now.”

The Doctor watched the debacle unfold; one RPD terminated and another rogue. He grinned and sighed as the massacre began on the ground, but his relief was short-lived. The machine rose swiftly in his view screen and he lived through high definition the beams which tore and rent his vessel apart.One image remained graven in his mind; no non-thinking entity could have grinned so savagely, nor destroyed with such clam vindictiveness. Doctor Alberto recognised the remaining RPD; no identifying marks were needed, just the feral gleam in the artificial eyes, with its underlying promise.


Jersey City
Walton’s World
Protectorate Disputed Zone

The groans of the wounded and dying had driven James Cameron almost to the point of madness. Charred flesh added to the sensory overload, causing the young man to do no more than stumble away from the carnage. No thought of helping his fellow soldiers entered his head, animal instinct took over.

Around the machine’s initial impact point, no buildings remained standing. Instead there was a nightmarish post-apocolypse scene; burst water mains gushed, gas lines flamed and men died. Command had organised relief, but it had to puch its way through rubble and the remains of armoured vehicles. The going was slow, in particular because the Machine was still known to be in the skies above. Scanners watched it, ready to concentrate troop action; fight or flight had yet to be decided.

James was oblivious to all of this. Blood crusted his ears and nose; the residue from the machine’s final blast. The intial ringing had been replaced by the macabre chorus of the dying, but James was more than a little unhinged. He ignored the sudden screaming of the sirens, the staccato roar of the anti-aircraft batteries, and the following explosions. In fact, he recognised nothing outside of his own frightened world, until a huge metallic foot crunched to the earth in front of him.

Cameron raised his eyes slowly, taking in the metallic expanse of leg and chest. Weapons arrays spotted this parody of a human, whose flaming red eyes eyes bored deep into James’ soul.

“WHY?”

Even the voice was of gigantic proportions, as it roared forth from external speakers.

Cameron continued on his way, ignoring the monster, as though it were yet another raving from his fevered brain. He staggered on for a short while, until the shaking ground tumbled him to his feet. This was no monster; air support had arrived.

Protectorate Facility
Euthan Palace

“What now?”

Alberto’s rhetorical question floated enticingly round the laboratory. There were, however, none willing to interrupt the doctor’s musings. He paced, muttering first in anger, then frustration. His finger flicked across a holo-screen as he passed, opening its core directory and shouting in triumph.

A flurry of activity answered his shouted commands, technicians hurried to mimic his rapidly moving fingers. Calculations scurried across the main data-screen, as did an unending stream of data. At last Alberto was ready. He sat back, stared at the output in front of him, and allowed himself a brief, but satisfied smile.

“That should do,” he muttered, any doubt now cast aside, “I want these other units modified immediately.”

Doctor Alberto prodded his Aide, emphasising which of the highlighted machines he meant.

“I will carry out the lobotomies of the remaining RPD’s personally. Euthan Palace will become impregnable.”

“What of the earlier models?” the Aide asked querulously.

“Recall them,” snapped Alberto, “I want them taken care of. Send the order that if there are any doubts in their behaviour, destroy them immediately.


Jersey City
Walton’s World
Protectorate Disputed Zone

Insanity is a personal thing, of degrees and unlimited shading. Jan flitted in and out of madness, never one realising that his actions were destructive. The change of body had left his mind intact, but with a lack of reference points. Anger threw missiles into buildings, pain chattered via auto cannon and destructively coloured beams were tinged with ennui.

There was no-one to talk to, no human who could sooth his troubled brain, nor evaluate his temporary psychotic behaviour. So he killed. Ruthlessly, passionless in the extreme, but people died.

Data streamed across his vision, but it was ignored, instead visceral mayhem was his only release. None of the soldiers, nor armour who faced him, could reach his fevered thoughts. There was no right nor wrong, good and evil ceased to exist, and the only thought that recycled constantly was that of Euthan Palace. Where was it? There were debts to pay and he meant to cover in full.

A figure was recognised; a young soldier who wandered as lost as he. Jan followed him automatically, smashing his way through buildings and opposition. Perhaps through this one, he could find some answers?

