Closing the Circle of Retribution
Posted: 2005-02-06 10:00am
This fic is about an alien guy conscripted by the alien terrorist organization known as the Gamma-Sigma, which has been featured in a few of my other stories, to strike the alien government. They all belong to the same species.
Enjoy
Closing the Circle of Retribution
Brakthov stretched his arms as he inclined his chair. It was early afternoon, minutes after rush hour.
He was lanky, and gaunt, a build not typical for a youthful Bragulan, but normal for a seventy-something year old. What was unusual about him was his eyes. Grey eyes that were dead, seemingly incapable of reflecting the light that they took in. As the saying went, the eyes were windows to one’s soul, and like his eyes, Brakthov’s soul was also dead.
He rubbed his grizzly beard as he looked around him. Everything was going to be perfect. He turned on the engines of his Chorvak light-truck, got off the parking lot, and entered the spacious and empty highway. He went on his way, proceeding at a leisurely pace, careful to avoid going too fast. He checked his watch. It was the time to kill.
The target was a large shoebox shaped building that was adorned with the Imperial Emblem, as was standard with buildings belonging to the state. Though most of the building belonged to the government and was used by it, some parts were used for civilian purposes. There was a small clinic, a couple of cantinas and a daycare center. Brakthov’s superiors did not know of this, but he could not really care any less. The only thing he cared for was revenge.
To Brakthov, any amount of dead children did not matter. They had consorted with the enemy and were now the objects of his vengeance.
The eight-wheeled Chorvak entered the District of Krannisk and continued on its unbroken path. The target was in the middle of the city, several kilometers straight ahead of the Chorvak. Somewhere along the way, Brakthov made a turn and entered a secluded spot. Once he was sure nobody was watching, he exited the vehicle and checked its precious cargo, noting that nothing was amiss with the 15,000-pound package.
For the first time in years, he smiled, content in the knowledge that things had finally come to a full circle.
Just a few more minutes.
Brakthov recalled that day, some fifty years ago. He was but a young man from a backwater world near the Empire’s periphery. Laws were not rigid in his quiet home, the far away worlds were lax with the dictates issued by the Imperator, the authorities of his home even permitted the practice of religion, a thing that was outlawed in the inner territories ever since the Imperator came to power. This was why insurgents preferred the outer worlds, but the insurgents deemed Brakthov’s world little of value and his home saw no incidents. Until that day.
Brakthov was a religious man. He prayed everyday, in the morning, before meals, before going to bed, praying for the goodwill of his gods, but ever since that fateful day, he had prayed for only one thing. That the gods grant him this opportunity to return the favor that had been done to him. Finally, after fifty years, the fates had complied.
The truck neared the center of the city and the roads, as wide as they were, began to narrow. Despite the time, there were more vehicles here, though most of which were government owned, public transportation vehicles, utility vehicles and the like. Brakthov’s Chorvak was a disguised utility vehicle. He himself was dressed in the uniform of the employees who’s jobs were to drive the trucks.
The truck neared the compound and a guard came to his window. Brakthov rolled it down.
“Good afternoon. What is your business here?” the guard asked. Brakthov expected the guard to be tired because of the midday sun and not to be so eager to talk. But until the guard would show suspicion, Brakthov would have no reason to be worried, or to show any signs of thereof.
“Delivering supplies,” Brakthov replied. He had scouted the facility, he knew it was about time for their inventories to be restocked.
“What kind?”
He had the copy of the manifest in his pocket. “Paper, computer parts, toiletries, food stuffs, a Xerox machine. Some medical supplies.”
“Ah! The cantina mentioned that they were running low on their stocks. Food quality was getting bad, too. Lunch was horrible. Come on in!” the guard waved to his companion in the guardhouse. The second guard pressed a button that opened the gates, which were closed at this moment but would be kept open later on when activity rose once more.
As the guard went back to his friend in the guardhouse, Brakthov exhaled in relief and drove the truck into the compound. He would park the Chorvak in the underground parking lot below the building, near the parts that would support the structure.
