Malign Contingency
- Thread starter Edcrab
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Edcrab
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This is almost the end of chapter 13, so hopefully all you crazy Irishmen can hold tight 
Here's a bit of action for once...
The rest of their journey- the lengthy trek to Dmitri’s promised supplies- was conducted in near silence. They’d started off cheerful- or as cheerful as could be expected considering their situation- but their surroundings induced a kind of soul-crushing sobriety that smothered even Charlie’s exuberance.
The canal districts were a depressing reminder of City 17’s illustrious past- the waters bordered on all sides by a panorama of once-thriving factories, derelict warehouses and crumbling offices. The Combine had seen little need for many of the structures- most of which employed methods rendered horribly inadequate by the arrival of the Union’s technology- and thus they’d closed them down, demolished them, or… renovated them. The Civil Protection could employ the sort of “refurbishment” techniques that could turn the most humble depot into a place of utter terror.
They were distant- nothing more than tiny black specks hovering opposite them- but Dmitri spotted a pair of scanners, systematically searching a vast pile of bricks that was probably the headquarters of some former leader of Earth’s commercial sector.
Dmitri quickened his pace, and his team followed suite, but Nuri’s eyes lingered on the demolished edifice- the rotting masonry bobbing on the canal beneath it, the twisted girders jutting out from the rubble like fractured bones. Once, she thought, this was a place where people came to work. And one day, they had to watch it collapse. Probably while they were still inside, defiant to the last moment.
The Combine had no concept of workers’ unions or employee dissatisfaction. You worked, or you died. There was no other facet to their “working relationship” with the populace.
“It’s like slavery,” Nuri whispered huskily, “but worse, because somehow you still think you’re making a difference when all they’re really doing is sucking you dry and telling you things’ll be so much better if you just let them take the last drop.”
For once, Quarir didn’t make a snide comment. He didn’t make any tasteless remarks about sucking, he didn’t roll his eyes at some imagined human deficiency, he just gently grasped her shoulder, muttered something vaguely supportive, and walked on. Nuri didn’t even have time to say “thank you”, but she was almost grateful for that…
The ledge they walked upon widened as the canal tapered away, vanishing into some babbling pipe that constantly gushed its muddy payload. From the looks of things the plant was no longer a primary contributor to the waterways- just the source of earthy sludge which continually worsened the canal’s induced stagnation.
“I think this was purifier once,” Dmitri murmured in a rare moment of explanatory narrative. “But now we keep it as emergency base. Combine ignore it, they never even turn it off.”
“Not exactly good at its job, is it?” Charlie made a face, pointing at the disgorging muck. “Look at the colour of that stuff!”
“I think that’s a waste pipe,” Nuri said, wiping her eyes for the third time. “The clean water goes elsewhere, and they try separating the worst of the rubbish from the main flow.”
“Yes, but mainly it broken,” Dmitri said dismissively. “I don’t know how it work before. It’s not important.”
Pyotr waved all three hands expressively. “Such is life. All that is broke might be fixed, but that which is broke may not want it.”
“It’s very not important. Stop.”
They bypassed the facility’s perimeter fence with ease- in places it was eight feet of razor-tipped wire, but much of it was ruined, nothing but a crumpled heap of metal spaghetti. Ever the detective, Quarir deduced that, as the fence sagged noticeably in the middle, it was a clear sign that many people before them had walked over it…
“A lot of people go this way.”
…as was the fact that Dmitri said as much.
The Russian practically jumped the fence and Pyotr bounded over it effortlessly, but Charlie stopped in mid step, eying Nalore and his shotgun crutch.
“You need a hand?” he offered, more to be polite than from any desire to help.
“No,” Quarir said quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
Charlie shrugged and stepped over the slumping barrier, and Quarir wondered if he really would be capable of bypassing it. Holding the shotgun in a more usual position, Nalore moved over the wire bulge with a series of small, pained steps, eventually clearing it with an ambivalent sense of embarrassed triumph.
“What happened to your leg anyway?” Charlie asked, this time with authentic curiosity.
“Headcrab bit it,” Quarir said absently, resuming his gun-assisted hobbling.
“You mean scratched,” Charlie corrected.
“No, it was black,” Nalore snapped. “Poisonous one bit me.”
Charlie goggled. “What?! And you’re still standing?!”
“We bled the venom out and got him a medkit straight afterwards,” Nuri informed him, daintily stepping over the sagging fence. “He can walk, but I bet it hurts.”
“Sure does,” Quarir confirmed, immensely relieved that Nuri had successfully covered for him. He felt a mite guilty though, which was odd, because back on his homeworld (if you could call a construct like Ucelsia a world) he lied prolifically, professionally and happily- especially to a gullible little twerp like Charlie.
Maybe he was starting to develop a conscience. He found himself wondering- with a little twinge of homesickness- whether his fellow Domarian’s had found a way to remove one yet.
“Okay,” Dmitri slapped his hands together. “Supplies will be in one of these pipes. Hold on.”
The four of them felt tremendously exposed as they waited for Dmitri to find his coveted cache, although realistically they’d be invisible next to the towering water plant.
“Damn big place,” Nalore muttered, unsure whether to be impressed by the facility’s size or dismissive of its low tech components. “You lot sure it’s just a purifier?”
“I’m really not sure,” Nuri sniffed. “I don’t think anyone knows.”
“I can see air vents, pipes, a few places with windows which people probably had offices in…” Charlie shrugged. “Don’t know what anything’s for though. Don’t need to these days, considering what the Combine does to stuff.”
“You wouldn’t have understood it anyway,” Nuri teased him girlishly. “Besides, I can’t see any Combine tech here. I think they’ve left it alone.”
“Oh, I dunno, there’s that beige thing over there,” Charlie lazily indicated a blob behind a cylindrical protrusion.
“Oh yeah, I see it,” Nalore agreed. “Looks a lot like a… like a…”
The penny dropped, simultaneously, for all of them.
“It’s a dropship!” Quarir bellowed. “Dmitri, look-”
A soldier emerged from between the forest of piping, pulse rifle raised. But Dmitri, responding either to their voices or some overpowering instinct, smashed the trooper aside with a meaty fist, catching the enemy’s falling weapon before it hit the ground.
Charlie sprinted over to him with the others close behind. “C’mon, we can-”
“We do nothing,” Dmitri snarled, firing the rifle at the horde of Combine troops that had appeared from nowhere. “Go!”
Nalore fired his shotgun, his augmentations absorbing most of the recoil, and a soldier- wearing the distinctive, bulky armour distinguishing him from lesser Metrocops- flew backwards. “Don’t think so,” he grinned. “You need our-”
“I need nothing!” Dmitri roared. “Get moving, or we’ll all go with them!”
There was more than one of the bio-technological dropships- there were at least six, all carefully concealed behind whatever cover the Synth could find. There were innumerable soldiers, but also five of the white uniformed Elites; and Quarir would bet that the tall one at the centre was their old friend…
Dmitri was furious that they still hadn’t left, but directed his anger at three advancing hostiles, who he cut down expertly with precise bursts of fire. “My father was special service,” Dmitri forcibly shoved Nalore into Charlie, “I can hold them. Move! You too Pyotr, you know where to go!”
“What were you then?” Quarir found himself asking. Charlie, close to tears, was being dragged off by the more sensible Nuri, and Nalore found himself edging backwards- Pyotr had a lot of strength in those thin arms of his.
Dmitri sent another white-hot pulse round towards its mark. “Professional badass!” he called over his shoulder, “Run!”
Here's a bit of action for once...The rest of their journey- the lengthy trek to Dmitri’s promised supplies- was conducted in near silence. They’d started off cheerful- or as cheerful as could be expected considering their situation- but their surroundings induced a kind of soul-crushing sobriety that smothered even Charlie’s exuberance.
The canal districts were a depressing reminder of City 17’s illustrious past- the waters bordered on all sides by a panorama of once-thriving factories, derelict warehouses and crumbling offices. The Combine had seen little need for many of the structures- most of which employed methods rendered horribly inadequate by the arrival of the Union’s technology- and thus they’d closed them down, demolished them, or… renovated them. The Civil Protection could employ the sort of “refurbishment” techniques that could turn the most humble depot into a place of utter terror.
They were distant- nothing more than tiny black specks hovering opposite them- but Dmitri spotted a pair of scanners, systematically searching a vast pile of bricks that was probably the headquarters of some former leader of Earth’s commercial sector.
Dmitri quickened his pace, and his team followed suite, but Nuri’s eyes lingered on the demolished edifice- the rotting masonry bobbing on the canal beneath it, the twisted girders jutting out from the rubble like fractured bones. Once, she thought, this was a place where people came to work. And one day, they had to watch it collapse. Probably while they were still inside, defiant to the last moment.
The Combine had no concept of workers’ unions or employee dissatisfaction. You worked, or you died. There was no other facet to their “working relationship” with the populace.
“It’s like slavery,” Nuri whispered huskily, “but worse, because somehow you still think you’re making a difference when all they’re really doing is sucking you dry and telling you things’ll be so much better if you just let them take the last drop.”
For once, Quarir didn’t make a snide comment. He didn’t make any tasteless remarks about sucking, he didn’t roll his eyes at some imagined human deficiency, he just gently grasped her shoulder, muttered something vaguely supportive, and walked on. Nuri didn’t even have time to say “thank you”, but she was almost grateful for that…
The ledge they walked upon widened as the canal tapered away, vanishing into some babbling pipe that constantly gushed its muddy payload. From the looks of things the plant was no longer a primary contributor to the waterways- just the source of earthy sludge which continually worsened the canal’s induced stagnation.
“I think this was purifier once,” Dmitri murmured in a rare moment of explanatory narrative. “But now we keep it as emergency base. Combine ignore it, they never even turn it off.”
“Not exactly good at its job, is it?” Charlie made a face, pointing at the disgorging muck. “Look at the colour of that stuff!”
“I think that’s a waste pipe,” Nuri said, wiping her eyes for the third time. “The clean water goes elsewhere, and they try separating the worst of the rubbish from the main flow.”
“Yes, but mainly it broken,” Dmitri said dismissively. “I don’t know how it work before. It’s not important.”
Pyotr waved all three hands expressively. “Such is life. All that is broke might be fixed, but that which is broke may not want it.”
“It’s very not important. Stop.”
They bypassed the facility’s perimeter fence with ease- in places it was eight feet of razor-tipped wire, but much of it was ruined, nothing but a crumpled heap of metal spaghetti. Ever the detective, Quarir deduced that, as the fence sagged noticeably in the middle, it was a clear sign that many people before them had walked over it…
“A lot of people go this way.”
…as was the fact that Dmitri said as much.
The Russian practically jumped the fence and Pyotr bounded over it effortlessly, but Charlie stopped in mid step, eying Nalore and his shotgun crutch.
“You need a hand?” he offered, more to be polite than from any desire to help.
“No,” Quarir said quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
Charlie shrugged and stepped over the slumping barrier, and Quarir wondered if he really would be capable of bypassing it. Holding the shotgun in a more usual position, Nalore moved over the wire bulge with a series of small, pained steps, eventually clearing it with an ambivalent sense of embarrassed triumph.
“What happened to your leg anyway?” Charlie asked, this time with authentic curiosity.
“Headcrab bit it,” Quarir said absently, resuming his gun-assisted hobbling.
“You mean scratched,” Charlie corrected.
“No, it was black,” Nalore snapped. “Poisonous one bit me.”
Charlie goggled. “What?! And you’re still standing?!”
“We bled the venom out and got him a medkit straight afterwards,” Nuri informed him, daintily stepping over the sagging fence. “He can walk, but I bet it hurts.”
“Sure does,” Quarir confirmed, immensely relieved that Nuri had successfully covered for him. He felt a mite guilty though, which was odd, because back on his homeworld (if you could call a construct like Ucelsia a world) he lied prolifically, professionally and happily- especially to a gullible little twerp like Charlie.
Maybe he was starting to develop a conscience. He found himself wondering- with a little twinge of homesickness- whether his fellow Domarian’s had found a way to remove one yet.
“Okay,” Dmitri slapped his hands together. “Supplies will be in one of these pipes. Hold on.”
The four of them felt tremendously exposed as they waited for Dmitri to find his coveted cache, although realistically they’d be invisible next to the towering water plant.
“Damn big place,” Nalore muttered, unsure whether to be impressed by the facility’s size or dismissive of its low tech components. “You lot sure it’s just a purifier?”
“I’m really not sure,” Nuri sniffed. “I don’t think anyone knows.”
“I can see air vents, pipes, a few places with windows which people probably had offices in…” Charlie shrugged. “Don’t know what anything’s for though. Don’t need to these days, considering what the Combine does to stuff.”
“You wouldn’t have understood it anyway,” Nuri teased him girlishly. “Besides, I can’t see any Combine tech here. I think they’ve left it alone.”
“Oh, I dunno, there’s that beige thing over there,” Charlie lazily indicated a blob behind a cylindrical protrusion.
“Oh yeah, I see it,” Nalore agreed. “Looks a lot like a… like a…”
The penny dropped, simultaneously, for all of them.
“It’s a dropship!” Quarir bellowed. “Dmitri, look-”
A soldier emerged from between the forest of piping, pulse rifle raised. But Dmitri, responding either to their voices or some overpowering instinct, smashed the trooper aside with a meaty fist, catching the enemy’s falling weapon before it hit the ground.
Charlie sprinted over to him with the others close behind. “C’mon, we can-”
“We do nothing,” Dmitri snarled, firing the rifle at the horde of Combine troops that had appeared from nowhere. “Go!”
Nalore fired his shotgun, his augmentations absorbing most of the recoil, and a soldier- wearing the distinctive, bulky armour distinguishing him from lesser Metrocops- flew backwards. “Don’t think so,” he grinned. “You need our-”
“I need nothing!” Dmitri roared. “Get moving, or we’ll all go with them!”
There was more than one of the bio-technological dropships- there were at least six, all carefully concealed behind whatever cover the Synth could find. There were innumerable soldiers, but also five of the white uniformed Elites; and Quarir would bet that the tall one at the centre was their old friend…
Dmitri was furious that they still hadn’t left, but directed his anger at three advancing hostiles, who he cut down expertly with precise bursts of fire. “My father was special service,” Dmitri forcibly shoved Nalore into Charlie, “I can hold them. Move! You too Pyotr, you know where to go!”
“What were you then?” Quarir found himself asking. Charlie, close to tears, was being dragged off by the more sensible Nuri, and Nalore found himself edging backwards- Pyotr had a lot of strength in those thin arms of his.
Dmitri sent another white-hot pulse round towards its mark. “Professional badass!” he called over his shoulder, “Run!”
Edcrab
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Yes, I think Quarir is coming to terms with the fact that he's been a bit of a bastard in his earlier life- he doesn't seem too comfortable with the knowledge though And I'm certainly trying to take it into darker, more serious territory- they're confronting the everyday realities of Earth since the Combine appeared- rather than having Nalore swanning around as if it didn't really concern him.
This part (the end of 13) would've been posted with Chapter 14 for the sake of dramatic impact, but it's small and I probably won't have time to make any additions tommorow, so I better wrap it up while I can :x
Forty watched them escape; two humans, a Vortigaunt, and a Domarian- three species fleeing the superior firepower of the Union.
He was more than capable of taking them down there and then- picking them off with perfect accuracy, killing them all within a matter of seconds.
But that wouldn’t do- they were wanted alive, and Forty’s latest additions were not designed for pacifying targets. They were better suited for combat, conflict in its purest form- no quarter, no hesitation, just the utter annihilation of the enemy.
Freeman’s arrival had been confirmed, and hence Forty had been instructed to undergo the final stages of his development. The new installations were experimental, but he was confident of his success. He looked the same as he always had- but the clinically white uniform included smooth plates of an almost chitinous material, belying the cables and wiring that now mixed freely with the last remnants of his humanity.
Not that he retained any in the mental sense- he was long past that. But now his body matched his mind in every capacity- flawless, resilient… artificial.
The tall, bearded human cowering behind the main pipeline was beginning to tire, but a horde of dead lay at his feet. No matter- they were expendable models, as nothing irreplaceable had been utilised in their production. Inferior transhumans, the lot of them.
Of all of them- even his fellow Elites- Forty had been selected to take the last step. He alone had been chosen- him! He was now, with irrefutable literalness, the best the Universal Union had to offer on this planet. He would capture the Domarian and find if his claims had been true, sealing a wilful alliance with another space faring empire- and thus Forty would prove that his class were viable, paving the way for an entire army of his kind, a legion that would become synonymous with the Union; as feared as any ponderous Strider or unstealthy Synth Gunship.
And soon after… Freeman would be his. The Domarian's collaborators no doubt had ties to the Resistance and must have known of the potential Anticitizen's location; their tracking had gone entirely to plan. Freeman would be brought to justice- the ultimate accolade, the only task truly worthy of Forty's abilities.
But first, he would have to eliminate this rebel.
And I'm certainly trying to take it into darker, more serious territory- they're confronting the everyday realities of Earth since the Combine appeared- rather than having Nalore swanning around as if it didn't really concern him.This part (the end of 13) would've been posted with Chapter 14 for the sake of dramatic impact, but it's small and I probably won't have time to make any additions tommorow, so I better wrap it up while I can :x
Forty watched them escape; two humans, a Vortigaunt, and a Domarian- three species fleeing the superior firepower of the Union.
He was more than capable of taking them down there and then- picking them off with perfect accuracy, killing them all within a matter of seconds.
But that wouldn’t do- they were wanted alive, and Forty’s latest additions were not designed for pacifying targets. They were better suited for combat, conflict in its purest form- no quarter, no hesitation, just the utter annihilation of the enemy.
Freeman’s arrival had been confirmed, and hence Forty had been instructed to undergo the final stages of his development. The new installations were experimental, but he was confident of his success. He looked the same as he always had- but the clinically white uniform included smooth plates of an almost chitinous material, belying the cables and wiring that now mixed freely with the last remnants of his humanity.
Not that he retained any in the mental sense- he was long past that. But now his body matched his mind in every capacity- flawless, resilient… artificial.
The tall, bearded human cowering behind the main pipeline was beginning to tire, but a horde of dead lay at his feet. No matter- they were expendable models, as nothing irreplaceable had been utilised in their production. Inferior transhumans, the lot of them.
Of all of them- even his fellow Elites- Forty had been selected to take the last step. He alone had been chosen- him! He was now, with irrefutable literalness, the best the Universal Union had to offer on this planet. He would capture the Domarian and find if his claims had been true, sealing a wilful alliance with another space faring empire- and thus Forty would prove that his class were viable, paving the way for an entire army of his kind, a legion that would become synonymous with the Union; as feared as any ponderous Strider or unstealthy Synth Gunship.
And soon after… Freeman would be his. The Domarian's collaborators no doubt had ties to the Resistance and must have known of the potential Anticitizen's location; their tracking had gone entirely to plan. Freeman would be brought to justice- the ultimate accolade, the only task truly worthy of Forty's abilities.
But first, he would have to eliminate this rebel.