Jersey City
Walton’s World
Protectorate Disputed Zone

Jan’s self-inflicted sensory isolation continued even as the first shells struck his silvered skin. Love taps they were not, yet he strode on oblivious to their impacts. Proximity alarms squealed, but only added to the disconnected mayhem that was his current reality. It was not until te first salvo of missiles straddled his position that he partially awoke.

Anger flared and automatic action determined his response. His arms lifted, the right sporting spinning machinery from which pulsed red, green and blue beams. Under his left arm an autocannon hung, chattering his annoyance at his aggressors. It was the rifled barrel above this which gave him the most satisfaction. A hyper-velocity metallic slug spat out, seeking and finding its target. The Gauss rifle accelerated its payload to incomprehensible speeds and smashed through the fuselage of the lead fighter. This was more to Jan’s liking and reflexively missile pods rose from his back, swivelling in response to his subconscious demands. Thought was deed and two salvos whooshed out on their deadly mission.

*

“Tiger One to Ti...”

The lead pilot’s voice died away in tune with his plane’s disintegration. Confusion rose high as disciplined formation turned to chaos. Missiles jinked and swerved in time with mad attempts at survival and radio chatter became desperate.

“It’s lifting off...”

“I’m hit...!”

“What is it...?”

“Someone get that f**ker off my tail...!”

Laughter boomed, breaking into the Wing’s communication circuit, occasionally interspersed with the screams as men died. Jan was now amongst them, using his physical presence to rip and tear. Personal vindication was necessary, and much more satisfying.

*

Cameron stumbled and fell, despair finally manifesting itself as grief. He surfaced from his personal torment, tears streaming. Blinking, he saw death on all sides; dismembered bodies lay around him, the stink of blood and faeces mingled with choking smoke. Never had he imagined that war could be like this. His introduction to soldiery had been brutal in the extreme. A discarded rifle caught his attention and he reached out, drawing the weapon close, its hard surface providing a strange comfort.

Above, explosions wracked the sky and he saw the metallic demon. It seemed impervious to attack, each of its actions resulting in further destruction. Pieces of metal rained down, adding to the nightmare quality of Cameron’s universe. Cackling madly, he pointed the rifle at the demon and depressed the trigger. The weapon was soon empty; still his finger tightened against its metallic restraint, the futile clicking failing to register on his broken mind.

*

There was nothing left to destroy, Jan’s annoyance at the injustice of it all growing. He registered the lone gunman and in some way, the man’s pathetic attempt at resistance woke in him a minimal human reaction. His anger crystallized into resolve as he hung in the air, jets pulsing faintly. These misguided soldiers were not his real enemy, that honour was reserved for the twisted mind of his creator.

Mental processes finally began to function rationally and he knew at last hat he must do. Decision made, he descended, aiming for the lone man’s position. He needed help if he was to return to Euthan Palace and somehow exact revenge, even if that assistance was coerced.

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Zone of Conflict

RPB-762 functioned, its pilot’s movements mirrored on the planet below. Mass projectiles punched their way through the Command structure’s thick walls, gradually wearing away concrete and steel.

The defenders knew they were to die, it was only a question of how. This gave them certainty and courage, which translated into a stubborn resistance. Here a soldier smashed the butt of his rifle into metal, there another shouted his defiance, even as he was torn limb from limb. Rapidly rotating blades shredded flesh, and RPB-762 marched on.

Sondra Laing dived to the right as a ravening beam of energy speared through the rubble; the plasma bloom burning flesh as it passed. No-one could hope for more than a momentary heroism; their world was doomed. The Protectorate had declared Gestatin a tainted world, one ripe for re-education and assimilation into the One True Faith, and the machines followed.

She watched as an arm tore through the concrete, stopping only briefly, to fire one more searing burst. There was no salvation, no possibility of winning even a brief reprieve. Her world was doomed.