That fateful day fifty years ago. He was twenty-five and had just finished his service for the Imperial Planetary Liberation Army. His seven-year tour of duty had brought him all throughout the borders of Imperial territory, into innumerable battles against the insurgents that threatened the Empire’s peace. He was a decorated war hero, and he was coming back home. When he reached home, however, what he saw was something completely unexpected, something horrible. The little town where he grew up in, where he spent the majority of his life in prior to his conscription, whose threshold he beheld that fateful day, had been reduced into a ruined landscape of toppled buildings, grey ashes and skeletons. For fifty years, the smell of the ashes and the sight of the grinning skulls, skulls that belonged to friends and family, plagued his sleep. It drove him mad.
He asked and they told him. Six years prior to his arrival, the Imperial Legions came, suspecting insurgent activity. They found that the people were indeed defying the Imperator’s will, but that they were not insurgents. They were asked to stop their misdeeds. They did not comply, instead, they resisted. The result was the firebombing of Brakthov’s town as well as the others around it. There were no survivors.
Brakthov brought the car to the west side of the building, opposite to where trucks were supposed to discard their cargo. Here there was where the entrance ramp into the basement parking was located. On his previous scouting missions, he deduced that the Chorvak could barely fit into the entrance, but no matter, if it wouldn’t fit, he could just park it outside the building, or drive it into the wall and detonate it.
Thankfully, the entrance did look like it could fit the Chorvak, but there was another problem. It was closed shut to prevent carjacking. But beside it was another guardhouse, and it was empty, to Brakthov’s surprise. He exited the truck and entered the guardhouse, pushed the button marked “open/close doors to underground parking lot’ and hopped back into his truck. He drove the truck in and turned on the headlights. He pulled out a summarized version of the building’s schematics and searched for the largest support column in the basement.
For half a century, Brakthov seethed in sorrow and anger. Whenever he was not dreaming of the ashes and the skulls, he was wallowing in hate. It consumed him. When once he was a soldier battling against the insurgents who threatened the Empire, he now sought their company. He did not care particularly for their beliefs, ideals, and notions of freedom or democracy, the inalienable and inherent rights of all beings. Only one thing he wanted was to strike back at those who had taken all his loved ones from him. If it meant the death of innocent people, children, those had loved ones, then the better, for those who would mourn for them would experience what he had experienced, what he had been experiencing for fifty years now. Still, they would never see the desolated and desecrated ruins of what once were their homes, they would never inhale the ashes that smelled so fresh, so recently burned, they would never see the skulls of those they loved, they would never see the things that haunted him every single time he closed his eyes to sleep. What he wanted to do, what he was going to do, would not achieve any sort of justice or closure, it would do nothing good, the only thing it would do was to afflict innocents with malice, with suffering. And that was the only thing he had left. It was the only thing that was keeping him alive. He had to do it.
Though on his half-century quest, he had met with many unsavory characters, probably connected with those whose goals concurred with his, he never joined with any particular organization. Then one sunny morning, after he had just awoken from another nightmare, a man came knocking on his door. The nameless man told him that he had a job for him. The man’s proposition seemed hard to believe at that time, but he was still skeptical. Then, several weeks ago, Brakthov was shown his truck and its precious cargo and the deal was finalized, metaphorically signed in blood. The man told him what to do, how to do it and when to do it.
Four days ago, Brakthov began his road trip. No longer did he dream of the ashes and skulls, because he never slept ever since. The closest semblance to sleep he had was this afternoon, he was resting and dozed off. When this was over, Brakthov knew he would have all the sleep he could get.
Brakthov parked the truck on the spot he marked on the map. The largest support column was now less than a foot away from the truck’s side. Brakthov killed the engine, entered the cargo hold of the truck, and inspected the payload. The bomb was nearly seven tons in weight, and while it was no older than twenty years, its design reached back to pre-Imperial times, some two hundred and seventy years ago. It was full of gelled slurry explosives, a mixture of ammonium nitrate partly in aqueous solution powerful enough to take down the building, and had a time fuse, as it was built to be dropped out of aircraft and to detonate several feet off the ground. The fuse was easily modified for Brakthov’s purposes.
“It’s finally going to be over,” Brakthov said to himself as he activated the countdown. Unlike the movies, there was nothing on the bomb to indicate the countdown as the bomb’s clock was housed internally. There was only a beep that signaled the handler that the bomb was now counting down and that he should go as far away as possible.
Brakthov exited the truck’s cargo hold and went to the driver’s seat. Knowing that the bomb had a twenty-minute countdown and, because of its jury-rigged nature, could explode at any time prior to the ‘deadline’, he reclined the chair and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he slowly went to sleep, where he would dream a dreamless dream, knowing fully well that the circle had been closed.