Edcrab
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Forty is indeed an interesting specimen- I'll have to have a think about his next appearance And as for Dmitri's fate... who knows?
Chapter 14: Going Coastal
“We can’t just leave him!” Charlie bawled.
Pyotr joined Nuri and effortlessly drew the Resistance member backwards. “Charlie will take heed- flee, or I shall render you comatose. I am quite capable of doing so.”
“Think of it this way,” Quarir yelled, “Dmitri’s done a great thing. Now either you hang around for a good cry and let him waste his life or we move! Your choice!”
Charlie hesitated for one more moment- then he turned and ran. It was the first sensible thing Nalore had seen the man do.
Gunfire rang in their ears, but it was impossible to tell whether the bullets were meant for them or were merely stray rounds. Dmitri was yelling- and since he wasn’t the kind of man to employ something as hackneyed as a battle cry, he was likely introducing the Combine to a whole new meaning of “cursive Russian”.
“There’re a couple of scanners…” Charlie stammered hesitantly.
“They’re not our problem! Less talk more run!” Quarir panted. He’d have expected Pyotr to overtake him- but Nuri and Charlie? Sure, his leg still hurt like hell, but he was meant to have a pair of lungs with a capacity 60% greater than a normal human’s- the bastards at the tech market must have fleeced him. Good job he’d given them counterfeit currency then.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Nuri called to Pyotr.
“Yes,” the Vortigaunt said simply, lumbering through the thinning array of pipelines at high speed.
“There’re-”
“Shut up,” Nalore told Charlie automatically, but then he paused.
Humming- a familiar sound. It was almost pleasant, and it carried well, stifling the noise of the battle as if it flew overhead…
“The Dropships are following us?!” Quarir gawked in disbelief, “They’re not meant to have enough sense to do that!” He was enraged that the Combine had chosen now, of all times, to become tactically savvy.
Two of the flying personnel carriers had broken off from the main group in pursuit of the assorted rebels, and they were gaining on them. “Is there anything we can do about those?” Nuri shouted in what she presumed to be Pyotr’s ear.
“The Dropships are less agile than their Gunship brethren,” the ‘Gaunt croaked. “We may be able to outrun them over a short distance.”
“And if we have to go a long distance?”
“We make peace with whatever powers we hold dear.”
“Brilliant…” Nuri was about to make a Quarir-esque reply when sparks erupted from every direction.
This time the fire was unmistakably aimed their way- it heralded from the approaching Dropships, a cascade of rounds pouring off the scant protection supplied by the ever-diminishing conduits.
The huge, almost beetle-like Synth carried blatantly inorganic black capsules slung beneath their bellies- and, regrettably, the designers of the transport pods had seen fit to equip them with high-calibre pulse weapons. Soon they’d be within such short range that missing the four exhausted renegades would be an impossibility. Soon…
An apocalyptically loud engine roared, and a rusting blue van smashed through pipes and fencing alike, skidding to a halt before them.
The back door opened and a woman beckoned at the frankly bemused quartet. “Get in!”
“Who the haemorrhaging hell are you?” Quarir wheezed, passing over the vast tract of burnt rubber left in the vehicle’s wake.
“And where on Earth did you get a working van from?” Nuri gasped incredulously.
The woman merely waved them in again. “Someone who’s offering you an alternative to being blasted into next Wednesday!”
“She makes a most valid point,” Pyotr accepted, hopping up into the interior.
Charlie allowed himself to be pulled in and Nuri barely hesitated, but Nalore wasn’t so sure. Then a warning sign inches from his head shattered; the flying shards of plastic spurred him into leaping inside the van, which took off as soon as his feet struck its floor.
The van’s gears squealed in protest and the engine sounded as if it was going to explode, but the driver somehow managed to get them going at 60 from a standing start. Nalore almost fell out the vehicle but Pyotr grabbed his collar and drew him back in.
“Pretty close, huh?” their saviour drawled, slamming the doors shut.
“Yes,” Nuri nodded, juggling her need to catch her breath with her desire for answers. “Thank you. Now who are you?”
“I’m Kim,” said Kim. “And we’re Resistance members, like you didn’t notice. This here-” she pointed downward- “is Maggie.”
“‘We’re’…?” Charlie quizzed.
A metal flap at Maggie’s rear flopped open. “You thought we’d installed an autopilot?” said a face that was just visible through the opening, “Hardly. I’m Reginald, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Quarir treated both the upper crust driver and his Southern passenger to friendly nods, but he wasn’t prepared to settle for the information they’d give him. “Yeah, hello, and thanks,” he began, unaware of the loudening humming, “but what were you doing around here any-?”
Gunfire shattered the peace and put a neat line of holes in the van’s roof; Kim merely sighed at the damage but her new comrades edged away from the glowing punctures.
“Dammit Reg,” Kim yelled above the collective noise of their Synth pursuers and Maggie the van, “I thought you said you could outrun those things?”
“On a straight I probably could, but they can just fly over obstacles,” the driver drolly informed her. “Hold on, we are almost at the tunnel.”
“The oppressor is likely to break off their pursuit once we reach such a place,” Pyotr elaborated, managing to stand perfectly still despite the violent tremors of their transport. “They intended to destroy us after a brief hunt, as Dropships are not the most agile of Synth- they would not have expected us to board this vehicle.”
“Yeah? They’re not the only ones,” Nalore turned back to Kim, who was kicking aside the scrap metal that covered the van’s floor. “How come you’re here anyway?”
“I told you-”
“No you damn well didn’t. We got interrupted by flying machinegun-things, remember?”
“Oh,” Kim was nonplussed. “well-”
There was a bang and Maggie jerked violently.
“Ah, it appears that they’ve burst our rear tyre,” Reginald informed them embarrassedly. “However, I’m sure we can still make it.”
Nuri wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but their transit became even less pleasant- the van slanting noticeably to the right and shuddering all the way. Charlie fell over and was pattered with tumbling lumps of metal, while Pyotr watched, curious at humanity’s complete lack of natural balance.
Whistling cheerily, Kim produced a small welding torch and a makeshift faceguard. She was about to fire it up when Reg spotted her in his rear-view mirror- Quarir had wondered why he bothered to have one- and shouted over his shoulder; “This is hardly the best time Kim- you can seal the bullet holes up later!”
The woman shrugged and set the torch aside. Nuri was beginning to wonder whether her friends had been rescued by escapees from an asylum- although admittedly the Combine tended to kill off the mentally unwell rather than trying to return them to society…
Charlie had stopped trying to stand up- he had the distinct impression that Pyotr kept laughing at him- and instead he sulkily sat himself down in the corner, feeling utterly blind and impotent in the gloomy, windowless rear of the automobile. “Are we nearly there?” he called up at the viewing hatch, instantly regretting the move as he realised how childish he’d sound.
Nevertheless, Reg seemed more than happy to answer him. “We’ll be there in two minutes, I can see it right ahead of our position.”
“We don’t have that kind of time,” Kim snapped, “just drive over the barriers.”
Nalore saw Reg nod and there was a slight click as he changed gears. “Uh, wait,” Nalore said tentatively, “do you mean barriers as in road barriers? As in-”
There was an ear-rending screech as they tore through the metal barricades, and for a second Quarir felt weightless as they plummeted downward. The sensation didn’t last- they struck the road well beyond the winding path they’d cut through, and the four of them lost their footing, landing painfully in the debris Kim felt the need to stock Maggie full of.
Pyotr, of course, remained upright- as a native Xenian he was used to the Borderworld’s low gravity and its forever shifting continental bodies. He felt intensely homesick, and he wished that he and his fellows had been able to ascertain exactly what had happened to their home dimension. Nihilanth had fallen, but at what price?
The only fall Quarir was thinking of was the one that had skinned his knees a few moments back. He grumblingly drew himself back to his feet, pointedly refusing to offer Kim a hand up- so he was even more galled when she regained her footing with no apparent difficulty.
“We have reached the tunnel,” Reg announced, as if his passengers had failed to realise it was pitch-black, “we should have enough time to change the tyre before those Combine types follow us on foot.”
Kim opened the door- it hit something, something which groaned in pain and confusion.
“There’re zombies out here!” she shrieked.
“That is of no consequence, as I doubt they would offer you assistance in refitting this vehicle,” Pyotr told her coldly. “I shall carry out the repairs. Hand me the ‘spare tyre’.”
Kim- who appeared near-phobic when it came to the gibbering mutants- pressed the rubber ring into Pyotr’s hands. The Vort dropped outside without hesitation.
“Grah-gaah!”
“Ni’drth tch’kul!” There was a crackling noise and a smell of burning flesh.
“Gaah.”
“Damnable hybrids.” There were scraping sounds as Pyotr set about his task with skill- not that anyone had any idea how or where the Vortigaunt had last practised the talent.
“How’s it going?” Charlie shouted outside.
“It is going as can be expected. I only have one and a half pairs of hands. K’ch’uthil!”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means,” Quarir snapped, “that he’s going to cook you and feed you to the zombies if you don’t shut the hell up.”
Pyotr gurgled in approval. “Quarir Nalore is broadly correct.”
And as for Dmitri's fate... who knows?Chapter 14: Going Coastal
“We can’t just leave him!” Charlie bawled.
Pyotr joined Nuri and effortlessly drew the Resistance member backwards. “Charlie will take heed- flee, or I shall render you comatose. I am quite capable of doing so.”
“Think of it this way,” Quarir yelled, “Dmitri’s done a great thing. Now either you hang around for a good cry and let him waste his life or we move! Your choice!”
Charlie hesitated for one more moment- then he turned and ran. It was the first sensible thing Nalore had seen the man do.
Gunfire rang in their ears, but it was impossible to tell whether the bullets were meant for them or were merely stray rounds. Dmitri was yelling- and since he wasn’t the kind of man to employ something as hackneyed as a battle cry, he was likely introducing the Combine to a whole new meaning of “cursive Russian”.
“There’re a couple of scanners…” Charlie stammered hesitantly.
“They’re not our problem! Less talk more run!” Quarir panted. He’d have expected Pyotr to overtake him- but Nuri and Charlie? Sure, his leg still hurt like hell, but he was meant to have a pair of lungs with a capacity 60% greater than a normal human’s- the bastards at the tech market must have fleeced him. Good job he’d given them counterfeit currency then.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Nuri called to Pyotr.
“Yes,” the Vortigaunt said simply, lumbering through the thinning array of pipelines at high speed.
“There’re-”
“Shut up,” Nalore told Charlie automatically, but then he paused.
Humming- a familiar sound. It was almost pleasant, and it carried well, stifling the noise of the battle as if it flew overhead…
“The Dropships are following us?!” Quarir gawked in disbelief, “They’re not meant to have enough sense to do that!” He was enraged that the Combine had chosen now, of all times, to become tactically savvy.
Two of the flying personnel carriers had broken off from the main group in pursuit of the assorted rebels, and they were gaining on them. “Is there anything we can do about those?” Nuri shouted in what she presumed to be Pyotr’s ear.
“The Dropships are less agile than their Gunship brethren,” the ‘Gaunt croaked. “We may be able to outrun them over a short distance.”
“And if we have to go a long distance?”
“We make peace with whatever powers we hold dear.”
“Brilliant…” Nuri was about to make a Quarir-esque reply when sparks erupted from every direction.
This time the fire was unmistakably aimed their way- it heralded from the approaching Dropships, a cascade of rounds pouring off the scant protection supplied by the ever-diminishing conduits.
The huge, almost beetle-like Synth carried blatantly inorganic black capsules slung beneath their bellies- and, regrettably, the designers of the transport pods had seen fit to equip them with high-calibre pulse weapons. Soon they’d be within such short range that missing the four exhausted renegades would be an impossibility. Soon…
An apocalyptically loud engine roared, and a rusting blue van smashed through pipes and fencing alike, skidding to a halt before them.
The back door opened and a woman beckoned at the frankly bemused quartet. “Get in!”
“Who the haemorrhaging hell are you?” Quarir wheezed, passing over the vast tract of burnt rubber left in the vehicle’s wake.
“And where on Earth did you get a working van from?” Nuri gasped incredulously.
The woman merely waved them in again. “Someone who’s offering you an alternative to being blasted into next Wednesday!”
“She makes a most valid point,” Pyotr accepted, hopping up into the interior.
Charlie allowed himself to be pulled in and Nuri barely hesitated, but Nalore wasn’t so sure. Then a warning sign inches from his head shattered; the flying shards of plastic spurred him into leaping inside the van, which took off as soon as his feet struck its floor.
The van’s gears squealed in protest and the engine sounded as if it was going to explode, but the driver somehow managed to get them going at 60 from a standing start. Nalore almost fell out the vehicle but Pyotr grabbed his collar and drew him back in.
“Pretty close, huh?” their saviour drawled, slamming the doors shut.
“Yes,” Nuri nodded, juggling her need to catch her breath with her desire for answers. “Thank you. Now who are you?”
“I’m Kim,” said Kim. “And we’re Resistance members, like you didn’t notice. This here-” she pointed downward- “is Maggie.”
“‘We’re’…?” Charlie quizzed.
A metal flap at Maggie’s rear flopped open. “You thought we’d installed an autopilot?” said a face that was just visible through the opening, “Hardly. I’m Reginald, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Quarir treated both the upper crust driver and his Southern passenger to friendly nods, but he wasn’t prepared to settle for the information they’d give him. “Yeah, hello, and thanks,” he began, unaware of the loudening humming, “but what were you doing around here any-?”
Gunfire shattered the peace and put a neat line of holes in the van’s roof; Kim merely sighed at the damage but her new comrades edged away from the glowing punctures.
“Dammit Reg,” Kim yelled above the collective noise of their Synth pursuers and Maggie the van, “I thought you said you could outrun those things?”
“On a straight I probably could, but they can just fly over obstacles,” the driver drolly informed her. “Hold on, we are almost at the tunnel.”
“The oppressor is likely to break off their pursuit once we reach such a place,” Pyotr elaborated, managing to stand perfectly still despite the violent tremors of their transport. “They intended to destroy us after a brief hunt, as Dropships are not the most agile of Synth- they would not have expected us to board this vehicle.”
“Yeah? They’re not the only ones,” Nalore turned back to Kim, who was kicking aside the scrap metal that covered the van’s floor. “How come you’re here anyway?”
“I told you-”
“No you damn well didn’t. We got interrupted by flying machinegun-things, remember?”
“Oh,” Kim was nonplussed. “well-”
There was a bang and Maggie jerked violently.
“Ah, it appears that they’ve burst our rear tyre,” Reginald informed them embarrassedly. “However, I’m sure we can still make it.”
Nuri wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but their transit became even less pleasant- the van slanting noticeably to the right and shuddering all the way. Charlie fell over and was pattered with tumbling lumps of metal, while Pyotr watched, curious at humanity’s complete lack of natural balance.
Whistling cheerily, Kim produced a small welding torch and a makeshift faceguard. She was about to fire it up when Reg spotted her in his rear-view mirror- Quarir had wondered why he bothered to have one- and shouted over his shoulder; “This is hardly the best time Kim- you can seal the bullet holes up later!”
The woman shrugged and set the torch aside. Nuri was beginning to wonder whether her friends had been rescued by escapees from an asylum- although admittedly the Combine tended to kill off the mentally unwell rather than trying to return them to society…
Charlie had stopped trying to stand up- he had the distinct impression that Pyotr kept laughing at him- and instead he sulkily sat himself down in the corner, feeling utterly blind and impotent in the gloomy, windowless rear of the automobile. “Are we nearly there?” he called up at the viewing hatch, instantly regretting the move as he realised how childish he’d sound.
Nevertheless, Reg seemed more than happy to answer him. “We’ll be there in two minutes, I can see it right ahead of our position.”
“We don’t have that kind of time,” Kim snapped, “just drive over the barriers.”
Nalore saw Reg nod and there was a slight click as he changed gears. “Uh, wait,” Nalore said tentatively, “do you mean barriers as in road barriers? As in-”
There was an ear-rending screech as they tore through the metal barricades, and for a second Quarir felt weightless as they plummeted downward. The sensation didn’t last- they struck the road well beyond the winding path they’d cut through, and the four of them lost their footing, landing painfully in the debris Kim felt the need to stock Maggie full of.
Pyotr, of course, remained upright- as a native Xenian he was used to the Borderworld’s low gravity and its forever shifting continental bodies. He felt intensely homesick, and he wished that he and his fellows had been able to ascertain exactly what had happened to their home dimension. Nihilanth had fallen, but at what price?
The only fall Quarir was thinking of was the one that had skinned his knees a few moments back. He grumblingly drew himself back to his feet, pointedly refusing to offer Kim a hand up- so he was even more galled when she regained her footing with no apparent difficulty.
“We have reached the tunnel,” Reg announced, as if his passengers had failed to realise it was pitch-black, “we should have enough time to change the tyre before those Combine types follow us on foot.”
Kim opened the door- it hit something, something which groaned in pain and confusion.
“There’re zombies out here!” she shrieked.
“That is of no consequence, as I doubt they would offer you assistance in refitting this vehicle,” Pyotr told her coldly. “I shall carry out the repairs. Hand me the ‘spare tyre’.”
Kim- who appeared near-phobic when it came to the gibbering mutants- pressed the rubber ring into Pyotr’s hands. The Vort dropped outside without hesitation.
“Grah-gaah!”
“Ni’drth tch’kul!” There was a crackling noise and a smell of burning flesh.
“Gaah.”
“Damnable hybrids.” There were scraping sounds as Pyotr set about his task with skill- not that anyone had any idea how or where the Vortigaunt had last practised the talent.
“How’s it going?” Charlie shouted outside.
“It is going as can be expected. I only have one and a half pairs of hands. K’ch’uthil!”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means,” Quarir snapped, “that he’s going to cook you and feed you to the zombies if you don’t shut the hell up.”
Pyotr gurgled in approval. “Quarir Nalore is broadly correct.”
Edcrab
Veteran Incompetent
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Certianly adding a lot of characters- it's going to get confusing
Here's the last part of chapter 14! Sorry it took so long...
“Do you need cover Pyotr?” Nuri asked after a few more minutes had passed.
“The hybrids will not bother me. I am quite capable of completing this task alone.”
Quarir stuck his head through the gap in the doors. “I’ve always got my ol’ tyre iron if you need anyth-”
“Chus’tr-tanigth! I do not require assistance!”
Nalore sat back, and pretended not to notice how smug Charlie looked.
“What would you have covered him with anyway?” Kim asked Nuri, planting herself down next to her. “That revolver?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Well, wasting .357 ammunition on a few zombies?” Kim noticeably cringed when she said the word. “I can’t stand them, but those kind of rounds don’t grow on trees…”
“Oh, I’ve… ah… got plenty. Yes.”
“I doubt you’d have enough!”
Nuri merely smiled. “No, I’m pretty sure I would.”
Kim just shrugged and went back to staring longingly at her welder. Nuri decided to examine one of her own prized possessions- her Arcadimaarian-infused pistol. It didn’t look any different, but she remembered Quarir commenting on the fact that it was unique. After all, how many other Earth-made weapons had been supercharged by alien freaks?