*

Space folded and a ship emerged. No recognition signals were transmitted, the craft boring rapidly towards the besieged planet. The Protectorate cruiser, which sat menacingly in orbit barely stirred. A beacon flashed intermittently on the strange ship’s prow: a universal distress signal recognised by all. This plea for assistance was supported by the battle scars which pocked its superstructure.

Fighters were despatched to investigate, but more as procedure than in genuine concern. At their outer most limit of detection screens, something was indicated breaking free from the unknown craft. It was shown as debris, falling and spinning haphazardly away. Still the arrogant Protectorate forces continued on their untroubled way; safe in the knowledge that no Resurrectionist vessel had ever been registered this close to a Protectorate hub system.

They were still complaining of tedious duty as Jan fired his retros, continued whining about ridiculous patrols as missile locks sounded, and by the time they really took the threat seriously, it was already far too late.

The lead pilot was calmly recounting his previous night’s escapade as his panel began to squawk. A persistent red light caught his attention and he tapped the offending bulb, muttering to himself in exasperation.

“What the...?”

Blue-white light and a bone-juddering impact woke him, for the last moment of his life. His wing mates broke formation, twisting away from the wreckage of his craft.

“Eagle Base, we are under attack, I repeat, we are under hostile attack..”

Jan laughed as he heard the transmission, what other kind of attack was there? Increasing power, he flashed by. Let them keep up, if they had the stomach for the fight and survived his next surprise. He had bigger fish to fry.

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Outer Planetary Limits

Within the confines of the strange ship, a diverse crew struggled with unfamiliar controls. It had been a hectic journey from Jersey City; initially the crew had been pieced together from the survivors of the Protectorate’s and Jan’s own attacks. He had convinced numerous soldiers that it was in their interests to follow him; initially there had been resistance, but his patient acceptance of incoming fire with no retaliation had finally convinced them of his true nature. Then there had been the journey to the damaged ship high in orbit, where it sat on contra-gravity, humming quietly to itself. Jan’s initial attack had disabled the vessel, but left it in better shape than anyone could have expected.

The hold still contained his erstwhile companion, although the Protectorate’s commands had disabled the machine totally. It was now of little more use than for spares, and Jan had made sure a few technicians had been co-opted into service.

Now these men and women had been called into duty; gladly they followed his instructions, with the chance of striking a blow against their enemy, too good to pass up.

*

No-one was in any doubt that the unknown ship was hostile. Missiles sprang easily forth from launching bays, targeting the few remaining fighters and the Protectorate Cruiser. Jan ignored them. His battle would be more personal.

His vision zoomed in to focus on the Cruiser’s structure; jets fired, as the large vessel manoeuvred into better position, although there was confusion as to which of the approaching enemy it should target. Logic dictated that more danger would come from the oncoming craft, but Jan’s dismissal of the fighters had caused some doubt. His approach was direct; at full thrust, he tore towards the Cruiser, his laughter cutting across open channel communication. The missiles mounted on his shoulder pods, would cause little real damage and so they decided; more fighters scrambled to engage him. That was to his liking.

He did not brake. His reinforced body slammed into one of the launch bays, smashing through an emerging fighter as he clawed his way in. The large opening afforded him easy access and the point batteries could do little to stop him. Automated lasers tried desperately to lock onto the fast moving object in futile defence. Jan ignored them.

Metal screeched in protest as he shouldered his way in, Gauss rifle firing as quickly as he could cycle power. Silvered death punched through superstructure, tearing the feeble atmosphere into shreds. Men died, as hardened glass shattered and their precious air disappeared. Armoured figures move in slow motion as his lasers speared them, one after another. Pilots screamed as he worked his way down the readied lines of craft, calmly destroying one after another, until he reached the crackling energy discharges of the ravaged installations within the open space.

There was never going to be an easy access into the ship; his size restricted the use of the corridors, but he created his own passageways. Now his missiles came into play, vapourising steel and wiring indiscriminately. Gaping holes appeared, bodies spiralling out where crewmen failed to use protective suiting. He had one single-minded purpose which became obvious to the Proctorate forces themselves - the Engine Room.