Enjoy
Closing the Circle of Retribution
Brakthov stretched his arms as he inclined his chair. It was early afternoon, minutes after rush hour.
He was lanky, and gaunt, a build not typical for a youthful Bragulan, but normal for a seventy-something year old. What was unusual about him was his eyes. Grey eyes that were dead, seemingly incapable of reflecting the light that they took in. As the saying went, the eyes were windows to one’s soul, and like his eyes, Brakthov’s soul was also dead.
He rubbed his grizzly beard as he looked around him. Everything was going to be perfect. He turned on the engines of his Chorvak light-truck, got off the parking lot, and entered the spacious and empty highway. He went on his way, proceeding at a leisurely pace, careful to avoid going too fast. He checked his watch. It was the time to kill.
The target was a large shoebox shaped building that was adorned with the Imperial Emblem, as was standard with buildings belonging to the state. Though most of the building belonged to the government and was used by it, some parts were used for civilian purposes. There was a small clinic, a couple of cantinas and a daycare center. Brakthov’s superiors did not know of this, but he could not really care any less. The only thing he cared for was revenge.
To Brakthov, any amount of dead children did not matter. They had consorted with the enemy and were now the objects of his vengeance.
The eight-wheeled Chorvak entered the District of Krannisk and continued on its unbroken path. The target was in the middle of the city, several kilometers straight ahead of the Chorvak. Somewhere along the way, Brakthov made a turn and entered a secluded spot. Once he was sure nobody was watching, he exited the vehicle and checked its precious cargo, noting that nothing was amiss with the 15,000-pound package.
For the first time in years, he smiled, content in the knowledge that things had finally come to a full circle.
Just a few more minutes.
Brakthov recalled that day, some fifty years ago. He was but a young man from a backwater world near the Empire’s periphery. Laws were not rigid in his quiet home, the far away worlds were lax with the dictates issued by the Imperator, the authorities of his home even permitted the practice of religion, a thing that was outlawed in the inner territories ever since the Imperator came to power. This was why insurgents preferred the outer worlds, but the insurgents deemed Brakthov’s world little of value and his home saw no incidents. Until that day.
Brakthov was a religious man. He prayed everyday, in the morning, before meals, before going to bed, praying for the goodwill of his gods, but ever since that fateful day, he had prayed for only one thing. That the gods grant him this opportunity to return the favor that had been done to him. Finally, after fifty years, the fates had complied.
The truck neared the center of the city and the roads, as wide as they were, began to narrow. Despite the time, there were more vehicles here, though most of which were government owned, public transportation vehicles, utility vehicles and the like. Brakthov’s Chorvak was a disguised utility vehicle. He himself was dressed in the uniform of the employees who’s jobs were to drive the trucks.
The truck neared the compound and a guard came to his window. Brakthov rolled it down.
“Good afternoon. What is your business here?” the guard asked. Brakthov expected the guard to be tired because of the midday sun and not to be so eager to talk. But until the guard would show suspicion, Brakthov would have no reason to be worried, or to show any signs of thereof.
“Delivering supplies,” Brakthov replied. He had scouted the facility, he knew it was about time for their inventories to be restocked.
“What kind?”
He had the copy of the manifest in his pocket. “Paper, computer parts, toiletries, food stuffs, a Xerox machine. Some medical supplies.”
“Ah! The cantina mentioned that they were running low on their stocks. Food quality was getting bad, too. Lunch was horrible. Come on in!” the guard waved to his companion in the guardhouse. The second guard pressed a button that opened the gates, which were closed at this moment but would be kept open later on when activity rose once more.
As the guard went back to his friend in the guardhouse, Brakthov exhaled in relief and drove the truck into the compound. He would park the Chorvak in the underground parking lot below the building, near the parts that would support the structure.
That fateful day fifty years ago. He was twenty-five and had just finished his service for the Imperial Planetary Liberation Army. His seven-year tour of duty had brought him all throughout the borders of Imperial territory, into innumerable battles against the insurgents that threatened the Empire’s peace. He was a decorated war hero, and he was coming back home. When he reached home, however, what he saw was something completely unexpected, something horrible. The little town where he grew up in, where he spent the majority of his life in prior to his conscription, whose threshold he beheld that fateful day, had been reduced into a ruined landscape of toppled buildings, grey ashes and skeletons. For fifty years, the smell of the ashes and the sight of the grinning skulls, skulls that belonged to friends and family, plagued his sleep. It drove him mad.