The pistol was an heirloom, and she’d always prized it above all else, but now… well, now it was something legends were made of. Except,she grinned, recalling Dmitri’s words, without the gods in togas.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Charlie said softly, as he too remembered the heroic Russian.
“Hey, maybe he isn’t,” Quarir said in an effort to comfort him, “I mean, even though he’s gone through a lot he’s alwa-”
“I have returned a tyre to the vehicle and I see the oppressor approaching!” Pyotr shouted, noisily clambering into the van before Kim slammed the doors shut, “Let us make haste!”
“Certainly!” Reg bellowed in reply.
Maggie shook as her aging engine shuddered into life, and within moments the armour-plated vehicle was roaring through the gloomy tunnel.
“We should be back home in about an hour; I think I’ve got enough petrol to go the distance.”
Maggie wobbled fiercely and a strange sound split the air.
“You’ve not got engine trouble have you?” Kim asked.
“No, I think our headlights are just starting to fail.”
“That doesn’t explain the jolt-”
“Yes it does- I ran over a zombie.”
---
They continued their journey in a state of perpetual ignorance- their only awareness of their surroundings came from Reg’s infrequent status reports. They talked to pass the time after making the usual introductions- but the journey wasn’t helped by Kim’s near-obsessive enthusiasm for Maggie for van.
“She used to be a SWAT van,” Kim explained happily, “so all we did was replace her burnt out components and tack some more armour on her-”
“Not SWAT, Kim,” Reginald corrected tiredly, “she’d have come from whatever equivalent they have over here.”
“Whatever. Either way she’s supported us through thick and thin- and whenever we get the chance we modify her-”
“I’m afraid that Kim has a bit of an A-Team thing going on.”
“What?” said Kim, and she was echoed by everyone except Pyotr and Quarir, who couldn’t be bothered enough to express confusion over yet another impenetrable Earth reference.
Reg sighed. “Never mind. You youths, I wish someone would remind you what went on in the world before the Combine.”
“How old are you anyway?” Charlie asked brusquely.
Reginald seemed only to happy to answer; “Oh, about fifty, I suppose. I never really kept count in the old days… the Combine keeps all your details on file but its idea of a birthday party is its regular Socio-Biological Integrity scans. And you can be promoted, fired or even killed depending on what those find.”
“Woah, they never did that to me…”
“Oh, they wouldn’t. You’d likely have to undertake an SBI if you were caught doing something they consider to be illegal, but they only seem to force them on you constantly if your old or high ranked.”
“Oh?” Charlie perked up, his interest caught, “What did you do before you joined the Resistance?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you… ah, here we are.”
Maggie’s brakes screeched in disapproval as she drew to an abrupt halt- and, yet again, her passengers found themselves picking each other up off the floor.
Kim kicked the doors aside and stood out into the crisp air. “Looks pretty quiet today.”
Charlie followed her, squinting at the unaccustomed sunlight. “Just looks like a lot of sand and grass to me.”
Pyotr stepped down and gently prodded Charlie in the back. “Charlie would locate the elusive Resistance base if he were to look in the other direction.”
The young rebel did so, and realised that the van was parked under a ramshackle lean-to. The adjoining building was similarly nondescript, but it was a brick structure and obviously older.
Beyond the improvised garage facility there were several small, widely spaced shacks and houses, tactically positioned behind rocks and grass tussocks in an attempt to camouflage the small base from the Combine’s eyes.
Nuri looked around, and spotted the seashore and the lapping ocean. “We must be a good distance from City 17.”
“Yes,” said Reginald as he slammed his door shut, “Grassy Knoll is well hidden- we’re more of an emergency outpost than a major residence. A place to fall back to when your guerrilla attack has failed, and suchlike.”
Charlie turned away from the village-turned-hideout. “Well, it doesn’t look that YARGH!”
Reg shrugged. “Yes, I suppose I’m not what you expected.”
“You look just how I imagined you’d look,” Quarir said truthfully- he had indeed pictured the driver just as he appeared, like some quintessential butler.
With, admittedly, a few exceptions- he hadn’t visualised the eyepatch or the prosthetic arm. The limb wasn’t Domarian-standard- it was functional but it wasn’t a marked improvement over a natural appendage; it was a slender, spring bound device that nevertheless managed to move quite fluidly.
“I’m right handed,” Reginald explained, “so all I really have to do with this thing is hold the steering wheel occasionally, which it manages just fine.”
“’Cept when it rusts up,” Kim considered, “’cause then I have to stick a crowbar in and heave.”
Charlie shivered and Nuri tactfully talked over his involuntary groans. “Well, Eli Vance has an artificial leg- he’s not the only prominent Resistance member with prosthetics, it seems.”
“Flatterer,” Reg laughed, “I’m always getting compared to Mr. Vance- albeit for all the worst possible reasons.”
“If, if you don’t mind,” Charlie asked sheepishly, “how did you…?”
“Lose it?” Reginald dragged a briefcase out of the van with his good hand, “It was an accident, a long time ago. I lost my eye at the same time- it wasn’t one of my best days.”
“Reg is a right fighter,” Kim declared, “just like Maggie here. Now if you guys don’t mind, I need to fire up the welder and-”
“We can afford to show our guests around first, Kim,” Reg said firmly. “It would be a very good idea if we introduced them to the rest of the team.”
Reginald led the way and Quarir and co. tagged on after him; and all the while Kim was muttering to the effect that they didn’t have damn great bullet holes in them.
Nalore decided not to comment on that.
Here's the last part of chapter 14! Sorry it took so long...
“Do you need cover Pyotr?” Nuri asked after a few more minutes had passed.
“The hybrids will not bother me. I am quite capable of completing this task alone.”
Quarir stuck his head through the gap in the doors. “I’ve always got my ol’ tyre iron if you need anyth-”
“Chus’tr-tanigth! I do not require assistance!”
Nalore sat back, and pretended not to notice how smug Charlie looked.
“What would you have covered him with anyway?” Kim asked Nuri, planting herself down next to her. “That revolver?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Well, wasting .357 ammunition on a few zombies?” Kim noticeably cringed when she said the word. “I can’t stand them, but those kind of rounds don’t grow on trees…”
“Oh, I’ve… ah… got plenty. Yes.”
“I doubt you’d have enough!”
Nuri merely smiled. “No, I’m pretty sure I would.”
Kim just shrugged and went back to staring longingly at her welder. Nuri decided to examine one of her own prized possessions- her Arcadimaarian-infused pistol. It didn’t look any different, but she remembered Quarir commenting on the fact that it was unique. After all, how many other Earth-made weapons had been supercharged by alien freaks?
The pistol was an heirloom, and she’d always prized it above all else, but now… well, now it was something legends were made of. Except,she grinned, recalling Dmitri’s words, without the gods in togas.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Charlie said softly, as he too remembered the heroic Russian.
“Hey, maybe he isn’t,” Quarir said in an effort to comfort him, “I mean, even though he’s gone through a lot he’s alwa-”
“I have returned a tyre to the vehicle and I see the oppressor approaching!” Pyotr shouted, noisily clambering into the van before Kim slammed the doors shut, “Let us make haste!”
“Certainly!” Reg bellowed in reply.
Maggie shook as her aging engine shuddered into life, and within moments the armour-plated vehicle was roaring through the gloomy tunnel.
“We should be back home in about an hour; I think I’ve got enough petrol to go the distance.”
Maggie wobbled fiercely and a strange sound split the air.
“You’ve not got engine trouble have you?” Kim asked.
“No, I think our headlights are just starting to fail.”
“That doesn’t explain the jolt-”
“Yes it does- I ran over a zombie.”
---
They continued their journey in a state of perpetual ignorance- their only awareness of their surroundings came from Reg’s infrequent status reports. They talked to pass the time after making the usual introductions- but the journey wasn’t helped by Kim’s near-obsessive enthusiasm for Maggie for van.
“She used to be a SWAT van,” Kim explained happily, “so all we did was replace her burnt out components and tack some more armour on her-”
“Not SWAT, Kim,” Reginald corrected tiredly, “she’d have come from whatever equivalent they have over here.”
“Whatever. Either way she’s supported us through thick and thin- and whenever we get the chance we modify her-”
“I’m afraid that Kim has a bit of an A-Team thing going on.”
“What?” said Kim, and she was echoed by everyone except Pyotr and Quarir, who couldn’t be bothered enough to express confusion over yet another impenetrable Earth reference.
Reg sighed. “Never mind. You youths, I wish someone would remind you what went on in the world before the Combine.”
“How old are you anyway?” Charlie asked brusquely.
Reginald seemed only to happy to answer; “Oh, about fifty, I suppose. I never really kept count in the old days… the Combine keeps all your details on file but its idea of a birthday party is its regular Socio-Biological Integrity scans. And you can be promoted, fired or even killed depending on what those find.”
“Woah, they never did that to me…”
“Oh, they wouldn’t. You’d likely have to undertake an SBI if you were caught doing something they consider to be illegal, but they only seem to force them on you constantly if your old or high ranked.”
“Oh?” Charlie perked up, his interest caught, “What did you do before you joined the Resistance?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you… ah, here we are.”
Maggie’s brakes screeched in disapproval as she drew to an abrupt halt- and, yet again, her passengers found themselves picking each other up off the floor.
Kim kicked the doors aside and stood out into the crisp air. “Looks pretty quiet today.”
Charlie followed her, squinting at the unaccustomed sunlight. “Just looks like a lot of sand and grass to me.”
Pyotr stepped down and gently prodded Charlie in the back. “Charlie would locate the elusive Resistance base if he were to look in the other direction.”
The young rebel did so, and realised that the van was parked under a ramshackle lean-to. The adjoining building was similarly nondescript, but it was a brick structure and obviously older.
Beyond the improvised garage facility there were several small, widely spaced shacks and houses, tactically positioned behind rocks and grass tussocks in an attempt to camouflage the small base from the Combine’s eyes.
Nuri looked around, and spotted the seashore and the lapping ocean. “We must be a good distance from City 17.”
“Yes,” said Reginald as he slammed his door shut, “Grassy Knoll is well hidden- we’re more of an emergency outpost than a major residence. A place to fall back to when your guerrilla attack has failed, and suchlike.”
Charlie turned away from the village-turned-hideout. “Well, it doesn’t look that YARGH!”
Reg shrugged. “Yes, I suppose I’m not what you expected.”
“You look just how I imagined you’d look,” Quarir said truthfully- he had indeed pictured the driver just as he appeared, like some quintessential butler.
With, admittedly, a few exceptions- he hadn’t visualised the eyepatch or the prosthetic arm. The limb wasn’t Domarian-standard- it was functional but it wasn’t a marked improvement over a natural appendage; it was a slender, spring bound device that nevertheless managed to move quite fluidly.
“I’m right handed,” Reginald explained, “so all I really have to do with this thing is hold the steering wheel occasionally, which it manages just fine.”
“’Cept when it rusts up,” Kim considered, “’cause then I have to stick a crowbar in and heave.”
Charlie shivered and Nuri tactfully talked over his involuntary groans. “Well, Eli Vance has an artificial leg- he’s not the only prominent Resistance member with prosthetics, it seems.”
“Flatterer,” Reg laughed, “I’m always getting compared to Mr. Vance- albeit for all the worst possible reasons.”
“If, if you don’t mind,” Charlie asked sheepishly, “how did you…?”
“Lose it?” Reginald dragged a briefcase out of the van with his good hand, “It was an accident, a long time ago. I lost my eye at the same time- it wasn’t one of my best days.”
“Reg is a right fighter,” Kim declared, “just like Maggie here. Now if you guys don’t mind, I need to fire up the welder and-”
“We can afford to show our guests around first, Kim,” Reg said firmly. “It would be a very good idea if we introduced them to the rest of the team.”
Reginald led the way and Quarir and co. tagged on after him; and all the while Kim was muttering to the effect that they didn’t have damn great bullet holes in them.
Nalore decided not to comment on that.
Edcrab
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I was going to make Kim spout colloquialisms, making her a corny American archetype, but I chickened out :x She's ended up a wee bit more subdued than I'd previously planned, as I imagine years in Europe have worn down her accent and mannerisms somewhat.
But I reserve the right to make Reg a stereotype since I'm a Brit myself I really don't understand why I decided to make him an amputee, mind...
But I reserve the right to make Reg a stereotype since I'm a Brit myself
I really don't understand why I decided to make him an amputee, mind...
tinyxipe
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Well, she doesn't have to spout them continuously. And there are just so many good ones that would fit in nicely. I lived in North Carolina for a few years and I should have kept a list of all the odd things people said.
Ohhh, I was hoping you had some fascinating story about Reg's background and what happened to him, and it was just an off-hand decision... *sigh*
Ohhh, I was hoping you had some fascinating story about Reg's background and what happened to him, and it was just an off-hand decision... *sigh*
Edcrab
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Oh no, I've got great ideas for what happened to Reg, but his wounds could have just as easily been fading (if unpleasant) scars or the eye alone. But then I thought, nah, hack his arm off!
Next chapter should be up soon, and it'll be a return to the whole "galactic conspiracy" aspect, as I just love penning meandering crap about space and psychotic civillisations...
EDIT: Here we are! First half...
Chapter 15: Postpoing Victory
Charlie bowed his head. He knew that the tasks facing a Resistance fighter were dangerous and testing, but he’d never imagined they’d be this bad…
“I’m led to believe this is built on an old Soviet bunker.”
“Mmf?”
“I know, fascinating, isn’t it?”
Charlie just nodded. While his “friends” had let Kim take them to meet the leader of this dreary little hillock, they’d let him volunteer for Reg’s offer- a full, guided tour of Grassy Knoll.
And, unfortunately for Charlie, the man seemed to know as much about the village’s history as Kim did about pre-Combine engines.
“This had been a listening outpost for Stalin’s war machine- well, the war machine of some mad man at least- but during the paranoid spurts of the Cold War they turned it into a bomb shelter for the locals-”
“You don’t say?”
“-and even now we keep it fully stocked with emergency supplies, so even if the Combine realised we were here, well, it’d be of little consequence.”
“Mmf.”
“We converted an old windmill into a radio mast; it really was most clever of Kim and young miss Zosia.”
Charlie consoled himself with the fact that, any moment now, the others would emerge from the village hall. They’d enlighten him, explaining their next move or their desire to set up a small vegetable farm or whatever the hell they had planned… but most importantly they’d save him from the eloquent but utterly dull Brit.
“Thanks to it we’re able to maintain contact with the other coastal bases and we’ve established a useful reconnaissance network. But it’s best utilised in an inventorial sense- we can request grain, or export our excess flour-”
“Oh, God…”
“Hmm?”
“Uh… oh, good. It’s good to see you have a working system.”
“Yes, just the other day we swapped a kilogram of salt for a little extra lumber. I could show you the records, if you like.”
“Lovely,” Charlie said weakly.
---
Once the village hall had been a homely structure- used for nothing more exciting than a bring-and-buy sale or the occasional poll of the electorate.
It was still welcoming in a rustic way- if that meant cold and damp, Quarir thought privately- but there wasn’t a single spot of empty space. The hall was packed full of everything from splintering dining tables to machine parts- presumably remnants of Kim’s pet projects. The windows had been boarded up- not in order to strengthen the building’s defences, but to hide its nightly lights from Combine patrols. This Resistance cell was under no illusions as to what would happen if one such squadron found them.
“This here is Zosia,” Kim said with half-hearted enthusiasm, as if she’d much rather describe the workings of the cast iron components around her feet, “she’s the brains of the outfit- as long as it’s to do with anything ‘cept cars.”
“Hi,” Zosia said, offering her hand. Quarir and Nuri shook it warmly, and Pyotr treated the woman to his customary bow, his hands clasped together.
“Zosia,” Nuri said contemplatively, releasing her grip, “that’s a Polish name, isn’t it?”
Zosia’s face lit up. “Yes, I’m glad you noticed!”
“I’m half-Polish myself,” Nuri explained eagerly, “I’m Nuri- I was brought over here after-”
“Nuri?” Zosia’s brow wrinkled beneath her cropped, grimy hair.
“Yes, do you recognise it?”
“Well,” Zosia shrugged, trying to force a grin, “I have heard it before…”
“That’s good!”
“It was, um, Arabic. A boy’s name.”
“What?”
“It might’ve been pronounced differently but-”
“I knew my rotten foster-parents would-”
A deep, gravelled voice split Nuri’s furious rant. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
A man had just entered the room- he was clad in an outfit that seemed part boiler suit, part cloak, part mattress, but other than that it was blatantly obvious to the newcomers that he was the man in charge.
The two Poles blushed and Quarir made a conciliatory hand gesture- he always felt powerless when other people were in the midst of a panic attack. Kim just sniffed and Pyotr didn’t even move.
“I’m Zichekoam, I’m the head of this little operation-” he shook Nalore’s hand- “but you can call me Zyke.”
“Uh, hi, Zyke,” Quarir gripped the proffered hand firmly, wondering why the man’s skin was so clammy, “it’s a nice place you’ve got here.”
“Yes, we’ve got high hopes, but at the moment it’s just a lot of grass and wood.”
Nalore laughed at Zyke’s self-deprecation. The man shared Dmitri’s rare gift- he demanded attention, maintaining a presence that made him instantly likeable. Sure, he looked as if he’d been coated in soot- so much so that it was difficult to tell where his dusky black skin ended and his shabby clothes began- but he was a natural leader. Quarir found himself wishing Zyke had been born into the Domarian Legion- he’d have made a perfect wingman for one of the stings in Nalore’s glory days.
“Kim,” Zyke turned to the mechanic, who was suddenly all ears, “would you mind taking Nuri and Charlie down to the old windmill? You and Zosia could explain how it all works. I need to have a word with Quarir and Pyotr.”
Kim nodded and dashed outside, grabbing Zosia along with her, muttering to her fellow engineer about going off half-cocked. Nuri gave Quarir a questioning glance before following the two locals.
“Now, if you two would follow me,” Zyke asked, “we can get started.”
Zyke spun round and vanished into an adjoining room. Nalore went after him, suddenly realising that the head of Grassy Knoll had known all their names…
The unlikely trio took a rickety staircase, eventually coming to a pokey little room. It had clearly been an attic before its conversion- it was windowless, relying on a swinging light bulb to illuminate the three desks that Zyke had somehow found room enough to position.
“So,” Zyke said, falling into a chair and advising Nalore to do the same with a hand motion, “he finally sent someone.”
“What?” Quarir blinked.
“Maintonon. It’s about time that cybernetic bastard sent help. I’ve been here for three years!”
Next chapter should be up soon, and it'll be a return to the whole "galactic conspiracy" aspect, as I just love penning meandering crap about space and psychotic civillisations...
EDIT: Here we are! First half...
Chapter 15: Postpoing Victory
Charlie bowed his head. He knew that the tasks facing a Resistance fighter were dangerous and testing, but he’d never imagined they’d be this bad…
“I’m led to believe this is built on an old Soviet bunker.”