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Zone of Conflict

Sondra Laing stared at the serrated blade spinning before her eyes. She was mesmerised. Death would be painful and bloody. Closer it came, skin and blood flicking away as it whirred towards her. Even as she closed her eyes she could see the horrid sight and held her breath impotently.

Sudden silence made her risk one eye; the blade had stopped, almost touching her face, as had the metallic creature behind it, one leg raised as it prepared for the killing blow. Lights flickered across the parody of its face, yet it did not move. Slowly she inched herself to one side and scrabbled for her rifle. Still it waited. Sondra had all but raised her weapon towards it, when it exploded into movement, showering her with dust as it powered away. Jets flared and she heard the roar of its departure, as it shot back through the wall of the building and took flight.

She wept. What had happened? It could not have been her actions, nor those of her companions. Something had changed and the monstrous beast had rushed to face a new enemy. Sondra cowered, her mind struggling to comprehend what possibly could give rise to fear within the cold heart of such a machine

Was the chapter supposed to end there?

Crayz9000 wrote:Was the chapter supposed to end there?

The sentence yes, the chapter no

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Outer Planetary Limits

RPB-762 poured on the power mindlessly, responding to its terrified pilot. It recognised in passing the twin shapes which followed it up from the besieged planet, registering its brother machines as they too answered frantic calls. Weapon checks flashed green and it spiralled in towards the cruiser, following Jan’s route into the stricken Cruiser’s belly.

Jan giggled insanely as he continued smashing his way into the ship’s bowels; explosions followed him, the engines now forgotten in his insanity. What little grasp he had kept on reality was slipping away. Ahead of him, a portable plasma cannon belched its charge and he staggered sideways, crashing through walls in his haste to avoid its actinic fire. He emerged in a welter of decking on top of the terrified soldiers, his weight slamming them to the floor in bloody smears. He roared in rage and used his arms to pound the cannon into oblivion.

A whirring drew his attention and he sidestepped RPB-762’s right arm, the spinning sphere tearing through the space he had just occupied. Swivelling, Jan kicked outwards and felt the satisfying thud as his foot crunched the machine’s chest plate. It was an older model, whose shields sparkled as he followed up his physical attack with a shot from his mass projectile. Two other shapes hulked through the smoke-filled corridor and he barrelled into them, using his heavier body to good effect.

The first of his attackers was driven backwards, falling awkwardly as Jan’s left hand punched through armour. With a heave, he picked up the inferior copy and swung it into the second machine, blasting it free. He held one down with his right foot, firing point-blank into the semblence of its human head. There was no remorse; it may well have been human but Jan was now in a manic rage.

Something landed on his back, beams melting armour plating and he flung himself backwards, swivelling his SRM pod and firing in one fluid movement. This was more like it.

*

“What the f**k are you doing?”

Captain Ayrton screamed at the closed simulator door, pounding his fists uselessly against its steel surface. There were two other capsules in operation; inside them, his crew fought to control their metallic avatars. A frightened face peered back at him and with a hiss the structure split open.

“It’s too much for us!”

A thin uniformed figure climbed clear, wiping sweat from his face. His uniform was stained, not only from the effort required to control his charge, but with the redolent discharge of fear.

“Get them out!” shouted the Captain, gesturing at the other two capsules, “They’re ripping my f**king ship into pieces!”

“I can’t,” protested the crewman, now on his knees as he sought to shake off his disorientation, “they’re…”

He stopped as he saw the pistol appear in his superior officer’s hand.

“Insubordination!”

The Captain’s panic had turned to uncontrollable anger and the gun wavered in front of the unfortunate soldier’s face. In slow motion, he saw the whitening of his officer’s knuckle as he pulled the trigger and felt the impact of the first slug as it shattered his sternum. He never heard the second or third shot, nor saw the Captain empty his clip into the armoured exterior of the other two capsules. Deranged, the most senior Protectorate officer failed in all of his duties, reloading once, before placing the barrel of the pistol in his mouth and pulling the trigger one last time.