He asked and they told him. Six years prior to his arrival, the Imperial Legions came, suspecting insurgent activity. They found that the people were indeed defying the Imperator’s will, but that they were not insurgents. They were asked to stop their misdeeds. They did not comply, instead, they resisted. The result was the firebombing of Brakthov’s town as well as the others around it. There were no survivors.
Brakthov brought the car to the west side of the building, opposite to where trucks were supposed to discard their cargo. Here there was where the entrance ramp into the basement parking was located. On his previous scouting missions, he deduced that the Chorvak could barely fit into the entrance, but no matter, if it wouldn’t fit, he could just park it outside the building, or drive it into the wall and detonate it.
Thankfully, the entrance did look like it could fit the Chorvak, but there was another problem. It was closed shut to prevent carjacking. But beside it was another guardhouse, and it was empty, to Brakthov’s surprise. He exited the truck and entered the guardhouse, pushed the button marked “open/close doors to underground parking lot’ and hopped back into his truck. He drove the truck in and turned on the headlights. He pulled out a summarized version of the building’s schematics and searched for the largest support column in the basement.
For half a century, Brakthov seethed in sorrow and anger. Whenever he was not dreaming of the ashes and the skulls, he was wallowing in hate. It consumed him. When once he was a soldier battling against the insurgents who threatened the Empire, he now sought their company. He did not care particularly for their beliefs, ideals, and notions of freedom or democracy, the inalienable and inherent rights of all beings. Only one thing he wanted was to strike back at those who had taken all his loved ones from him. If it meant the death of innocent people, children, those had loved ones, then the better, for those who would mourn for them would experience what he had experienced, what he had been experiencing for fifty years now. Still, they would never see the desolated and desecrated ruins of what once were their homes, they would never inhale the ashes that smelled so fresh, so recently burned, they would never see the skulls of those they loved, they would never see the things that haunted him every single time he closed his eyes to sleep. What he wanted to do, what he was going to do, would not achieve any sort of justice or closure, it would do nothing good, the only thing it would do was to afflict innocents with malice, with suffering. And that was the only thing he had left. It was the only thing that was keeping him alive. He had to do it.
Though on his half-century quest, he had met with many unsavory characters, probably connected with those whose goals concurred with his, he never joined with any particular organization. Then one sunny morning, after he had just awoken from another nightmare, a man came knocking on his door. The nameless man told him that he had a job for him. The man’s proposition seemed hard to believe at that time, but he was still skeptical. Then, several weeks ago, Brakthov was shown his truck and its precious cargo and the deal was finalized, metaphorically signed in blood. The man told him what to do, how to do it and when to do it.
Four days ago, Brakthov began his road trip. No longer did he dream of the ashes and skulls, because he never slept ever since. The closest semblance to sleep he had was this afternoon, he was resting and dozed off. When this was over, Brakthov knew he would have all the sleep he could get.
Brakthov parked the truck on the spot he marked on the map. The largest support column was now less than a foot away from the truck’s side. Brakthov killed the engine, entered the cargo hold of the truck, and inspected the payload. The bomb was nearly seven tons in weight, and while it was no older than twenty years, its design reached back to pre-Imperial times, some two hundred and seventy years ago. It was full of gelled slurry explosives, a mixture of ammonium nitrate partly in aqueous solution powerful enough to take down the building, and had a time fuse, as it was built to be dropped out of aircraft and to detonate several feet off the ground. The fuse was easily modified for Brakthov’s purposes.
“It’s finally going to be over,” Brakthov said to himself as he activated the countdown. Unlike the movies, there was nothing on the bomb to indicate the countdown as the bomb’s clock was housed internally. There was only a beep that signaled the handler that the bomb was now counting down and that he should go as far away as possible.
Brakthov exited the truck’s cargo hold and went to the driver’s seat. Knowing that the bomb had a twenty-minute countdown and, because of its jury-rigged nature, could explode at any time prior to the ‘deadline’, he reclined the chair and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he slowly went to sleep, where he would dream a dreamless dream, knowing fully well that the circle had been closed.