“Mmf?”
“I know, fascinating, isn’t it?”
Charlie just nodded. While his “friends” had let Kim take them to meet the leader of this dreary little hillock, they’d let him volunteer for Reg’s offer- a full, guided tour of Grassy Knoll.
And, unfortunately for Charlie, the man seemed to know as much about the village’s history as Kim did about pre-Combine engines.
“This had been a listening outpost for Stalin’s war machine- well, the war machine of some mad man at least- but during the paranoid spurts of the Cold War they turned it into a bomb shelter for the locals-”
“You don’t say?”
“-and even now we keep it fully stocked with emergency supplies, so even if the Combine realised we were here, well, it’d be of little consequence.”
“Mmf.”
“We converted an old windmill into a radio mast; it really was most clever of Kim and young miss Zosia.”
Charlie consoled himself with the fact that, any moment now, the others would emerge from the village hall. They’d enlighten him, explaining their next move or their desire to set up a small vegetable farm or whatever the hell they had planned… but most importantly they’d save him from the eloquent but utterly dull Brit.
“Thanks to it we’re able to maintain contact with the other coastal bases and we’ve established a useful reconnaissance network. But it’s best utilised in an inventorial sense- we can request grain, or export our excess flour-”
“Oh, God…”
“Hmm?”
“Uh… oh, good. It’s good to see you have a working system.”
“Yes, just the other day we swapped a kilogram of salt for a little extra lumber. I could show you the records, if you like.”
“Lovely,” Charlie said weakly.
---
Once the village hall had been a homely structure- used for nothing more exciting than a bring-and-buy sale or the occasional poll of the electorate.
It was still welcoming in a rustic way- if that meant cold and damp, Quarir thought privately- but there wasn’t a single spot of empty space. The hall was packed full of everything from splintering dining tables to machine parts- presumably remnants of Kim’s pet projects. The windows had been boarded up- not in order to strengthen the building’s defences, but to hide its nightly lights from Combine patrols. This Resistance cell was under no illusions as to what would happen if one such squadron found them.
“This here is Zosia,” Kim said with half-hearted enthusiasm, as if she’d much rather describe the workings of the cast iron components around her feet, “she’s the brains of the outfit- as long as it’s to do with anything ‘cept cars.”
“Hi,” Zosia said, offering her hand. Quarir and Nuri shook it warmly, and Pyotr treated the woman to his customary bow, his hands clasped together.
“Zosia,” Nuri said contemplatively, releasing her grip, “that’s a Polish name, isn’t it?”
Zosia’s face lit up. “Yes, I’m glad you noticed!”
“I’m half-Polish myself,” Nuri explained eagerly, “I’m Nuri- I was brought over here after-”
“Nuri?” Zosia’s brow wrinkled beneath her cropped, grimy hair.
“Yes, do you recognise it?”
“Well,” Zosia shrugged, trying to force a grin, “I have heard it before…”
“That’s good!”
“It was, um, Arabic. A boy’s name.”
“What?”
“It might’ve been pronounced differently but-”
“I knew my rotten foster-parents would-”
A deep, gravelled voice split Nuri’s furious rant. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
A man had just entered the room- he was clad in an outfit that seemed part boiler suit, part cloak, part mattress, but other than that it was blatantly obvious to the newcomers that he was the man in charge.
The two Poles blushed and Quarir made a conciliatory hand gesture- he always felt powerless when other people were in the midst of a panic attack. Kim just sniffed and Pyotr didn’t even move.
“I’m Zichekoam, I’m the head of this little operation-” he shook Nalore’s hand- “but you can call me Zyke.”
“Uh, hi, Zyke,” Quarir gripped the proffered hand firmly, wondering why the man’s skin was so clammy, “it’s a nice place you’ve got here.”
“Yes, we’ve got high hopes, but at the moment it’s just a lot of grass and wood.”
Nalore laughed at Zyke’s self-deprecation. The man shared Dmitri’s rare gift- he demanded attention, maintaining a presence that made him instantly likeable. Sure, he looked as if he’d been coated in soot- so much so that it was difficult to tell where his dusky black skin ended and his shabby clothes began- but he was a natural leader. Quarir found himself wishing Zyke had been born into the Domarian Legion- he’d have made a perfect wingman for one of the stings in Nalore’s glory days.
“Kim,” Zyke turned to the mechanic, who was suddenly all ears, “would you mind taking Nuri and Charlie down to the old windmill? You and Zosia could explain how it all works. I need to have a word with Quarir and Pyotr.”
Kim nodded and dashed outside, grabbing Zosia along with her, muttering to her fellow engineer about going off half-cocked. Nuri gave Quarir a questioning glance before following the two locals.
“Now, if you two would follow me,” Zyke asked, “we can get started.”
Zyke spun round and vanished into an adjoining room. Nalore went after him, suddenly realising that the head of Grassy Knoll had known all their names…
The unlikely trio took a rickety staircase, eventually coming to a pokey little room. It had clearly been an attic before its conversion- it was windowless, relying on a swinging light bulb to illuminate the three desks that Zyke had somehow found room enough to position.
“So,” Zyke said, falling into a chair and advising Nalore to do the same with a hand motion, “he finally sent someone.”
“What?” Quarir blinked.
“Maintonon. It’s about time that cybernetic bastard sent help. I’ve been here for three years!”
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Ooh, someone else like Quarir here on Earth? I can't wait.
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Hmm, sorry to backtrack, but this won't be the last part of this chapter, it's marginally longer than I thought. At least there's quite a bit of technobabble cropping up
Quarir Nalore wasn’t speechless- far from it. But he had, temporarily, forgotten how to talk cohesively.
“Urp?”
“Well, what did you expect?” Zichekoam asked his fellow Domarian testily, “You ever heard of someone from Earth with a name like this?”
Nalore shook his head. “Blah.”
“They see me as an eccentric- a tribal human, perhaps. I’m not sure how the Earth hierarchy works, even after all this time.”
Quarir nodded, and eventually managed to force some words out. “I guess it’s because you’re dressed like some sort of plumber superhero.”
Zyke grinned. “You know how it is- Maintonon sends you down with no guns, no equipment and grungy Earth clothing to mirror what you’d worn to begin with.”
Quarir squinted at him. “What, you were wearing overalls and a cape when he sent you down?”
“This isn’t a cape- it’s a cloak. There’s a difference. And yes, I was dressed similarly to this.”
“Zichekoam is referred to as a ‘Rot’ by your species,” Pyotr droned. “I believe his garb is both inspired by ethos and by necessity.”
“What, you knew?” Nalore bore down on the Vortigaunt. “You didn’t say anything-”
“Why did you think the phoney janitor Vort went with you so readily?” Zyke scolded him. “They’ve been supporting us all the way, and one of them even gave his life.”
Pyotr bowed his head. “We have encountered your species beforehand, and we understand your plight. Although it can not take precedence over our own struggle we will aid you in yours.”
Zyke nodded. “We have Archibald- another Vort- manning the radio mast. He’s been keeping me updated on your little ‘adventures’.”
Quarir snapped his fingers. “Ah-ha! So that’s how you knew our names! For a moment I thought you were a telepath or something-”
“Oh, I am,” Zyke shrugged, “I just don’t see the point when speech is a perfectly fine medium.”
Nalore was prepared to accept that- although they weren’t all psionically proficient like the Arcadimaarians, the Domarian Legion featured an appreciable number of the six-sensed adepts. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Nalore began, still coming to terms with the fact he’d finally rendezvoused with his first objective, “are you a bion yourself?”
Zyke chuckled. “Oh, no, I don’t think they’ve invented anything that’ll work on people like me yet. I’m a serumite, sure, but since I contracted the Rot I’ve-”
“What?! I thought I’d heard wrongly! You are a Rot?”
Zyke sighed. “Look, it’s not as if-”
“And you’re walking about? You’ll start a pandemic that’ll swap the Earth! You’ll infect the ‘Gaunts and-”
“Firstly,” Zyke snapped, “the Vortigaunts seem utterly immune to all disease-” at this Pyotr nodded- “it’s a concept they can’t even grasp. And secondly, I’ve been a Rot for two hundred years. I’m quite capable of keeping my diseases to myself, thanks very much.”
Nalore relaxed a little. “So you’re one of the advanced Rots?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. I got my serum jab when I was 15, and when I was 80 I somehow contracted the Rot. I got used to it pretty damn quickly though,” Zyke finished, irately adding “It’s not as if I’m a damn Gaesum zombie!”
Nalore collapsed into a chair, and he had the decency to look embarrassed. The Rot was a disease not unlike leprosy- although it was only contagious through prolonged exposure. It effectively crippled the immune system of a victim- inducing widespread infection and even mutation- and, appropriately enough, slowly began to break down the body of the carrier.
However, in many cases, the Rot successfully bonded with its host at a genetic level, creating a genetic variant that was, if anything, infinitely healthier than their original selves- a being that could literally control their bodily functions.
“Used to be quite the killer before we introduced serum,” Nalore said, ostensibly to keep Pyotr informed but in truth to defend his somewhat prejudiced attitude.
“I have never understood the Domarian need for their ‘serum’,” Pyotr responded calmly.
“Oh,” Quarir perked up- he knew a lot about the Legion’s serum, as once he’d stolen a large shipment and sold it on- “it’s this nanochemical that alters our genes so we-”
“We are fully aware of its purpose,” Pyotr interrupted, “just not why it is so desired.”
Now Zyke looked similarly confused. “It prolongs life and vaccinates us against galactic sicknesses that would otherwise kill us! Look at me- if I’d died at 90 like our ancestors I’d have been too weak to survive and bond with the Rot!”
“You are so close to human that there is no difference,” Pyotr said flatly. “This planet’s dominant species performs admirably without advanced technology and artificially lengthened life spans.”
“Serum alters us genetically so that even our kids become serumites and keep the characteristics,” Nalore continued in Zyke’s support, both of them united by stubborn patriotism, “and yeah, I’m sure this planet was a great place, but just because we use what we’ve got doesn’t make us inferior because Earth can’t. Our tech has got its downsides, sure, but we are what we are.”
Pyotr put his head to one side. “We do recall the Gaseum hosts on Colony 351. The Gaseum ‘zombies’ would not exist if it weren’t for the Domarian’s dabbling.”
“There’s more than one Domarian district,” Zyke said coldly. “You people refer to us all as Domarian but more than half of us live in different star systems- they consider themselves entirely different societies. They made Gaseum to try and wipe out Rots- to wipe out my kind. It was only when they realised that the Rot was helping to annihilate the intarl epidemic that they tried to recall it- but by then, well, we had a lot of shambling killer mutants…”
Pyotr bowed his head again. “Please do not take offence- we were merely voicing our observations. There are many parallels between us all.”
“Not with us and the Combine,” Zyke said firmly. “I can assure you of that.”
“The Combine has forbidden reproduction here- and the Security chips implanted in Domarians toggle fertility, do they not?”
Quarir shrugged. “True, but we’re not forced into doing anything- despite what you think.”
Pyotr nodded profoundly. “Most correct. Merely because we share some aspects of the oppressor does not mean we should feel shamed. Indeed, the Rot passes over my species and the intarl plague never threatened- even though the Combine’s foul creations are also immune does not mean we should despair. It would not be a purposeful task.”
“Uh, yeah. Exactly,” Quarir chanced.
“I agree, I think,” Zyke said. “You know, considering Domarian- uh, I mean, English- is your second language you Vorts are pretty fluent.”
“We are great philosophers and judges. Is it not said, ‘Thy-irli sh’jug, dar-karuh’kilch’?”
“Probably,” Zyke mumbled. “And now, don’t think ill of me, but we need to move away from ethical debate and discuss action. I’ve been waiting three years for this- my reinforcements are here, Freeman’s here… and now the Combine are in for a world of hurt.”
“I don’t get this Freeman guy,” Nalore admitted, “but he seems almost messianic to these people.”
Zyke gnawed his lip, searching for an example. “You know Quinn?”
“The hero technician who stopped the civil war? Sure!”
“And you know Jonathan Saurn?”
“Yeah, he stopped war breaking out between us and the Anglo’s…”
“Right,” Zyke grinned triumphantly, “now picture them both added together.”
“Wow.”
“And dressed in orange, for some reason.”
Quarir Nalore wasn’t speechless- far from it. But he had, temporarily, forgotten how to talk cohesively.
“Urp?”
“Well, what did you expect?” Zichekoam asked his fellow Domarian testily, “You ever heard of someone from Earth with a name like this?”
Nalore shook his head. “Blah.”
“They see me as an eccentric- a tribal human, perhaps. I’m not sure how the Earth hierarchy works, even after all this time.”
Quarir nodded, and eventually managed to force some words out. “I guess it’s because you’re dressed like some sort of plumber superhero.”
Zyke grinned. “You know how it is- Maintonon sends you down with no guns, no equipment and grungy Earth clothing to mirror what you’d worn to begin with.”
Quarir squinted at him. “What, you were wearing overalls and a cape when he sent you down?”
“This isn’t a cape- it’s a cloak. There’s a difference. And yes, I was dressed similarly to this.”
“Zichekoam is referred to as a ‘Rot’ by your species,” Pyotr droned. “I believe his garb is both inspired by ethos and by necessity.”
“What, you knew?” Nalore bore down on the Vortigaunt. “You didn’t say anything-”
“Why did you think the phoney janitor Vort went with you so readily?” Zyke scolded him. “They’ve been supporting us all the way, and one of them even gave his life.”
Pyotr bowed his head. “We have encountered your species beforehand, and we understand your plight. Although it can not take precedence over our own struggle we will aid you in yours.”
Zyke nodded. “We have Archibald- another Vort- manning the radio mast. He’s been keeping me updated on your little ‘adventures’.”
Quarir snapped his fingers. “Ah-ha! So that’s how you knew our names! For a moment I thought you were a telepath or something-”
“Oh, I am,” Zyke shrugged, “I just don’t see the point when speech is a perfectly fine medium.”
Nalore was prepared to accept that- although they weren’t all psionically proficient like the Arcadimaarians, the Domarian Legion featured an appreciable number of the six-sensed adepts. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Nalore began, still coming to terms with the fact he’d finally rendezvoused with his first objective, “are you a bion yourself?”
Zyke chuckled. “Oh, no, I don’t think they’ve invented anything that’ll work on people like me yet. I’m a serumite, sure, but since I contracted the Rot I’ve-”
“What?! I thought I’d heard wrongly! You are a Rot?”
Zyke sighed. “Look, it’s not as if-”
“And you’re walking about? You’ll start a pandemic that’ll swap the Earth! You’ll infect the ‘Gaunts and-”
“Firstly,” Zyke snapped, “the Vortigaunts seem utterly immune to all disease-” at this Pyotr nodded- “it’s a concept they can’t even grasp. And secondly, I’ve been a Rot for two hundred years. I’m quite capable of keeping my diseases to myself, thanks very much.”
Nalore relaxed a little. “So you’re one of the advanced Rots?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. I got my serum jab when I was 15, and when I was 80 I somehow contracted the Rot. I got used to it pretty damn quickly though,” Zyke finished, irately adding “It’s not as if I’m a damn Gaesum zombie!”
Nalore collapsed into a chair, and he had the decency to look embarrassed. The Rot was a disease not unlike leprosy- although it was only contagious through prolonged exposure. It effectively crippled the immune system of a victim- inducing widespread infection and even mutation- and, appropriately enough, slowly began to break down the body of the carrier.
However, in many cases, the Rot successfully bonded with its host at a genetic level, creating a genetic variant that was, if anything, infinitely healthier than their original selves- a being that could literally control their bodily functions.
“Used to be quite the killer before we introduced serum,” Nalore said, ostensibly to keep Pyotr informed but in truth to defend his somewhat prejudiced attitude.
“I have never understood the Domarian need for their ‘serum’,” Pyotr responded calmly.
“Oh,” Quarir perked up- he knew a lot about the Legion’s serum, as once he’d stolen a large shipment and sold it on- “it’s this nanochemical that alters our genes so we-”
“We are fully aware of its purpose,” Pyotr interrupted, “just not why it is so desired.”
Now Zyke looked similarly confused. “It prolongs life and vaccinates us against galactic sicknesses that would otherwise kill us! Look at me- if I’d died at 90 like our ancestors I’d have been too weak to survive and bond with the Rot!”
“You are so close to human that there is no difference,” Pyotr said flatly. “This planet’s dominant species performs admirably without advanced technology and artificially lengthened life spans.”
“Serum alters us genetically so that even our kids become serumites and keep the characteristics,” Nalore continued in Zyke’s support, both of them united by stubborn patriotism, “and yeah, I’m sure this planet was a great place, but just because we use what we’ve got doesn’t make us inferior because Earth can’t. Our tech has got its downsides, sure, but we are what we are.”
Pyotr put his head to one side. “We do recall the Gaseum hosts on Colony 351. The Gaseum ‘zombies’ would not exist if it weren’t for the Domarian’s dabbling.”
“There’s more than one Domarian district,” Zyke said coldly. “You people refer to us all as Domarian but more than half of us live in different star systems- they consider themselves entirely different societies. They made Gaseum to try and wipe out Rots- to wipe out my kind. It was only when they realised that the Rot was helping to annihilate the intarl epidemic that they tried to recall it- but by then, well, we had a lot of shambling killer mutants…”
Pyotr bowed his head again. “Please do not take offence- we were merely voicing our observations. There are many parallels between us all.”
“Not with us and the Combine,” Zyke said firmly. “I can assure you of that.”
“The Combine has forbidden reproduction here- and the Security chips implanted in Domarians toggle fertility, do they not?”
Quarir shrugged. “True, but we’re not forced into doing anything- despite what you think.”
Pyotr nodded profoundly. “Most correct. Merely because we share some aspects of the oppressor does not mean we should feel shamed. Indeed, the Rot passes over my species and the intarl plague never threatened- even though the Combine’s foul creations are also immune does not mean we should despair. It would not be a purposeful task.”
“Uh, yeah. Exactly,” Quarir chanced.
“I agree, I think,” Zyke said. “You know, considering Domarian- uh, I mean, English- is your second language you Vorts are pretty fluent.”
“We are great philosophers and judges. Is it not said, ‘Thy-irli sh’jug, dar-karuh’kilch’?”
“Probably,” Zyke mumbled. “And now, don’t think ill of me, but we need to move away from ethical debate and discuss action. I’ve been waiting three years for this- my reinforcements are here, Freeman’s here… and now the Combine are in for a world of hurt.”
“I don’t get this Freeman guy,” Nalore admitted, “but he seems almost messianic to these people.”
Zyke gnawed his lip, searching for an example. “You know Quinn?”
“The hero technician who stopped the civil war? Sure!”
“And you know Jonathan Saurn?”
“Yeah, he stopped war breaking out between us and the Anglo’s…”
“Right,” Zyke grinned triumphantly, “now picture them both added together.”
“Wow.”
“And dressed in orange, for some reason.”