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Zone of Conflict

Smoke rose fitfully from the burnt out remains of jeeps and armoured vehicles, wafting a distinctive battle field smell to Sondra’s nostrils. She tried hard not to gag as cooked human remains added their own distinctive odour. She had struggled out of the building, dragging her blistered flesh behind her; one leg was testament to how close she had come to death. All around, others followed her meandering course; dazed by the brutality of the attack and the suddenness of its cessation.

No sirens wailed, announcing the arrival of aid, there was only the pitiful cry of the wounded and the crackling of fires, which continued on even now their instigators had left. She stopped one man, shaking him roughly when he did not respond to her questioning, but he had nothing to say. Gestatin had received a hammer blow, and none were available to explain what they should do next.

Topping a rise, she saw a group of soldiers huddled round a tented area. An officer strode determinedly about, pushing and pulling his charges into some form of order. Sondra staggered on, falling amid a cloud of dust and eventually reaching open ground.

“You. What unit?”

It took her a moment to realise he was talking to her.

“Sondra Laing…they’re all gone…”

Her brain wanted to give him her rank and serial number, yet her mouth flapped of its own accord. He grunted, pulling her upright by her arm, and motioned her to follow him. As she neared the tent, she saw the distinctive glow of screens and could hear a confused murmur.

“What…?”

The officer turned, seemed about to dismiss her and then thought better of it.

“We’re monitoring the Protectorate’s emergency channel,” he said, indicating the equipment, “it seems as though their withdrawal has something to do with an attack on the Cruiser in orbit. Who, or what, attacked them we do not know. We should only be grateful that they did.”

Sondra was not so sure. Whoever or whatever could cause the Protectorate concern would not necessarily be a lesser evil.

“And our forces?”

“In disarray,” replied the officer, “there are small units still operational, but we can only hope that the Protectorate is too busy to return and finish the job they started. We’re beaten.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, resigned to the annihilation of their planet. Sondra could not accept such defeatism.

“How can we be beaten?” she protested, “Only yesterday, we received confirmation of the arrival of the Second and Third Regiments, surely…”

“They’re gone!” he snapped in return, “Those machines ate them up and all we have are hand weapons!”

Sondra pulled her arm free of his grasp, “Well I’m not giving up!” she insisted.

Cruel laughter greeted her defiance.

“Feel free,” the officer muttered, “maybe you can find some others who share your opinion, although I find it unlikely.”

She followed his gaze and saw the remains of the vaunted Gestatin army in tatters before her, weeping inconsolably at the injustice of their fate.

“Now, get out of my sight, soldier,” spat the officer, “I have work to do!”

The urge to plant her foot between his legs was almost overpowering, but instead she moved away. Somewhere out there were others like her, and she intended to find them.


Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Outer Planetary Limits

James Cameron had, in the last two weeks, gone through the rollercoaster ride of abject fear, temporary insanity, god-like worship, and now was once again trembling in terror. He had followed the booming monster into space, feverishly learning his new role and revelling in the ability to please his new master. Now, he could see the Cruiser filling the forward screen and he was petrified. Soon would come the order to board, and James was not sure he was ready.
The rifle in his hand shook, chattering against his armoured body and he was certain that all could hear it. Cocooned within their space suits, it was probably impossible for his compatriots to hear anything except their own rough breathing and the electronic voice counting down the time left to collision. Jan’s plan had been simple; ram, board and kill. He would take care of the main forces, and their duty would be to storm the Control Room and kill, or capture if necessary, all remaining Protectorate personnel.

James was not so sure of the simplicity of such a plan. He had watched the visuals of the three machines they left the planet, crashing through the ship’s skin in their haste to reach Jan. Explosions followed and still continued, and his master had been silent for such a long time.

“Prepare for impact!”

Cameron braced himself, clutching frantically at the recently welded handholds. This was going to be bad, he knew it.

The ship shuddered as its prow pushed against the hull of the Cruiser, scraping and scratching its way along one side. Rockets fired, sending steel hooks and their accompanying hawsers into the body of the Protectorate vessel. Laser batteries still fired, melting armour and auto cannons pounded away at the Cruisers own gun emplacements. He found it hard to hold on, as the ship’s crashing passage flung him from side to side.