Edcrab
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Since I don't want any further damage to be inflicted on the furniture, here's the end of 15. What's the view on chapter length anyway? More book-like size or is the briefer approach I've adopted for the forum more prefferable?
Nuri had wondered why they hadn’t seen the windmill when they first arrived at Grassy Knoll- but on actually arriving there it was made clear.
She’d expected some classical, wooden-slatted giant fresh from a pre-Combine musical, but the reality was very different; a collection of poles, cogs, and corrugated iron, lashed together with rope. The rotors themselves looked absolutely lethal; part agricultural apparatus, part blender.
As Reginald cheerfully described (much to Charlie’s dismay), the mill was part flour-grinder, part turbine, and part antenna. Despite its height and the many cables that led from it, it was so slender compared to the neighbouring buildings that there was little chance of a Combine scout spotting anything out of the ordinary.
“We’d invite you in,” Kim told them, “but there’s just one ladder and Archie tends to get grouchy if we send in visitors. It’s a bit cramped in there.”
“I’ll say,” Zosia smiled, “there’s enough bare wiring and exposed axels inside to let Kim refit Maggie twice over.”
“Doesn’t exactly sound safe,” Charlie mumbled, warily eying the ramshackle tower.
“Vorts are electric’ly resistant and pretty damn patient,” Kim replied. “We made the place with Archie in mind- Vorts love having jobs. They like to feel needed.”
“Don’t we all?” Zosia sidled over to the mill and rapped her knuckles on a loose sheet. “Archie! You’ve got visitors!”
The improvised gong echoed around half the village. Eventually, a muffled but clearly rather agitated voice responded; “Kindly desist. I am operating the radio transmitter.”
Kim roughly pushed past Zosia to stick her head through the door and bellow up the ladder. “What? Who’s on the other side?”
“I believe that Aegis Patrol has finally returned,” Archibald replied touchily. “Be silent.”
Kim dashed outside and looked around wildly. “I don’t see nothing.”
“What are we looking for?” Charlie asked, but he was ignored. He was perfectly used to this, however, and he continued to scan the horizon aimlessly.
“I see something,” Nuri called, pointing over the endless tussocks of the coast.
A small convoy of shapeless vehicles- nothing more than blots of black speeding across the sands- was headed their way.
“There’s a lot less of them,” Zosia gasped.
“Hell, one’s on fire,” Kim swore.
“Reporting is my task,” Archibald bellowed gutturally. “If you wish to be useful ready your garage for emergency repairs.”
“You want my honest opinion?” Quarir looked at Zyke as if he’d just requested a plateful of his own toenail clippings.
“Of course,” Zyke swept his arms out expressively, “I value your input- you’re the first Domarian I’ve seen in years!”
“Well…”
“Yes?”
“I think your plan really sucks.”
“What?”
“It’s just that City 17 is like… like… well, it’s the Combine capital here, from what I’ve heard. It’s fortified, it’s got force fields at all the major entrances, and they’ve got thousands of troops and all those Synth-”
“It wouldn’t be the easiest of options,” Zyke admitted, unused to being admonished, “but it’s Maintonon’s plan.”
“Oh yeah? What would he know?”
“He’s millions of years old and he helped us win two of the bloodiest wars in history,” Zyke exhaled, “there’s a precedent.”
“You were calling him a cybernetic bastard a few moments ago!”
“He is a cybernetic bastard! But it doesn’t mean I don’t recognise tactical skill when I see it!”
“Bullshit! He wants to save this planet? Send a few Grandcruisers! They can bombard this place from orbit and practically tear the planet in half!”
“They outnumber us. We need to be covert!”
“Covert?! We wiped the floor with the Ploror Conglomerate, and they outnumbered us three to one!”
“The Combine outnumber us thousands to one,” Zyke snapped, “and the Conglomerate couldn’t teleport ready-built fortresses onto our planets. The issue is working against the Combine but not letting them think we’re a threat. They barely know of our existence, and we want to keep it that way!”
Pyotr decided to interject. “That is correct- they are aware of your approximate position but as a space faring race you are too strong to invade at this point in time. The Combine is encountering difficulties on many fronts, and they would not risk their hold on your neighbouring quadrants just to take yours.”
“That’s what they said about the Arcadimaarians,” Nalore spat, “and look what they’re trying to do-”
Zyke stood up. “We haven’t seen Arc activity in decades, Quarir.”
“Oh yeah?” Quarir opened his jacket and whipped something out. “Look at this!”
For a moment Zichekoam thought Nalore had torn his belt off for some unfathomable reason, but he faced something far worse than falling trousers. “That’s an Arc amplifier gauntlet! What the hell…?”
Quarir grimly turned the object over so his latest comrade could examine it better. “I found a Zealot here- or more accurately, a Zealot found me. If it wasn’t for some Combine guy I’d be dead-”
“Wait, wait,” Zyke rubbed his forehead. “You’ve seen an Arc here and you didn’t say anything? And it was a Zealot?”
Pyotr perked up again. “That was the entity that severed the tie of-”
“You knew too? And none of you thought this might be worth mentioning to me?”
Quarir shrugged, realising he had a point. “Well…”
“And on top of it all, there’s a ‘Combine guy’ capable of taking on a Zealot? And winning?”
“Uh, it got the jump on him but yeah, it seemed pretty tough…”
“God damn! What were you before Maintonon recruited you? A beffing comedian?”
“Since you asked- a serial con artist and millionaire.”
“I had to ask, didn’t I?”
“I am sorry to disrupt your important musings,” Pyotr interrupted solemnly, “but I have received news from ‘Archibald’. It is of the utmost importance.”
“Wish I was telepathic,” Nalore shook his head in awe.
“It’s overrated,” Zyke sniffed, “I haven’t met anyone worth reading.”
“Hey!”
Nuri had wondered why they hadn’t seen the windmill when they first arrived at Grassy Knoll- but on actually arriving there it was made clear.
She’d expected some classical, wooden-slatted giant fresh from a pre-Combine musical, but the reality was very different; a collection of poles, cogs, and corrugated iron, lashed together with rope. The rotors themselves looked absolutely lethal; part agricultural apparatus, part blender.
As Reginald cheerfully described (much to Charlie’s dismay), the mill was part flour-grinder, part turbine, and part antenna. Despite its height and the many cables that led from it, it was so slender compared to the neighbouring buildings that there was little chance of a Combine scout spotting anything out of the ordinary.
“We’d invite you in,” Kim told them, “but there’s just one ladder and Archie tends to get grouchy if we send in visitors. It’s a bit cramped in there.”
“I’ll say,” Zosia smiled, “there’s enough bare wiring and exposed axels inside to let Kim refit Maggie twice over.”
“Doesn’t exactly sound safe,” Charlie mumbled, warily eying the ramshackle tower.
“Vorts are electric’ly resistant and pretty damn patient,” Kim replied. “We made the place with Archie in mind- Vorts love having jobs. They like to feel needed.”
“Don’t we all?” Zosia sidled over to the mill and rapped her knuckles on a loose sheet. “Archie! You’ve got visitors!”
The improvised gong echoed around half the village. Eventually, a muffled but clearly rather agitated voice responded; “Kindly desist. I am operating the radio transmitter.”
Kim roughly pushed past Zosia to stick her head through the door and bellow up the ladder. “What? Who’s on the other side?”
“I believe that Aegis Patrol has finally returned,” Archibald replied touchily. “Be silent.”
Kim dashed outside and looked around wildly. “I don’t see nothing.”
“What are we looking for?” Charlie asked, but he was ignored. He was perfectly used to this, however, and he continued to scan the horizon aimlessly.
“I see something,” Nuri called, pointing over the endless tussocks of the coast.
A small convoy of shapeless vehicles- nothing more than blots of black speeding across the sands- was headed their way.
“There’s a lot less of them,” Zosia gasped.
“Hell, one’s on fire,” Kim swore.
“Reporting is my task,” Archibald bellowed gutturally. “If you wish to be useful ready your garage for emergency repairs.”
---
“You want my honest opinion?” Quarir looked at Zyke as if he’d just requested a plateful of his own toenail clippings.
“Of course,” Zyke swept his arms out expressively, “I value your input- you’re the first Domarian I’ve seen in years!”
“Well…”
“Yes?”
“I think your plan really sucks.”
“What?”
“It’s just that City 17 is like… like… well, it’s the Combine capital here, from what I’ve heard. It’s fortified, it’s got force fields at all the major entrances, and they’ve got thousands of troops and all those Synth-”
“It wouldn’t be the easiest of options,” Zyke admitted, unused to being admonished, “but it’s Maintonon’s plan.”
“Oh yeah? What would he know?”
“He’s millions of years old and he helped us win two of the bloodiest wars in history,” Zyke exhaled, “there’s a precedent.”
“You were calling him a cybernetic bastard a few moments ago!”
“He is a cybernetic bastard! But it doesn’t mean I don’t recognise tactical skill when I see it!”
“Bullshit! He wants to save this planet? Send a few Grandcruisers! They can bombard this place from orbit and practically tear the planet in half!”
“They outnumber us. We need to be covert!”
“Covert?! We wiped the floor with the Ploror Conglomerate, and they outnumbered us three to one!”
“The Combine outnumber us thousands to one,” Zyke snapped, “and the Conglomerate couldn’t teleport ready-built fortresses onto our planets. The issue is working against the Combine but not letting them think we’re a threat. They barely know of our existence, and we want to keep it that way!”
Pyotr decided to interject. “That is correct- they are aware of your approximate position but as a space faring race you are too strong to invade at this point in time. The Combine is encountering difficulties on many fronts, and they would not risk their hold on your neighbouring quadrants just to take yours.”
“That’s what they said about the Arcadimaarians,” Nalore spat, “and look what they’re trying to do-”
Zyke stood up. “We haven’t seen Arc activity in decades, Quarir.”
“Oh yeah?” Quarir opened his jacket and whipped something out. “Look at this!”
For a moment Zichekoam thought Nalore had torn his belt off for some unfathomable reason, but he faced something far worse than falling trousers. “That’s an Arc amplifier gauntlet! What the hell…?”
Quarir grimly turned the object over so his latest comrade could examine it better. “I found a Zealot here- or more accurately, a Zealot found me. If it wasn’t for some Combine guy I’d be dead-”
“Wait, wait,” Zyke rubbed his forehead. “You’ve seen an Arc here and you didn’t say anything? And it was a Zealot?”
Pyotr perked up again. “That was the entity that severed the tie of-”
“You knew too? And none of you thought this might be worth mentioning to me?”
Quarir shrugged, realising he had a point. “Well…”
“And on top of it all, there’s a ‘Combine guy’ capable of taking on a Zealot? And winning?”
“Uh, it got the jump on him but yeah, it seemed pretty tough…”
“God damn! What were you before Maintonon recruited you? A beffing comedian?”
“Since you asked- a serial con artist and millionaire.”
“I had to ask, didn’t I?”
“I am sorry to disrupt your important musings,” Pyotr interrupted solemnly, “but I have received news from ‘Archibald’. It is of the utmost importance.”
“Wish I was telepathic,” Nalore shook his head in awe.
“It’s overrated,” Zyke sniffed, “I haven’t met anyone worth reading.”
“Hey!”
tinyxipe
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I like the size you've been posting, although they seem to be getting a bit shorter. They're easy enough to read in one sitting and you post them often enough to keep me happy.
I'm glad you decided to stick with the Vorts. I like how you've been writing them.
On an off topic note, I was out to lunch yesterday and we had a waitress who looked remarkably like Alyx. The strangest thing was though, when she opened her mouth, the oddest mixture of British/Southern accent came out. :O All I could think of was that it was exactly how I imagined Kim speaking. I had to hide behind my menu for a moment so I wouldn't look like a fool. I couldn't even share my amusement with my friends as none of them would have understood without extensive explanation.
I'm glad you decided to stick with the Vorts. I like how you've been writing them.
On an off topic note, I was out to lunch yesterday and we had a waitress who looked remarkably like Alyx. The strangest thing was though, when she opened her mouth, the oddest mixture of British/Southern accent came out. :O All I could think of was that it was exactly how I imagined Kim speaking. I had to hide behind my menu for a moment so I wouldn't look like a fool. I couldn't even share my amusement with my friends as none of them would have understood without extensive explanation.
Edcrab
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I might try and lengthen the chapters a little more, although I've also got used to their size.... I'm glad to see the Vorts are as popular as ever
And it's funny you mention that, because the other day a friend introduced me to an old colleague of his father's: and he looked and sounded just like Eli Vance. I was literally dumbstruck, but managed to pass it off as a coughing fit
Like you said, what would you say? "Oh, you look just like a character from a PC game"? One particular aspect made it even worse... "By the way, did you know your little brother looks just like Charlie? He's this strange greasy guy from this fanfic, see, which is like something I wrote set in a game universe, and you look just how I imagine him..." ...Yeah, it's easy to see the problem!
Might be a little while before I get the next installment up- and on the subject of off-topic-ness (yay for coining new words), how's Desperate Measures coming on? We're waiting with baited breath...
And it's funny you mention that, because the other day a friend introduced me to an old colleague of his father's: and he looked and sounded just like Eli Vance. I was literally dumbstruck, but managed to pass it off as a coughing fit
Like you said, what would you say? "Oh, you look just like a character from a PC game"? One particular aspect made it even worse... "By the way, did you know your little brother looks just like Charlie? He's this strange greasy guy from this fanfic, see, which is like something I wrote set in a game universe, and you look just how I imagine him..." ...Yeah, it's easy to see the problem!
Might be a little while before I get the next installment up- and on the subject of off-topic-ness (yay for coining new words), how's Desperate Measures coming on? We're waiting with baited breath...
Edcrab
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Despite reeling from the impact of tinyxipe's chapter conculsion I'm trying to soldier on...
“Aegis?” Quarir rolled his eyes. “That’s original.”
Zichekoam gave the man a disapproving look and continued walking. “It’s practically traditional. You’d be hard pressed to find any organisation anywhere without a squad, weapon or vehicle called ‘Aegis’.”
“So you named it yourself? You’ve been busy.”
Zyke drew his cloak about him to shield him from the wind- his garb looked far less ludicrous when his overalls were concealed. “This place wasn’t even a real Resistance cell when I arrived- it was just a hideout for a ragtag bunch of fugitives.”
“And you popped up dressed like Superplumber and they decided to make you their leader, right?”
“More or less,” Zyke pointedly ignored the jibe, “although it took a while to get things going. When Kim and Reg turned up in this smoking, rattling thing they pass off as a van I decided to fortify the place-”
Nalore looked around at the village and snorted. “You call this fortified?”
“Fortification of the spirit is just as vital as the fortification of the dwelling,” Pyotr said, making his usual (and unwelcome) philosophical contribution.
“Oh yeah? I’ve never seen a fortified spirit block missiles-”
“I was referring to making the place a bit more functional,” Zyke snapped at them. “I paired Kim off with Zosia and they managed to turn the mill into a radio transmitter, and we contacted other bases. We ended up as perfectly useful outpost for refuelling and restocking Resistance expeditions.”
“I bet you’re very proud.”
“Yeah, I am,” Zyke whirled on him, and Nalore suddenly realised just how tall the Rot was. “What were you doing two years ago? Hmm? Sitting down guzzling champagne?” Nalore couldn’t think of anything to say, but Zyke wasn’t waiting for a response. “I was here, making a difference. The people here have something to fight for. I help them, I help us.”
“Uh… yeah,” Quarir squeaked, “you’ve done a good job and I bet they all appreciate it.”
Zyke harrumphed and brushed past the innumerable tufts of grass that cropped up all over Grassy Knoll. He stopped, and Quarir did likewise, only just managing to prevent himself blundering over a rocky ledge that the sward had screened from view. The cliff overlooked a swathe of sandy beach, curving downward to meet the outcropping that was the bedrock of the refitted windmill.
“As ‘Archibald’ did inform, Aegis have returned, but they are depleted.” Pyotr trotted down towards the windmill, where a small huddle of figures was waving and pointing at the approaching patrol.
“Lot of vehicles there,” Quarir mused, slowly following the Vortigaunt but rarely taking his eyes from the convoy. “You responsible?”
“No, the patrol was made up by our neighbours to keep an eye on Combine activity. Thanks to our radio mast they can transmit far and wide,” Zyke explained proudly. “There’s one or two of them missing, though…”
“Maybe they got attacked?”
“Quite likely. There’s a good chance they broke up to inform the outlying bases.”
The first member of the Aegis contingent pulled up at the windmill just as Nalore and Zyke did. The lead vehicle was a compact, battered car, covered with mismatched plating.
Kim hopped down from the boulder she was using as a vantage point. “You can drive into the garage,” she shouted, waving for the car to go on, “we can refill your tanks and get you-”
“No time!” the helmeted driver bellowed, “Combine are following us! You need to find space to hide all of us, or else it’s over!”
The dented sports car spewed sand in all directions as it roared towards the open shack Kim affectionately referred to as the “East Garage”.
“Have we got enough room for them?” Zyke yelled at his dumbstruck subordinates.
“The buggy and the trike will probably both fit in the West Garage,” Kim calculated, “but I’ll have to clear some space in my workshop if we want to fit their truck in next to Maggie-”
“Then do it! Zosia, go and help her. You too Reg, if you’re up for it.”
“Always am,” Reginald pulled off a teasing salute with his stiff left arm and enthusiastically followed the two women.
“Archie- or you Pyotr- can you pick up on any Vorts? Or are they all human?”
The two Vortigaunts shook their heads sadly. “There is no presence to detect,” Pyotr murmured.
“Damn… get back in and man the radio,” Zyke told Archibald, but the especially wizened Vortigaunt was already on the move. “See if you can find out what’s following them and how far behind it is. I’ll have a word with the guy in the car- Quarir, you stay here, and direct them to the West Garage and workshop!” Zyke called over his shoulder, heading to the shack where the Aegis patrolman was hurriedly trying to draw the sliding door shut over his precious car.
“Uh,” Nalore looked around wildly- Archibald was running back to the mast with the familiar gait common to all ‘Gaunts, Kim and her team were vanishing around the other side of the base, and Zyke was screaming at the driver. “Where are the garage and-?”
He felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and turned to see Nuri. “I’m sure they’ll know where to go. Stop pani-”
Cacophonic squeals split the air as a three-wheeled former motorcycle roared past with a sparsely-framed buggy in tow. They paid no attention to the onlookers, instead speeding down the dirt path that encircled Grassy Knoll.
“Quarir Nalore would be best served by worrying over more appropriate matters,” Pyotr told them wisely. “In addition, we are pleased to see Nuri Daekkler again.”
“Me too,” Nalore blurted out.
“Oh, sure, ignore me,” Charlie said sulkily.
Quarir had, in fact, been doing just that. “It’s been pretty hectic-”
A rusty pickup truck- clearly the patrol’s vanguard- hurtled past.
“Was that on fire?” Nuri gawped.
“As we say, immolation is not a subject we should concern ourselves with,” Pyotr repeated sternly.
“Those are APCs, right?” Quarir jabbed a finger towards the vast beach.
“Y-Yes,” Nuri stuttered, watching the steady advance of the black troop transports, “and since they’re ground units they’re bound to spot us more easily than a-”
“There’s a Gunship right there!” Charlie bellowed. “What are we meant to do against a Gunship?!”
The whitish bulk of a Synth flyer was passing over the cliff tops with deceptive swiftness- distant as it was, its otherworldly song still managed to permeate the background noise of shouts and engines.
“Nothing,” Zyke said firmly. “I’ve just talked with the patrol leader, but the what, why and how is irrelevant now. What we need to do is draw them all away from the base, otherwise they’ll find us and keep coming back.”
“What are you suggesting?” Nalore asked, although he was already readying his shotgun.
“I’m saying that you should give me that gauntlet of yours, and then we’re going to steal Maggie. They’d never let me go alone, but I can’t let them come with me. They’d never believe this, anyway.”
“What makes you think we’d let you go alone?” Nuri stood forward next to Quarir, as the Domarian produced the amplifier gauntlet and handed it to the Rot.
“Nothing,” Zichekoam smiled, and he slipped the Arcadimaarian gauntlet on.
“What’s that thing?” Charlie squinted at the ornate amplifier. Zyke waved a hand, and the man blinked and fell backward.
“I only stunned him,” Zyke related tiredly in response to their shocked expressions, “he’ll be fine behind that rock. Eli Vance has been captured, and he’s integral to Maintonon’s plan. So you three are coming with me.”
Chapter 16: Aegis's Report
“Aegis?” Quarir rolled his eyes. “That’s original.”
Zichekoam gave the man a disapproving look and continued walking. “It’s practically traditional. You’d be hard pressed to find any organisation anywhere without a squad, weapon or vehicle called ‘Aegis’.”
“So you named it yourself? You’ve been busy.”
Zyke drew his cloak about him to shield him from the wind- his garb looked far less ludicrous when his overalls were concealed. “This place wasn’t even a real Resistance cell when I arrived- it was just a hideout for a ragtag bunch of fugitives.”
“And you popped up dressed like Superplumber and they decided to make you their leader, right?”
“More or less,” Zyke pointedly ignored the jibe, “although it took a while to get things going. When Kim and Reg turned up in this smoking, rattling thing they pass off as a van I decided to fortify the place-”
Nalore looked around at the village and snorted. “You call this fortified?”
“Fortification of the spirit is just as vital as the fortification of the dwelling,” Pyotr said, making his usual (and unwelcome) philosophical contribution.
“Oh yeah? I’ve never seen a fortified spirit block missiles-”
“I was referring to making the place a bit more functional,” Zyke snapped at them. “I paired Kim off with Zosia and they managed to turn the mill into a radio transmitter, and we contacted other bases. We ended up as perfectly useful outpost for refuelling and restocking Resistance expeditions.”
“I bet you’re very proud.”
“Yeah, I am,” Zyke whirled on him, and Nalore suddenly realised just how tall the Rot was. “What were you doing two years ago? Hmm? Sitting down guzzling champagne?” Nalore couldn’t think of anything to say, but Zyke wasn’t waiting for a response. “I was here, making a difference. The people here have something to fight for. I help them, I help us.”
“Uh… yeah,” Quarir squeaked, “you’ve done a good job and I bet they all appreciate it.”
Zyke harrumphed and brushed past the innumerable tufts of grass that cropped up all over Grassy Knoll. He stopped, and Quarir did likewise, only just managing to prevent himself blundering over a rocky ledge that the sward had screened from view. The cliff overlooked a swathe of sandy beach, curving downward to meet the outcropping that was the bedrock of the refitted windmill.
“As ‘Archibald’ did inform, Aegis have returned, but they are depleted.” Pyotr trotted down towards the windmill, where a small huddle of figures was waving and pointing at the approaching patrol.
“Lot of vehicles there,” Quarir mused, slowly following the Vortigaunt but rarely taking his eyes from the convoy. “You responsible?”
“No, the patrol was made up by our neighbours to keep an eye on Combine activity. Thanks to our radio mast they can transmit far and wide,” Zyke explained proudly. “There’s one or two of them missing, though…”
“Maybe they got attacked?”
“Quite likely. There’s a good chance they broke up to inform the outlying bases.”
The first member of the Aegis contingent pulled up at the windmill just as Nalore and Zyke did. The lead vehicle was a compact, battered car, covered with mismatched plating.
Kim hopped down from the boulder she was using as a vantage point. “You can drive into the garage,” she shouted, waving for the car to go on, “we can refill your tanks and get you-”
“No time!” the helmeted driver bellowed, “Combine are following us! You need to find space to hide all of us, or else it’s over!”
The dented sports car spewed sand in all directions as it roared towards the open shack Kim affectionately referred to as the “East Garage”.
“Have we got enough room for them?” Zyke yelled at his dumbstruck subordinates.
“The buggy and the trike will probably both fit in the West Garage,” Kim calculated, “but I’ll have to clear some space in my workshop if we want to fit their truck in next to Maggie-”
“Then do it! Zosia, go and help her. You too Reg, if you’re up for it.”
“Always am,” Reginald pulled off a teasing salute with his stiff left arm and enthusiastically followed the two women.
“Archie- or you Pyotr- can you pick up on any Vorts? Or are they all human?”
The two Vortigaunts shook their heads sadly. “There is no presence to detect,” Pyotr murmured.
“Damn… get back in and man the radio,” Zyke told Archibald, but the especially wizened Vortigaunt was already on the move. “See if you can find out what’s following them and how far behind it is. I’ll have a word with the guy in the car- Quarir, you stay here, and direct them to the West Garage and workshop!” Zyke called over his shoulder, heading to the shack where the Aegis patrolman was hurriedly trying to draw the sliding door shut over his precious car.
“Uh,” Nalore looked around wildly- Archibald was running back to the mast with the familiar gait common to all ‘Gaunts, Kim and her team were vanishing around the other side of the base, and Zyke was screaming at the driver. “Where are the garage and-?”
He felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and turned to see Nuri. “I’m sure they’ll know where to go. Stop pani-”
Cacophonic squeals split the air as a three-wheeled former motorcycle roared past with a sparsely-framed buggy in tow. They paid no attention to the onlookers, instead speeding down the dirt path that encircled Grassy Knoll.
“Quarir Nalore would be best served by worrying over more appropriate matters,” Pyotr told them wisely. “In addition, we are pleased to see Nuri Daekkler again.”
“Me too,” Nalore blurted out.
“Oh, sure, ignore me,” Charlie said sulkily.
Quarir had, in fact, been doing just that. “It’s been pretty hectic-”
A rusty pickup truck- clearly the patrol’s vanguard- hurtled past.
“Was that on fire?” Nuri gawped.
“As we say, immolation is not a subject we should concern ourselves with,” Pyotr repeated sternly.
“Those are APCs, right?” Quarir jabbed a finger towards the vast beach.
“Y-Yes,” Nuri stuttered, watching the steady advance of the black troop transports, “and since they’re ground units they’re bound to spot us more easily than a-”
“There’s a Gunship right there!” Charlie bellowed. “What are we meant to do against a Gunship?!”
The whitish bulk of a Synth flyer was passing over the cliff tops with deceptive swiftness- distant as it was, its otherworldly song still managed to permeate the background noise of shouts and engines.
“Nothing,” Zyke said firmly. “I’ve just talked with the patrol leader, but the what, why and how is irrelevant now. What we need to do is draw them all away from the base, otherwise they’ll find us and keep coming back.”
“What are you suggesting?” Nalore asked, although he was already readying his shotgun.
“I’m saying that you should give me that gauntlet of yours, and then we’re going to steal Maggie. They’d never let me go alone, but I can’t let them come with me. They’d never believe this, anyway.”
“What makes you think we’d let you go alone?” Nuri stood forward next to Quarir, as the Domarian produced the amplifier gauntlet and handed it to the Rot.
“Nothing,” Zichekoam smiled, and he slipped the Arcadimaarian gauntlet on.
“What’s that thing?” Charlie squinted at the ornate amplifier. Zyke waved a hand, and the man blinked and fell backward.
“I only stunned him,” Zyke related tiredly in response to their shocked expressions, “he’ll be fine behind that rock. Eli Vance has been captured, and he’s integral to Maintonon’s plan. So you three are coming with me.”
Edcrab
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Hmm, either I've missed the edit window or my browser is playing up. Either way I doubt I'd have fitted this part in- here's the end of Chapter 16!
“Was it really necessary to stun Charlie?”
Zyke gave Nuri an appraising look. “You didn’t seem the sort to ask stupid questions.” He winced in concentration. “You’re... thinking of another one. Ask that.”
“How did you-?”
“No, not the one where you’re wondering if I’m psychic.”
“I-”
“Or the one where you worry about Eli Vance. I meant the one where you wonder how the hell I knew about this gauntlet.”
Nuri was understandably taken aback. “Are you-?”
“I’m not human, no. Open the door, Quarir.”
Nalore wasn’t the sort to take orders- discounting the demands of a certain super-intelligent computer- but the urgency in Zichekoam’s words overpowered his rebellious streak. He wordlessly pulled the van’s door open- it had no actual lock, merely a swing-bar that held it closed during transit.
Zyke imperiously told Pyotr and Nuri to get inside. They did so, responding to the voice of authority, and Nalore had enough sense to get into the passenger seat without instruction.
Checking that no one was skulking around the lean-to garage- which was Maggie’s current resting place since her emergency transferral from the workshop- Zyke hopped into the driver’s seat. “Here’s hoping Kim doesn’t notice until it’s too late,” he said under his breath.
Quarir clumsily fastened his seat belt. “Don’t you need a key, or something, for these things-?”
“I’ve got a spare,” Zyke plugged the backup into the ignition slot and fired the elderly van up. “Anything on your side?”
Nalore peered through his window. “Don’t see anything…”
“Good.”
Maggie lurched backwards, and Quarir’s face came within millimetres of meeting the dashboard. Primitive mechanisms rattling away and wheels spinning, the van burst out of its own private dust cloud and performed a flawless 3 point turn under Zyke’s expert hands.
Nalore tried to look through the viewing hatch over his left shoulder. From the sound of things, Nuri had just fallen over and Pyotr was helping her up-
“What the hell?!”
-and Kim had just realised what was happening. She was running out of her workshop, waving a sprocket wrench and hurling terms that Nalore wasn’t familiar with- although he was certain they weren’t complimentary.
Most of her words- perhaps mercifully- were drowned out by Maggie’s chugging engine as the four hijackers sped off towards the approaching Combine.
“So what’s your plan, exactly?” Quarir asked, trying hard to prevent his teeth shaking out of his skull.
“We drive towards the APCs, get their attention, and then head to a different outpost,” Zyke summarised, never taking his eyes off the potholed road. “With any luck the Gunship will follow us too.”
“But won’t you have the same problem?”
“How do you mean?”
Quarir darted upward as the van hurtled over a small hill. “Oof. I mean- dammit look out for that boulder- that you’ll just be leading the Combine to a different base. New location, same massacre.”
“Not here,” Zyke smirked, “we’re headed to E-34- the Dead Pass.”
Nalore clicked his tongue. “Yeah, you’re going to have to explain that. I’m not a local, remember?”
“Oh, sorry. E-34 is one of the few combat outposts we have- and we set it up specifically for this kind of ambush. They’ve got RPGs, a minefield… everything.”
“Sounds pretty impressive.”
“It’s a former military base- few years back the Vorts short-circuited the gate and we ran amok. We must’ve used the place to take out five convoys by now…”
The Gunship’s keening drew nearer- it had spotted them roaring towards the APCs and they were now locked in pursuit.
“Good, I, uh, think… they’ve seen us,” Nalore announced, face pressed up against the glass.
“I don’t know- it might have taken us for a suicide bomber or something. They might lose interest if we just drive on by-”
“You want me to take a few shots at them?”
“Thanks for the offer, but no.” Zyke laboriously wound his window down. “I’ve got an idea.”
Even with the cockpit hatch open Nuri could barely heard any of the conversation, and that annoyed her. She was getting pelted with loose junk and even seated she kept sliding around- yet she didn’t dare throw any of the components away in case they were somehow essential for one of Grassy Knoll’s projects. But Nuri promised herself that, when she got back, she’d make Kim install a few seats in this van- at gunpoint if necessary.
She felt as if she’d practically been abducted for this mission, but even with all the recent turmoil- Dmitri’s loss, the Combine attack, the realisation that Zyke was yet another non-human- she couldn’t get Eli Vance out of her mind. “Has he really been captured?” she asked Pyotr, certain the Vortigaunt would know who she was speaking of.
“One of my fellows has heard confirmation direct from his daughter. Eli Vance is essential to the liberation. The oppressor may never topple if we do not free him. But Freeman will make change.”
“I’m sure he will,” Nuri nodded faithfully, “but answer me this- why isn’t anyone at the Knoll talking about him?”
“‘Archibald’ tells us that Mr. Zichekoam has given special orders,” Pyotr stumbled over the name, unused to using such monikers to refer to his brethren, “He has forbidden the passing of information regarding The Free Man’s arrival. We do not understand his reasoning, but no doubt he has good cause.”
Nuri was about to comment on the bizarreness of a Resistance cell with little knowledge of its near-mythical “founder”, but the steady thumping of pulse fire interrupted her.
Upfront, this hadn’t escaped Nalore’s notice. “We’re getting a lot of sparks and smoke here Zyke-”
“I know,” the Rot snarled, ignoring the tinkling of ricocheting bullets, “just try and keep low…”
Even though Maggie was partially armoured- she was, after all, based on a military van- Quarir knew that the combined firepower of the APCs and their supporting Gunship would tear them apart. He hoped Zyke knew what he was doing…
For the third time Quarir rocked forward as his apparently crazed colleague turned abruptly, exposing the vehicle's side to the rapidly nearing transports. Gritting his teeth, Zyke raised his gauntleted hand-
-and an orb of blinding, cerulean light flew from his palm and hit the leading APC in a burst of sparks, striking so forcibly that the vehicle rocked from the impact.
“If that hasn’t got their attention nothing will,” Zyke grinned, sending Maggie careering into a perfect bootlegger’s reverse.
“Woah, I didn’t know you could do that!” Nalore was awestruck. “Well, I knew the Zealot could, but I didn’t think a Domarian would be-”
Zyke winced. “Damn… give me a gun any day.”
Nalore hadn’t taken his eyes off the bejewelled amplifier. “Guns need chargers and cores, but with that you can-”
“I’m a telepath, yet even then the damn thing’s given me a migraine. I don’t know how the Arcadimaarians manage it.”
“Hey, it’s possible they just live with it. It’d explain why they’re such psychotic bastards.”
“Was it really necessary to stun Charlie?”
Zyke gave Nuri an appraising look. “You didn’t seem the sort to ask stupid questions.” He winced in concentration. “You’re... thinking of another one. Ask that.”
“How did you-?”
“No, not the one where you’re wondering if I’m psychic.”
“I-”
“Or the one where you worry about Eli Vance. I meant the one where you wonder how the hell I knew about this gauntlet.”
Nuri was understandably taken aback. “Are you-?”
“I’m not human, no. Open the door, Quarir.”
Nalore wasn’t the sort to take orders- discounting the demands of a certain super-intelligent computer- but the urgency in Zichekoam’s words overpowered his rebellious streak. He wordlessly pulled the van’s door open- it had no actual lock, merely a swing-bar that held it closed during transit.
Zyke imperiously told Pyotr and Nuri to get inside. They did so, responding to the voice of authority, and Nalore had enough sense to get into the passenger seat without instruction.
Checking that no one was skulking around the lean-to garage- which was Maggie’s current resting place since her emergency transferral from the workshop- Zyke hopped into the driver’s seat. “Here’s hoping Kim doesn’t notice until it’s too late,” he said under his breath.
Quarir clumsily fastened his seat belt. “Don’t you need a key, or something, for these things-?”
“I’ve got a spare,” Zyke plugged the backup into the ignition slot and fired the elderly van up. “Anything on your side?”
Nalore peered through his window. “Don’t see anything…”
“Good.”
Maggie lurched backwards, and Quarir’s face came within millimetres of meeting the dashboard. Primitive mechanisms rattling away and wheels spinning, the van burst out of its own private dust cloud and performed a flawless 3 point turn under Zyke’s expert hands.
Nalore tried to look through the viewing hatch over his left shoulder. From the sound of things, Nuri had just fallen over and Pyotr was helping her up-
“What the hell?!”
-and Kim had just realised what was happening. She was running out of her workshop, waving a sprocket wrench and hurling terms that Nalore wasn’t familiar with- although he was certain they weren’t complimentary.
Most of her words- perhaps mercifully- were drowned out by Maggie’s chugging engine as the four hijackers sped off towards the approaching Combine.
“So what’s your plan, exactly?” Quarir asked, trying hard to prevent his teeth shaking out of his skull.
“We drive towards the APCs, get their attention, and then head to a different outpost,” Zyke summarised, never taking his eyes off the potholed road. “With any luck the Gunship will follow us too.”
“But won’t you have the same problem?”
“How do you mean?”
Quarir darted upward as the van hurtled over a small hill. “Oof. I mean- dammit look out for that boulder- that you’ll just be leading the Combine to a different base. New location, same massacre.”
“Not here,” Zyke smirked, “we’re headed to E-34- the Dead Pass.”
Nalore clicked his tongue. “Yeah, you’re going to have to explain that. I’m not a local, remember?”
“Oh, sorry. E-34 is one of the few combat outposts we have- and we set it up specifically for this kind of ambush. They’ve got RPGs, a minefield… everything.”
“Sounds pretty impressive.”
“It’s a former military base- few years back the Vorts short-circuited the gate and we ran amok. We must’ve used the place to take out five convoys by now…”
The Gunship’s keening drew nearer- it had spotted them roaring towards the APCs and they were now locked in pursuit.
“Good, I, uh, think… they’ve seen us,” Nalore announced, face pressed up against the glass.
“I don’t know- it might have taken us for a suicide bomber or something. They might lose interest if we just drive on by-”
“You want me to take a few shots at them?”
“Thanks for the offer, but no.” Zyke laboriously wound his window down. “I’ve got an idea.”
Even with the cockpit hatch open Nuri could barely heard any of the conversation, and that annoyed her. She was getting pelted with loose junk and even seated she kept sliding around- yet she didn’t dare throw any of the components away in case they were somehow essential for one of Grassy Knoll’s projects. But Nuri promised herself that, when she got back, she’d make Kim install a few seats in this van- at gunpoint if necessary.
She felt as if she’d practically been abducted for this mission, but even with all the recent turmoil- Dmitri’s loss, the Combine attack, the realisation that Zyke was yet another non-human- she couldn’t get Eli Vance out of her mind. “Has he really been captured?” she asked Pyotr, certain the Vortigaunt would know who she was speaking of.
“One of my fellows has heard confirmation direct from his daughter. Eli Vance is essential to the liberation. The oppressor may never topple if we do not free him. But Freeman will make change.”