“Go, go, go!”

His feet responded automatically, shuffling along behind his companions as they made their way to the outer door. It swung open with a hiss and he could see directly into his darkest nightmare; electrical fires sparked briefly, bodies twisted in the non-existent gravity and laser beams sparkled in defiance. One struck the man in front of him, piercing his visor and filling it momentarily with bright arterial blood.

“Move!”

Training pushed him on. Fear turned him from weakling to raging monster, held his finger on the trigger and sent madly screaming into the very bowels of hell.

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Zone of Conflict

Blue lights flashed spasmodically, turning night shadows briefly into day, before night gladly covered the tormented landscape. Sondra laughed childishly as the Defence Force jeep bounched and rattled along. This was briefly fun. She had commandeered the vehicle, bulling her way past the timid soldiers who had ben guarding it. The rifle in her hand helped, and now those same soldiers hung tightly to the flat bed behind her. It seemed that these men were ingrained with the need to follow orders; officers were no required, nor paperwork, merely conviction. There was a rumour of more machinery in the old barracks and she was on her way there.

The flash of a laser peirced the nigh and she obeyed the preremptory order to stop immediately. Each flash of light showed the menacing approach of well-armed men, and Sondra slowly exited the cabin, making sure her hands were held high and weaponless.

“Name!”

The single word split the silence and Sondra squinted in an effort to recognise the uniform.

“Last chance!”

She was close now and felt, rather than saw, the swing of the rifle butt. Frustration kicked in and she leant backwards, allowing the soldier to over-reach himself. Her response was instantaneous; right hand cupped left elbow, left hand snapping into shoulder joint. Her hand slipped down the arm, twisting downwards in conjunction with her stamping foot. There was a scream of pain as she levered the weapon clear and brought her knee round, smashing it into the soldier’s temple.

“Hold!”

Bright light split the darkness and five weapons pointed at her head, make her think twice about pulling the trigger.

“We’re on the same side, soldier…”

The man, or rather officer, who strode forward was smiling, as he held his hand out for the weapon. He showed no fear and Sondra found herself grinning as she obeyed.

“Had a bad day,” she quipped, and then added, “Sir,” as she noticed the frown of disapproval and the pips on the man’s shoulders.

“So have we all, so I will cut you three seconds of slack,” there was no smile, “and ask you again for your name.”

The implied threat made her anger rise again, but the many weapons now facing her, caused Sondra to pause. There would be time for the settling of accounts later. She stiffened to attention.

“Sondra Laing, Sir,” this time there was no pause in the honorific, “and you would be?”

“Unwilling to answer questions,” he replied, “get your unit out of your vehicle and report to Sargeant Vaughan,” now he smiled, “when he wakes up, that is.”


Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Outer Planetary Limits

Cameron fought his way into the Cruiser, even as his companions died. He was neither charmed, nor particularly skilful. His survival was more due to luck and lack of fear. Beams flashed by him as he fired back, and when his rifle ran out of power, he resorted to brute force. When his weapon was pounded into unrecognisable slag, he dropped it and found a heavy piece of metal. This he smashed into face plates, slammed into unprotected bodies and used to pulp flesh. Adrenalin-induced madness helped, as did the gore-encrusted armour he wore.

His monstrous appearance sowed fear, as did the uluating scream which rang out from his external speakers. Others joined him and, with Cameron as the wedge, they forged onwards.

*

RPB-762’s pilot only answer to Jan’s overwhelming power was to hold on. Sweat poured down his back as he clenched the controls, the machine responding by digging metal fingers into Jan’s body. It was a tenuous hold as Jan slammed on the floor, rising to scrape his antagonist against one wall and then another. It was now down to brute force; sophisticated weaponary was forgotten.

Light flooded into the simulator and RPD-762 stopped struggling as a bloody arm grasped his pilot’s skull and slowly crushed the life out of him.