“I’m sure he will,” Nuri nodded faithfully, “but answer me this- why isn’t anyone at the Knoll talking about him?”
“‘Archibald’ tells us that Mr. Zichekoam has given special orders,” Pyotr stumbled over the name, unused to using such monikers to refer to his brethren, “He has forbidden the passing of information regarding The Free Man’s arrival. We do not understand his reasoning, but no doubt he has good cause.”
Nuri was about to comment on the bizarreness of a Resistance cell with little knowledge of its near-mythical “founder”, but the steady thumping of pulse fire interrupted her.
Upfront, this hadn’t escaped Nalore’s notice. “We’re getting a lot of sparks and smoke here Zyke-”
“I know,” the Rot snarled, ignoring the tinkling of ricocheting bullets, “just try and keep low…”
Even though Maggie was partially armoured- she was, after all, based on a military van- Quarir knew that the combined firepower of the APCs and their supporting Gunship would tear them apart. He hoped Zyke knew what he was doing…
For the third time Quarir rocked forward as his apparently crazed colleague turned abruptly, exposing the vehicle's side to the rapidly nearing transports. Gritting his teeth, Zyke raised his gauntleted hand-
-and an orb of blinding, cerulean light flew from his palm and hit the leading APC in a burst of sparks, striking so forcibly that the vehicle rocked from the impact.
“If that hasn’t got their attention nothing will,” Zyke grinned, sending Maggie careering into a perfect bootlegger’s reverse.
“Woah, I didn’t know you could do that!” Nalore was awestruck. “Well, I knew the Zealot could, but I didn’t think a Domarian would be-”
Zyke winced. “Damn… give me a gun any day.”
Nalore hadn’t taken his eyes off the bejewelled amplifier. “Guns need chargers and cores, but with that you can-”
“I’m a telepath, yet even then the damn thing’s given me a migraine. I don’t know how the Arcadimaarians manage it.”
“Hey, it’s possible they just live with it. It’d explain why they’re such psychotic bastards.”
Edcrab
Veteran Incompetent
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Ack, I may have promised longer chapters but they're still going to be posted in small segments- pretend its for dramatic impact, rather than to buy me enough time for a few paranoid plot-hole/grammar checks First third of this chapter...
“What the hell did he just do?”
“Zichekoam launched a focused psionic blast at the Combine transport,” Pyotr told Nuri evenly.
“So he is like Quarir?”
“Previously he was. He is now a member of a distinct subspecies following his exposure to a mutagenic disease.”
Nuri paused for a moment. “Does that happen all the time?”
“I am lead to believe that it is a rare occurrence, even by Domarian standards.”
“So can anyone use that… amplifier, or just-?”
“Theoretically, anyone. But only those who are mentally proficient can utilise it extensively. We have no need for them.” Pyotr almost sounded smug.
“Come on, follow us you brainwashed bastards,” Zyke hissed through clenched teeth, trying to spot some sign of the Combine forces in his wing mirror.
“Never thought I’d want Combine vehicles on my tail,” Nalore shook his head in amazement. “This job gets weirder and weirder.”
“You see this as a job?” Zyke gave Quarir a disdainful look.
“Mission, then. I guess the big difference is that I’m not getting paid and it’s slightly safer than attending a business meeting.”
“Hah.”
Eventually they came into view, and Nalore punched the air. “There we go- all three of them!”
Zyke smiled in grim satisfaction. His little stunt had piqued the Combine’s curiosity- there was no danger of them mistaking the amplifier’s energy bolt for a more mundane weapon- and thus they considered them a far more interesting target than a ramshackle patrol. Admittedly that meant their capture would be a little messy- they’d be dissected and/or turned into some sort of lobotomised slave- but at least they weren’t being drowned under a continuous salvo of rockets.
“If they catch us,” Zyke licked his arid lips, “they’ll know Maintonon’s involved. That might be enough to force them to invade, and we’d achieve the exact opposite of what we set out to do.”
Quarir nodded. And then he remembered the Combine Elite that had questioned him, and the Overwatch database he and Nuri had accessed. The Combine already knew they were on Earth. Smothering his guilty twinge, Quarir decided that it would be best not to tell Zyke about the interrogation.
Eventually the sand gave way to vast stretches of surprisingly smooth rock- it had been shaped by human hands. Nalore was prepared to bet that they were entering the so-called “Dead Pass”.
Although the defaced “MILITARY PROPERTY: No Unauthorised Access” sign was a bit of a hint.
“The minefield is dead ahead,” Zyke said casually. “We’ve removed the signposts and chain link fencing- they won’t have any idea it’s there.”
Quarir spotted the flaw in this plan. “Uh, how are we meant to get past it?”
“Because we know that the- oh, shit.”
Nalore started- that sounded ominous. “What? What is it?”
“The trail’s gone! Shit!”
“What trail? What are you-?”
“We left a few ‘random’ piles of junk around to mark out the points we swept clear- damn it, I can’t see the path!”
“We have planned for this!” Pyotr called through the viewing hatch, “‘Archibald’ has the Dead Pass schematics to hand! We shall direct you!”
Zyke swallowed, immensely grateful for the Vortigaunt’s sharp hearing- and his species’ innate communicative abilities, which put Zyke’s short-range telepathy to shame. “Alright,” he slowed down, calming both himself and his vehicle, even though his instincts urged him to flee the pursuing hostiles. “Tell me where.”
“Stick to the far left of the field. Be prepared to make a ninety degree turn to the right.”
“Right.” Sweat was beading on Zyke’s forehead, which disturbed him, because as a Rot he had long since trained his body to stop sweating. Clearly the stress was getting to him.
Nalore found himself wondering just how powerful a pre-Combine mine was, and just how sturdy the pre-Combine van would prove if such an explosive device went off beneath it. Zyke was slowly edging Maggie through, and Quarir wasn’t sure what he feared most- the mines or the advancing APCs.
“Turn now,” Pyotr said, ever composed, ever assured. If he wasn’t so useful the three humanoids would’ve found him quite irritating. After a few more moments of agonising progress, Pyotr had Zyke straighten up again, telling him to head towards a jutting spire of stone.
Nuri took advantage of their severely reduced speed and stood next to the hatch. “Surely they’ll catch up with us if we’re going this slowly…?”
“Somewhere up there there’s a bunch of hidden bunkers,” Zyke snapped, “fully manned with rocket-launching marksmen. If the mines don’t get them, they’ll…”
Two subdued clunking noises echoed from on high, barely audible above Maggie’s steady rumbling. Gradually, a whooshing, windy, roaring sound filled their ears, and even Quarir guessed what was causing it-
The rockets smashed into the ground, prompting nearby mines to detonate. The ground split all around them, sending Maggie spinning into the craggy, lopsided outcropping, sliding through a rain of scorched rock and earth.
The miniature boulders from the initial blast triggered a cascade of earth-shattering explosions, like some deadly, deafening game of dominoes.
Nalore unfolded himself and dared to peak through the windscreen- and then was forced to display his surprisingly adequate reflexes when a third rocket struck the slanted lump of reddish stone, peppering the van with yet more debris.
“Is everyone okay?” Zyke asked, distinctly aware of the warm, wet liquid trickling into his eyes.
“Yes,” said Nuri.
“We are intact,” said Pyotr.
“What the hell is going on?” said Quarir, eventually daring to venture from out of his cramped foot space, huddled as he was below the windshield.
“Either the Resistance members in the base have gone mad, or they mistook us for Combine, or they’ve been killed and replaced.” Zyke wiped the blood from his eyes- although he was more worried by how Kim would react when she found her windscreen cracked and smeared with red. “Either way, we’re screwed.”
First third of this chapter...Chapter 17: Dead Pass
“What the hell did he just do?”
“Zichekoam launched a focused psionic blast at the Combine transport,” Pyotr told Nuri evenly.
“So he is like Quarir?”
“Previously he was. He is now a member of a distinct subspecies following his exposure to a mutagenic disease.”
Nuri paused for a moment. “Does that happen all the time?”
“I am lead to believe that it is a rare occurrence, even by Domarian standards.”
“So can anyone use that… amplifier, or just-?”
“Theoretically, anyone. But only those who are mentally proficient can utilise it extensively. We have no need for them.” Pyotr almost sounded smug.
“Come on, follow us you brainwashed bastards,” Zyke hissed through clenched teeth, trying to spot some sign of the Combine forces in his wing mirror.
“Never thought I’d want Combine vehicles on my tail,” Nalore shook his head in amazement. “This job gets weirder and weirder.”
“You see this as a job?” Zyke gave Quarir a disdainful look.
“Mission, then. I guess the big difference is that I’m not getting paid and it’s slightly safer than attending a business meeting.”
“Hah.”
Eventually they came into view, and Nalore punched the air. “There we go- all three of them!”
Zyke smiled in grim satisfaction. His little stunt had piqued the Combine’s curiosity- there was no danger of them mistaking the amplifier’s energy bolt for a more mundane weapon- and thus they considered them a far more interesting target than a ramshackle patrol. Admittedly that meant their capture would be a little messy- they’d be dissected and/or turned into some sort of lobotomised slave- but at least they weren’t being drowned under a continuous salvo of rockets.
“If they catch us,” Zyke licked his arid lips, “they’ll know Maintonon’s involved. That might be enough to force them to invade, and we’d achieve the exact opposite of what we set out to do.”
Quarir nodded. And then he remembered the Combine Elite that had questioned him, and the Overwatch database he and Nuri had accessed. The Combine already knew they were on Earth. Smothering his guilty twinge, Quarir decided that it would be best not to tell Zyke about the interrogation.
Eventually the sand gave way to vast stretches of surprisingly smooth rock- it had been shaped by human hands. Nalore was prepared to bet that they were entering the so-called “Dead Pass”.
Although the defaced “MILITARY PROPERTY: No Unauthorised Access” sign was a bit of a hint.
“The minefield is dead ahead,” Zyke said casually. “We’ve removed the signposts and chain link fencing- they won’t have any idea it’s there.”
Quarir spotted the flaw in this plan. “Uh, how are we meant to get past it?”
“Because we know that the- oh, shit.”
Nalore started- that sounded ominous. “What? What is it?”
“The trail’s gone! Shit!”
“What trail? What are you-?”
“We left a few ‘random’ piles of junk around to mark out the points we swept clear- damn it, I can’t see the path!”
“We have planned for this!” Pyotr called through the viewing hatch, “‘Archibald’ has the Dead Pass schematics to hand! We shall direct you!”
Zyke swallowed, immensely grateful for the Vortigaunt’s sharp hearing- and his species’ innate communicative abilities, which put Zyke’s short-range telepathy to shame. “Alright,” he slowed down, calming both himself and his vehicle, even though his instincts urged him to flee the pursuing hostiles. “Tell me where.”
“Stick to the far left of the field. Be prepared to make a ninety degree turn to the right.”
“Right.” Sweat was beading on Zyke’s forehead, which disturbed him, because as a Rot he had long since trained his body to stop sweating. Clearly the stress was getting to him.
Nalore found himself wondering just how powerful a pre-Combine mine was, and just how sturdy the pre-Combine van would prove if such an explosive device went off beneath it. Zyke was slowly edging Maggie through, and Quarir wasn’t sure what he feared most- the mines or the advancing APCs.
“Turn now,” Pyotr said, ever composed, ever assured. If he wasn’t so useful the three humanoids would’ve found him quite irritating. After a few more moments of agonising progress, Pyotr had Zyke straighten up again, telling him to head towards a jutting spire of stone.
Nuri took advantage of their severely reduced speed and stood next to the hatch. “Surely they’ll catch up with us if we’re going this slowly…?”
“Somewhere up there there’s a bunch of hidden bunkers,” Zyke snapped, “fully manned with rocket-launching marksmen. If the mines don’t get them, they’ll…”
Two subdued clunking noises echoed from on high, barely audible above Maggie’s steady rumbling. Gradually, a whooshing, windy, roaring sound filled their ears, and even Quarir guessed what was causing it-
The rockets smashed into the ground, prompting nearby mines to detonate. The ground split all around them, sending Maggie spinning into the craggy, lopsided outcropping, sliding through a rain of scorched rock and earth.
The miniature boulders from the initial blast triggered a cascade of earth-shattering explosions, like some deadly, deafening game of dominoes.
Nalore unfolded himself and dared to peak through the windscreen- and then was forced to display his surprisingly adequate reflexes when a third rocket struck the slanted lump of reddish stone, peppering the van with yet more debris.
“Is everyone okay?” Zyke asked, distinctly aware of the warm, wet liquid trickling into his eyes.
“Yes,” said Nuri.
“We are intact,” said Pyotr.
“What the hell is going on?” said Quarir, eventually daring to venture from out of his cramped foot space, huddled as he was below the windshield.
“Either the Resistance members in the base have gone mad, or they mistook us for Combine, or they’ve been killed and replaced.” Zyke wiped the blood from his eyes- although he was more worried by how Kim would react when she found her windscreen cracked and smeared with red. “Either way, we’re screwed.”
Steel.Inferno
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Oh noes!
I'm going with #2 (of the base guards)
I really like the idea of Dead Pass, seems like something the resistance would do.
I'm going with #2 (of the base guards)
I really like the idea of Dead Pass, seems like something the resistance would do.
Bob_Marley
Tank
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Superb, i demand more!
Edcrab
Veteran Incompetent
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As always I appreciate the feedback
I'm posting this part up earlier than I'd anticipated, but the end of 17 will probably be a lot longer in coming, as I'm going away for a day or two...
The APCs drew to a halt at the edge of the minefield- or at least where they thought its outskirts were. Behind them, the Gunship slowly circled the pass’s entrance, perhaps not capable of flying through the narrow, machine-carved channel.
#34-C didn’t know or care. He wasn’t really capable of caring anymore, but even as a mundane human he wouldn’t have found the particulars of the Synth’s behaviour especially interesting. They were directed separately, and the Protectorate, as a rule, didn’t concern itself with the Citadel-commanded Synth hordes.
Sometimes the Civil Protection would admit that they required aid, and request Gunship, Crab Mortar or even Strider support- and, except in the rarest of cases, the Citadel would oblige, dispatching the closest relevant Synth unit.
But this time… the upper command levels of the Citadel had coldly informed them that a Gunship was to escort them. #34-C didn’t question the decision- it wasn’t his place to do so, and the mere concept of dissent crippled him with confusion- although he couldn’t logically calculate why one had been deemed necessary, as they’d merely been tracking a Resistance patrol. Admittedly it was unusually large- working vehicles had been destroyed or decommissioned following the Union’s arrival- but he had been sure that the two APCs could’ve dealt with the terrorists admirably.
But now he had seen an associate of that patrol- a different vehicle, but undoubtedly part of their misguided little group- discharge unidentifiable energies at his transport. He was immensely pleased to have further confirmation of his commanders’ tactical prowess. Not that he’d ever doubted, or even felt pleasure… but his implants ensured he felt… better, somehow, whenever he did what was expected of him.
He had no knowledge of drugs or addictive substances, but he was obsessed with approval, and thus he constantly and unwaveringly carried out instructions to the letter. Every soldier did.
#34-C disembarked. Four of his fellows stepped out of the APC behind him, and he was aware that the second transport had pulled up a short distance away, ready to spew out its own squadron.
He held a position of rank- a squad leader. But as the Combine would never deliberately produce a sub-standard soldier, it was a “decorative” rank, handed out merely because one member of the squad had to pass on orders and direct the others. #34-C knew that, if he died in the glorious service of the Union, #339a-C would take his place. And that was good and proper.
Other than to serve the Union, #34-C’s only drive was self-preservation, and he was aware that #339a-C would find himself prematurely promoted if they dared to traverse the minefield.
The ten troops surveyed the scorched earth before them- the rogue van was concealed behind a blackened rock, and smoke poured from dozens of craters in the ground. It was further proof that, despite the illogicalness of the situation, they had indeed witnessed the base fire upon their targets.
#34-C had not been informed of the discovery of a Resistance outpost in this area, and he certainly hadn’t been told about a successful raid on such a base.
“Animosity,” #35b-C barked into his headset, “Relaying: possible sighting of inner Resistance conflict. Code 2 alpha. Mission reference: coast-C41. Repeat: Animosity…”
#35b-C was #34-C’s equal in rank, and the head of the second squadron. “Animosity” was the term for any sign of dissent in the Resistance’s ranks- an occurrence the CPs cherished, as nothing undermined fury at the beneficent Union like interior conflicts. It was a rare happening, and the last time #34-C had been present at such an event a gaggle of demonstrators had come to blows when trying to decide on their next move.
That had been four years ago. The potential riot- and demonstrations were, of course, forbidden because of that danger of violence- had dissipated by itself, torn apart by personal feuds, saving the Protectorate valuable ammunition. But for the Resistance to turn on their own in a combat situation, well, that was something else entirely…
“Affirmative, we will await further instruction,” #35b-C terminated his Overwatch link. “Command has no records, rules out CP involvement- we are to setup a defensive perimeter and blockade this pass.”
“Acknowledged.” #34-C turned to his attentive charges, and his fellow squad-leader did the same. “Squad, set up turret perimeter. 20-mD from this position. Go.”
His squad didn’t salute- a practise that was universally absent from the Union’s ranks, as it wasted valuable time. But they immediately revisited their APCs in an orderly fashion, quickly returning with compact packages of black metal.
The two officers watched their respective squads set up a line of defence across the pass’s breadth, unfolding the packages to reveal autonomous, tripod-mounted firing systems. Each turret sported a snub-nosed, lesser version of the Union-produced pulse rifle- it didn’t possess quite the same level of firepower, as it launched tiny superheated flechettes as opposed to the solider rounds that filled a rifle’s magazine. But a near-unlimited magazine and power source ensured their worth as a staple defensive measure against everything from antlions to rebellious citizens.
“That will suffice,” said a voice.
The two soldiers had, at one point, been human. They still were, to some degree- it was just that emotion and irrelevant memory had been sheared off through frequent visits to the Enrichment Facilities. But even though their minds were awash with propaganda and filled with artificial components, they were still capable of experiencing shock, of a sort.
They spun to face the speaker, pulse rifles pointing at his head. That’s when they realised the head was at a different height than usual.
Soldiers were six-foot-one-inch tall. That was the rule; the optimum size, determined after extensive tests. If they were too short, they lost their legs in favour of semi-organic prosthetics. The newcomer was not a soldier.
He was almost seven foot, and he was dressed similarly to a member of the Elite. Helmet with a single viewing port, white uniform with slightly different markings… but there were not-so-subtle differences. Chitinous plates were interlaced with the padded cloth, and it was difficult to tell what was armour and what was part of him. He looked like some sort of human Synth.
“I am Forty. I have been deployed to support you. I was expressing approval of your defences.” The voice sounded like it had been filtered by a standard-issue CP facemask, yet it had a slightly musical quality, almost whistling. It sounded more… organic.
They hesitated. Forty. That was all. No other identifiers- no squad code, no location reference, no batch number. He was one of the originals.
“We had been told that all of the Benefited were supporting the search for Freeman,” #35b-C stated flatly, although the statement itself hinted at some well-hidden suspicion.
“Your mission involves Freeman,” Forty responded. “And so I am here.”
#34-C lowered his rifle. “Do you have additional instructions, sir?”
“Negative. I am here merely to support your efforts.”
Forty moved closer, strange clunking sounds accompanying his every movement. He loomed above the two soldiers, and a small, human part of them recoiled in fright.
“But do not get in my way.”
I'm posting this part up earlier than I'd anticipated, but the end of 17 will probably be a lot longer in coming, as I'm going away for a day or two...
The APCs drew to a halt at the edge of the minefield- or at least where they thought its outskirts were. Behind them, the Gunship slowly circled the pass’s entrance, perhaps not capable of flying through the narrow, machine-carved channel.
#34-C didn’t know or care. He wasn’t really capable of caring anymore, but even as a mundane human he wouldn’t have found the particulars of the Synth’s behaviour especially interesting. They were directed separately, and the Protectorate, as a rule, didn’t concern itself with the Citadel-commanded Synth hordes.
Sometimes the Civil Protection would admit that they required aid, and request Gunship, Crab Mortar or even Strider support- and, except in the rarest of cases, the Citadel would oblige, dispatching the closest relevant Synth unit.
But this time… the upper command levels of the Citadel had coldly informed them that a Gunship was to escort them. #34-C didn’t question the decision- it wasn’t his place to do so, and the mere concept of dissent crippled him with confusion- although he couldn’t logically calculate why one had been deemed necessary, as they’d merely been tracking a Resistance patrol. Admittedly it was unusually large- working vehicles had been destroyed or decommissioned following the Union’s arrival- but he had been sure that the two APCs could’ve dealt with the terrorists admirably.
But now he had seen an associate of that patrol- a different vehicle, but undoubtedly part of their misguided little group- discharge unidentifiable energies at his transport. He was immensely pleased to have further confirmation of his commanders’ tactical prowess. Not that he’d ever doubted, or even felt pleasure… but his implants ensured he felt… better, somehow, whenever he did what was expected of him.
He had no knowledge of drugs or addictive substances, but he was obsessed with approval, and thus he constantly and unwaveringly carried out instructions to the letter. Every soldier did.
#34-C disembarked. Four of his fellows stepped out of the APC behind him, and he was aware that the second transport had pulled up a short distance away, ready to spew out its own squadron.
He held a position of rank- a squad leader. But as the Combine would never deliberately produce a sub-standard soldier, it was a “decorative” rank, handed out merely because one member of the squad had to pass on orders and direct the others. #34-C knew that, if he died in the glorious service of the Union, #339a-C would take his place. And that was good and proper.
Other than to serve the Union, #34-C’s only drive was self-preservation, and he was aware that #339a-C would find himself prematurely promoted if they dared to traverse the minefield.
The ten troops surveyed the scorched earth before them- the rogue van was concealed behind a blackened rock, and smoke poured from dozens of craters in the ground. It was further proof that, despite the illogicalness of the situation, they had indeed witnessed the base fire upon their targets.
#34-C had not been informed of the discovery of a Resistance outpost in this area, and he certainly hadn’t been told about a successful raid on such a base.
“Animosity,” #35b-C barked into his headset, “Relaying: possible sighting of inner Resistance conflict. Code 2 alpha. Mission reference: coast-C41. Repeat: Animosity…”
#35b-C was #34-C’s equal in rank, and the head of the second squadron. “Animosity” was the term for any sign of dissent in the Resistance’s ranks- an occurrence the CPs cherished, as nothing undermined fury at the beneficent Union like interior conflicts. It was a rare happening, and the last time #34-C had been present at such an event a gaggle of demonstrators had come to blows when trying to decide on their next move.
That had been four years ago. The potential riot- and demonstrations were, of course, forbidden because of that danger of violence- had dissipated by itself, torn apart by personal feuds, saving the Protectorate valuable ammunition. But for the Resistance to turn on their own in a combat situation, well, that was something else entirely…
“Affirmative, we will await further instruction,” #35b-C terminated his Overwatch link. “Command has no records, rules out CP involvement- we are to setup a defensive perimeter and blockade this pass.”
“Acknowledged.” #34-C turned to his attentive charges, and his fellow squad-leader did the same. “Squad, set up turret perimeter. 20-mD from this position. Go.”
His squad didn’t salute- a practise that was universally absent from the Union’s ranks, as it wasted valuable time. But they immediately revisited their APCs in an orderly fashion, quickly returning with compact packages of black metal.
The two officers watched their respective squads set up a line of defence across the pass’s breadth, unfolding the packages to reveal autonomous, tripod-mounted firing systems. Each turret sported a snub-nosed, lesser version of the Union-produced pulse rifle- it didn’t possess quite the same level of firepower, as it launched tiny superheated flechettes as opposed to the solider rounds that filled a rifle’s magazine. But a near-unlimited magazine and power source ensured their worth as a staple defensive measure against everything from antlions to rebellious citizens.
“That will suffice,” said a voice.
The two soldiers had, at one point, been human. They still were, to some degree- it was just that emotion and irrelevant memory had been sheared off through frequent visits to the Enrichment Facilities. But even though their minds were awash with propaganda and filled with artificial components, they were still capable of experiencing shock, of a sort.
They spun to face the speaker, pulse rifles pointing at his head. That’s when they realised the head was at a different height than usual.
Soldiers were six-foot-one-inch tall. That was the rule; the optimum size, determined after extensive tests. If they were too short, they lost their legs in favour of semi-organic prosthetics. The newcomer was not a soldier.
He was almost seven foot, and he was dressed similarly to a member of the Elite. Helmet with a single viewing port, white uniform with slightly different markings… but there were not-so-subtle differences. Chitinous plates were interlaced with the padded cloth, and it was difficult to tell what was armour and what was part of him. He looked like some sort of human Synth.
“I am Forty. I have been deployed to support you. I was expressing approval of your defences.” The voice sounded like it had been filtered by a standard-issue CP facemask, yet it had a slightly musical quality, almost whistling. It sounded more… organic.
They hesitated. Forty. That was all. No other identifiers- no squad code, no location reference, no batch number. He was one of the originals.
“We had been told that all of the Benefited were supporting the search for Freeman,” #35b-C stated flatly, although the statement itself hinted at some well-hidden suspicion.
“Your mission involves Freeman,” Forty responded. “And so I am here.”
#34-C lowered his rifle. “Do you have additional instructions, sir?”
“Negative. I am here merely to support your efforts.”
Forty moved closer, strange clunking sounds accompanying his every movement. He loomed above the two soldiers, and a small, human part of them recoiled in fright.
“But do not get in my way.”
R
RevicLockwood
Guest
Pretty good so far. Note that sometimes simple syntax with a great story will be more successful. For example, maybe if you spent a little bit more time re-writing the first chapter. Made it whole lot simpler, a whole lot longer, and a whole lot more explained it would turn out better. (I realize i am new to this website, but as a side cinematographer and a play-write/screen-write- im not that new to the topic)
Steel.Inferno
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How do you write these so fast :S
Edcrab
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Good news- I've got a new job! Bad news- it'll strand me for long periods of time without internet access. Eek.
RevicLockwood raises a good point (although I don't think he's about to see it), although personally I thought my syntax was already simple, and the fact is the first few chapters are deliberately confusing (effectively from Quarir/Nuri's respective experiences, which are pretty damn bizzare), setting up a decent excuse to explain certain aspects without arbitary monologues or random narratives.
Hopefully I'll get something up for the weekend, but I've got a nagging suspicion this project is going to move in fits and starts
RevicLockwood raises a good point (although I don't think he's about to see it), although personally I thought my syntax was already simple, and the fact is the first few chapters are deliberately confusing (effectively from Quarir/Nuri's respective experiences, which are pretty damn bizzare), setting up a decent excuse to explain certain aspects without arbitary monologues or random narratives.
Hopefully I'll get something up for the weekend, but I've got a nagging suspicion this project is going to move in fits and starts
Edcrab
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Despite what I said I've cut chapter 17 short and transferred some of it over to number 18. I'll find some way to organise it all!
Hopefully I'll get the chance to make some more progress, as I've got some interesting developments in store... at least, I hope they're interesting...
Zichekoam kicked his door open and stepped onto the sand. He did this quickly, so that he didn’t even have time to contemplate the possibility of a landmine being under his feet.
After a second he realised he hadn’t been blown to pieces. Accepting that Pyotr had correctly forwarded the base schematics, he cautiously gestured for his entourage to do the same. They remained where they were.
“We’ll be blown to pieces,” Quarir said stubbornly, shaking his head at the Rot’s continued attempts to lure him out.
“There are no mines around the rock,” Zyke informed him coldy. “Come on!”
“To hell with the mines!” Nalore snapped. “I’m on about the Combine-”
Pyotr slowly lowered himself to the ground. “We are well sheltered here. If we traverse the secret route we can escape the field without harm. The oppressor will not risk following us on foot.”
Nuri gingerly followed the Vortigaunt. “Secret route?”
“I wasn’t aware that there was a secret route…” Zyke began.
“That is because it is a secret,” Pyotr stated. “The passage in question was sealed long before we claimed this installation as our own.”
“Whoever’s up there can’t shoot at what they can’t see,” Quarir concluded with a mixture of logic and cowardice, “I don’t like the idea of going out in the open-”
“You will not be. This ‘rock’ is in fact a concealed entrance. Hence its convenient placing in the centre of an empty canyon.”
Quarir stepped down. “All right- show us.”
Pyotr bowed and sedately approached the craggy mass. On reaching a nondescript protrusion he stopped, and began tapping the sandy outcropping with all three hands. After ten seconds of dull sounds, a metallic note rang out.
Zyke peered at the lumpy stone. “You found something?”
“This is the entrance,” Pyotr declared triumphantly, pointing at the wall.
At first Quarir could see nothing, but eventually a small rectangle became apparent, even amongst the network of cracks. The door had been cleverly surfaced with rock from its surroundings, but much of it was little more than painted metal- and looking at the faded colouring Nalore couldn’t help wonder how they’d possibly missed it.
“Okay, that’s good,” Quarir grinned. “Now let’s open it.”
“As we say, it has been sealed for many years now-”
Nalore gritted his teeth. “Oh, great.”
“Wonderful,” Zyke sighed. “I don’t suppose you can force it open?” he asked Quarir hopefully. “You’ve got those augmentations-”
“There’s about an inch of steel there!” Nalore cringed at the reddish metal. “I’m a bion, not a demolition mech-”
“We did not say it could not be opened,” Pyotr reprimanded them. “Only that it may take time.”
Quarir scratched his stubbly chin. “Well…”
“Oh, just let him work,” Nuri snapped impatiently. “We’ll get nowhere otherwise.”
The Domarian opened his mouth to make a biting retort, but thought better of it. As always, she had a point. Being right was her most irritating habit.
Pyotr faced the stone and inclined his head downward, his two forehands together as if in prayer. After a moment they shuddered, greenish sparks forcing them apart, and he whirled them in small circles, trailing dancing, emerald electricity.
Before anyone had a chance to guess his intentions, a blinding, thunderous arc of lightning leapt from his leathery fingers and tore the door in half.
“You said it would take a while!” Quarir gibbered, pointing at the sizzling door in awed terror.
“We said that it could take time. We were uncertain if that would work.”
“Good god,” Zyke breathed, taking in the hatch’s dripping, molten metal as the red dust settled. He rubbed his gauntleted hand self-consciously. “And I thought we had some firepower-”
“Our innate abilities are very useful, but they lack variety,” Pyotr told him modestly. “Although we are yet to meet an adversary that could take our attacks without harm.”
“I can imagine,” Nuri murmured. She watched the cooling door and wondered, not for the first time, what she’d got herself into.
She found an answer quite quickly, although it wasn’t very helpful of her subconscious to offer “a world of trouble” as a response.
The door- once it had finished melting- led to a ramp, which explained the strange angle of the apparently natural rock.
It was pitch dark and musty, but Quarir and Nuri were, by now, entirely used to gloomy caverns and crumbling tunnels. They’d tried the light switches, just in case, but the passage lacked both illumination and ventilation- the air was heavy and difficult to breathe.
Nuri felt that she was the only one with a problem, however- Quarir’s nameless bionics seemed to keep him going, and for all she knew Zyke and Pyotr had twenty lungs between them. The Rot and the Vortigaunt had taken the lead, using the respective means at their disposal- the cold radiance of the Arcadimaarian gauntlet, and the marginally less sinister glow of the electrical “candle” atop Pyotr’s fingertip- to light the way.
Quarir was feeling similarly mundane, despite the numerous implants beneath his skin. The fact was that many Domarians- at least the richer ones- were bions, and if anything he was quite envious of how well the others performed with nothing but their natural abilities. If you could call a mutated psychic with an alien amplifier natural.
Zyke, of course, picked up on their unspoken concerns. Telepathy was just a hyped annoyance to him- he found Pyotr, like all Vortigaunts, a source of immense comfort, because he found their minds completely impossible to read.
“There’s a lot of rubble in here,” Quarir said, stepping over a chunk.
“I think they were dislodged by the explosions up top,” Zyke called, his voice echoing through the subterranean passageway. “They set off quite the chain reaction.”
“I just hope they haven’t made this place unstable,” Nuri murmured.
“So do I now,” Nalore shuddered. “Thanks for introducing me to the possibility of being crushed by tons of rock.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It’d be the third time, come to think of it. Fourth if you-”
“-count the time you were hit by an ornamental boulder at an art exhibition. You already mentioned that.”
Hopefully I'll get the chance to make some more progress, as I've got some interesting developments in store... at least, I hope they're interesting...
Chapter 18: Clandestine Bunker
Zichekoam kicked his door open and stepped onto the sand. He did this quickly, so that he didn’t even have time to contemplate the possibility of a landmine being under his feet.
After a second he realised he hadn’t been blown to pieces. Accepting that Pyotr had correctly forwarded the base schematics, he cautiously gestured for his entourage to do the same. They remained where they were.
“We’ll be blown to pieces,” Quarir said stubbornly, shaking his head at the Rot’s continued attempts to lure him out.
“There are no mines around the rock,” Zyke informed him coldy. “Come on!”
“To hell with the mines!” Nalore snapped. “I’m on about the Combine-”
Pyotr slowly lowered himself to the ground. “We are well sheltered here. If we traverse the secret route we can escape the field without harm. The oppressor will not risk following us on foot.”
Nuri gingerly followed the Vortigaunt. “Secret route?”
“I wasn’t aware that there was a secret route…” Zyke began.
“That is because it is a secret,” Pyotr stated. “The passage in question was sealed long before we claimed this installation as our own.”
“Whoever’s up there can’t shoot at what they can’t see,” Quarir concluded with a mixture of logic and cowardice, “I don’t like the idea of going out in the open-”
“You will not be. This ‘rock’ is in fact a concealed entrance. Hence its convenient placing in the centre of an empty canyon.”
Quarir stepped down. “All right- show us.”
Pyotr bowed and sedately approached the craggy mass. On reaching a nondescript protrusion he stopped, and began tapping the sandy outcropping with all three hands. After ten seconds of dull sounds, a metallic note rang out.
Zyke peered at the lumpy stone. “You found something?”
“This is the entrance,” Pyotr declared triumphantly, pointing at the wall.
At first Quarir could see nothing, but eventually a small rectangle became apparent, even amongst the network of cracks. The door had been cleverly surfaced with rock from its surroundings, but much of it was little more than painted metal- and looking at the faded colouring Nalore couldn’t help wonder how they’d possibly missed it.
“Okay, that’s good,” Quarir grinned. “Now let’s open it.”
“As we say, it has been sealed for many years now-”
Nalore gritted his teeth. “Oh, great.”
“Wonderful,” Zyke sighed. “I don’t suppose you can force it open?” he asked Quarir hopefully. “You’ve got those augmentations-”
“There’s about an inch of steel there!” Nalore cringed at the reddish metal. “I’m a bion, not a demolition mech-”
“We did not say it could not be opened,” Pyotr reprimanded them. “Only that it may take time.”
Quarir scratched his stubbly chin. “Well…”
“Oh, just let him work,” Nuri snapped impatiently. “We’ll get nowhere otherwise.”
The Domarian opened his mouth to make a biting retort, but thought better of it. As always, she had a point. Being right was her most irritating habit.
Pyotr faced the stone and inclined his head downward, his two forehands together as if in prayer. After a moment they shuddered, greenish sparks forcing them apart, and he whirled them in small circles, trailing dancing, emerald electricity.
Before anyone had a chance to guess his intentions, a blinding, thunderous arc of lightning leapt from his leathery fingers and tore the door in half.
“You said it would take a while!” Quarir gibbered, pointing at the sizzling door in awed terror.
“We said that it could take time. We were uncertain if that would work.”
“Good god,” Zyke breathed, taking in the hatch’s dripping, molten metal as the red dust settled. He rubbed his gauntleted hand self-consciously. “And I thought we had some firepower-”
“Our innate abilities are very useful, but they lack variety,” Pyotr told him modestly. “Although we are yet to meet an adversary that could take our attacks without harm.”
“I can imagine,” Nuri murmured. She watched the cooling door and wondered, not for the first time, what she’d got herself into.
She found an answer quite quickly, although it wasn’t very helpful of her subconscious to offer “a world of trouble” as a response.
---
The door- once it had finished melting- led to a ramp, which explained the strange angle of the apparently natural rock.
It was pitch dark and musty, but Quarir and Nuri were, by now, entirely used to gloomy caverns and crumbling tunnels. They’d tried the light switches, just in case, but the passage lacked both illumination and ventilation- the air was heavy and difficult to breathe.
Nuri felt that she was the only one with a problem, however- Quarir’s nameless bionics seemed to keep him going, and for all she knew Zyke and Pyotr had twenty lungs between them. The Rot and the Vortigaunt had taken the lead, using the respective means at their disposal- the cold radiance of the Arcadimaarian gauntlet, and the marginally less sinister glow of the electrical “candle” atop Pyotr’s fingertip- to light the way.
Quarir was feeling similarly mundane, despite the numerous implants beneath his skin. The fact was that many Domarians- at least the richer ones- were bions, and if anything he was quite envious of how well the others performed with nothing but their natural abilities. If you could call a mutated psychic with an alien amplifier natural.
Zyke, of course, picked up on their unspoken concerns. Telepathy was just a hyped annoyance to him- he found Pyotr, like all Vortigaunts, a source of immense comfort, because he found their minds completely impossible to read.
“There’s a lot of rubble in here,” Quarir said, stepping over a chunk.
“I think they were dislodged by the explosions up top,” Zyke called, his voice echoing through the subterranean passageway. “They set off quite the chain reaction.”
“I just hope they haven’t made this place unstable,” Nuri murmured.
“So do I now,” Nalore shuddered. “Thanks for introducing me to the possibility of being crushed by tons of rock.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It’d be the third time, come to think of it. Fourth if you-”
“-count the time you were hit by an ornamental boulder at an art exhibition. You already mentioned that.”