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Outer Planetary Limits

Jan concentrated. This was a delicate operation and his over-sixed appendages made life difficult. He initially pradticed on the remains of one of the machines, but over-enthusiasm had resulted in compaction, sparks and swearing.

Cameron was also interested in the outcome; the initial pilot removed, he had taken his place on the bloody seat under Jan’s urging. Sharp pain accompanied the needle entry points, as his neural pathways opened the necessary interface with RPB-762. Under orders, troops had brought the head of the lobotomised RPD unit to the cruiser and various technicians were following Jan’s suggestions carefully.

Disgust had given way to fear as simulated bodily fluids were pumped clear and blown dry, leaving the suppressed AI unit of RPB-762 visible for all to see. It was a recognisible brain. The tentative exploration of the newer model did not yield a similar sight; waver-thin metal curved back and forth intricately, mirroring humanity’s greater computer, yet enhancing its beauty.

“So,” the voice boomed, “that’s what the frakker did to me…”

None of the technician’s spoke, instead replacing the shielded housing and coupling it to the older RPB unit’s body.

“How will this work?” asked Cameron, “the old connections were severed.”

Harsh laughter still echoed as pain paralised the young man, his limbs locked and held within the simulator.

“That, my young friend, is what we are about to find out…”


Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Zone of Conflict

Something was wrong. Sondra was familiar with the unit markings, the equipment and the local accents. What she was unsure of, was the manner in which orders were given and obeyed. They were too sharp, rigid and it gave her an unscratchable itch.

Sargeant Vaughan seemed normal; aggressive, overbearing and downright vindictive, but he was not the problem. The officer refused to answer any of her questions, and his men had almost cordoned off his area of operation. They stood, facing outwards, weapons held across their chests and providing a physical barrier to any kind of access. Her unit, as such, had been hurried away and she was left on her own with her new-found worst nightmare.

“You will pay…”

Sonda raised one eyebrow and jerked in mock attack. The Sargeant reflexively started away, before noticing her sardonic smile.

“There’ll come a time when…”

“How long have you been with them?” Her sharp tone interrupted the man’s threats.

“What?”

“I asked you how long have you worked for him?” she jerked her chin towards the officer.

“I don’t.”

Now Sondra was really interested, “He’s not your officer?”

“No, he arrived shortly before you did, with his men. Simply took over. He’s got the rank and everything.”

“It’s not right,” she murmured, the Sargeant laughing at what he saw as envy.

“Those are the rules,” he grunted.

“Oh, I know that,” Sondra grinned, as a flashlight highlighted the officer’s belt buckle, “but we have to be on the same side for it to count…”

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Zone of Conflict

Temporary Illumination flickered as the power supply struggled with the camp’s demand. Light played fitfully across Sondra’s face and that of her companion, as they hugged th shadows, avoiding the two guards on patrol around the parked vehicles.

“S**t´s going to hit the fan when they find out…”

Sondra smiled briefly at the Sargeant and pointed sharply at the second guard. The Sargeant nodded, waiting for her to speak.

“Already has. These idiots are not meant to be here. They’re up to something and I want to know what it is, before we bug out.”

“Resurrectionists,” muttered the Sargeant, “I never thought that I’d see one in person…”

“Listen,” said Sondra quietly, “it it’s not the Church, it’s these frakkers causing problems. For sure they aren’t here out of the goodness of their own hearts and I for one have about as much love for them as for those Protectorate pussies. Now, get ready.”

As the first of the patrolling soldiers passed her position, she rose, her left arm encircling the man´s neck, whilst her right drove her combat blade into flesh. She laid him down gently, passing his rifle to her companion before dragging the corpse into cover. Now their way was open and ahe took instant advantage, scurrying into the shelter of the nearest aircar. The Sargeant paused before moving to his pre-ordained position. Using the vehicle as cover, Sondra moved as close as she could to the command tent, and waited.


Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Outer Planetary Limits

Cameron woke, head ringing with the aftermath of surgery. His flesh felt tender, particularly at the side of his head, where tentative fingers met metal. Something was grafted to his skin, pulsing with a life of its own;its unaccustomed weight dragged at him. He carefully opened one eye, an instant avalanche of data driving him to his knees, blurring his vision. Gradually he focussed, seeing the remains of the RPB unit scattered around him.

“Welcome back,” Jan’s voice boomed, its echo reverberating inside his skull, “now we’re all but brothers.”

Cameron gathered his thoughts, forceably controlling his sensory overlaod. He was half-laid in a support chair, tubes and wires running to and from his body.

“What…?”

“We have improved you,” replied Jan, “this is a temporary measure until we get to Euthan Palace.”

Realisation struck and Cameron blacked out; his final image that of missing hands and feet and their silvered replacements.

Gestatin
Third Ecclisiarch Protectorate
Zone of Conflict

The darkness of the tent was broken only by a pulsing red light, which reflected off a strangely familiar shape. It appeared to throb evilly under the intermittent illumination. Sondra crept closer, it sat in the centre of the temporary accomodation. She peered closely at the weird symbols painted on the rear of the large cylinder, and shivered as she realised their import. Fear was quickly replaced by anger. Two of the crude decals indicated perfectly the Resurrectionists’ intent, if not their reason why. Something even worse than the Protectorate would be visited upon her planet, and all in the name of enlightenment.

The light itself came from a small control panel in which the weapon’s state of readiness was indicated. As yet, it was stable, waiting for its mortiferous parameters to be set. Sondra could not let that happen. She reached for her belt and removed a small tool kit. It was useless, she was no expert, and any attempt to disarm the bomb might well have the opposite effect. It had to be destroyed, but how?

*

Outside the tent, Sargeant Vaughan stood in plain view, the second guard’s helmet on his head, and the dead man’s blood-soaked jacket belted over his own. Things seemed to be passing smoothly, until a small aircar approached from the south. He recognised his erstwhile commanding officer in the passenger seat and no amount of praying could wish away the obvious; the man was coming here with his crew. Vaughan could do nothing, slip away and leave Sondra, or do something stupid. The Sargeant raised his rifle, flicked of the safety and fired.

*

Sondra heard the sound of the discharging weapon and knew her time was up. She had only one option. The small explosive charge she carried would have to do. Bombs like these, she had been told, could be destroyed, or at least put out of action without setting off a cataclysmic reaction. There was no other choice. In a matter of moments, she set the timer, stuck the charge near to the control panel and hurried out to join Vaughan.

“Time to go,” she gasped, “there’s a bomb in there and I’ve left a little friend with it.”

“Bad?” asked the Sargeant between shots.

“You have no idea,” she muttered, drawing her own weapon, “now, move!”

They used the cover of the vehicles to try and reach safety, but their pathetic attempts were easily foiled as harsh lights sprang into life all around them.

“You’re surrounded!”

The Colonel’s voice rang out via electronic aid, imperious in its unflinching certainty.

“Not for long,” Sondra shouted back, as she emptied her weapon towards the source of the sound, “the present I left in the tent is no party cracker!”

“What have you done?”

There was fear now, the condescending tone peculiarly absent.

“If that goes up…”

Darkness was shattered as the tent disappeared in a ball of fire. Stones rained down upon them, as they took shelter where they could. Then silence, broken only by the Colonel’s laughter.

“You’ve failed…”

In the tent, the weapon’s casing, bent and torn by the blast, gave way, a thin crack spidering its lower half. There was the hiss of escaping gas, becoming louder, and a grey-green mist hung for a moment over the cylinder, before slowly dispersing.

*

They only had a few rounds left, failure staring them plainly in the face.

“Time for a brave gest…” her voice trailed off as the Sargeant crumpled to the floor, hands clutching spasmodically at his throat. Blisters appeared on his face and exposed skin, as he thrashed uncontrollably. He coughed, blood and vomit spearing out amidst a strangled cry of pain.

“Oh f**k!” mouthed Sondra, as she too felt the first touch of the now airborne virus, her throat constricting sharply, her vision blurring, “What have I done?”