“What do you mean “No one knows”?!”
Tavian had been roaring this way for almost ten minutes. As always, Alix was a model of composure, checking data sheets and receiving more and more golems, none of which brought news the Adjudicator wanted to hear.
“Well?!” Tavian demanded. Alix took another breath.
“As I said, my lord, there has been no sign of Marek. We know for certain he checked in at the proper port city, received supplies and then headed back into the Wasteland. We have our best trackers out there but at some point, his trail just vanishes.”
Tavian swore, but calmed down.
“Likelihood of betrayal?”
Alix calculated silently before answering.
“Marek is slippery and ambitious but was as high as he could reach as a neophyte, thanks to you. Nothing could be gained from betraying you, no one else has a better offer. He would know that. More likely he was captured or killed.” Tavian shook his head.
“Marek plays the fop but he's a formidable fighter. I've heard he picked up a few things from Heydrich.”
“Like a disease?” Alix muttered under her breath. Tavian let it pass.
“My guess is he found something else. Not knowing the significance of his mission, he considers something else more beneficial to pursue.” Alix nodded, recalculating.
Tavian paced his chamber. The room was dark, only a few artificial lights lit the corners, giving every object monstrously long shadows.
“People are simple,” he repeated, absently. The ornately decorated ceiling was high, a round skylight open to allow golems entry, too small for anything else. The Adjudicator was a firm believing in combining aesthetic beauty with paranoia level security. Tavian continued, the headache at his temples threatening to expand to full head migraine.
“And the twins?” he asked yet again, closing his eyes against the pain. Alix looked at her board, though by now she had the information memorized.
“Commanders Kristallnacht landed in PC Midnight. Proximity to mountain made visual confirmation impossible. We assume they and their team made contact with the unknown enemy. Almost immediately we lost communication with them. The scout team we sent claims the PC is a ghost town. There is not only nothing living, the only activity they observed was a handful of NIL's who appear to have wandered in the open gates. Any evidence is therefore likely eaten.”
Tavian sat down on a soft green couch, his head resting on the back. Alix stood with her hands folded. The Adjudicator rarely exploded as he'd done today but never in public and never for long. She needed only to wait it out.
“Alix,” Tavian began slowly, “Write an order. Commanders Tiberius, Maksim and Kamsomol are to get their troops together. Dashkov is to step up security, to compensate here. A detachment of four KingKillers is to accompany the soldiers down to the surface. We must find the Dark Army. The story will be that we are sending reinforcements to Midnight. En route, there will be a technical malfunction and the Pandora and the Orpheus will be forced to land close to where we lost Marek. The KingKillers will act as Scouts.”
Alix thought carefully about her response as she wrote down as she'd been told.
“Three battalions, lord?”
Tavian sighed.
“I know, Lucretia. But my preferred method of stealth has failed and time is not our ally. I'll take no more chances.”
Alix considered.
“Perhaps better than sabotaging our skiffs, we could make it a training exercise. Ensuring the troops are in top form.”
Tavian turned and threw his legs up on the armrests.
“You really think they'll buy that?”
“Some won't. Lord Denisovich won't. But he won't trust anything. Keeping it simple means less can go wrong.” Tavian nodded but appeared unhappy.
“I liked my story,” he pouted, though his eyes twinkled. Alix smiled, but was still bothered.
“My lord...what about Midnight?”
Tavian stared up at the skylight and the artificial illumination wafting down from it.
“The Dark Army is worth more tan two warriors. Even if they are the best,” he answered quietly, “I have to trust that they will find a way out but for now, the twins are on their own.”
~~
Journal Entry #24
Why did I think this was a good idea?
Wandering around with only the vaguest sense of direction...Hard when you know only where you don't want to be. That place where you you're a toy, forced to play their games, by their rules.
But I can't lie. I hate this place.
There is simply nothing here. I expected to be fighting for my life every step of the way but not even the NIL's bother coming here. No life to feed on. It also appears I underestimated the size of this strip of desert. I've walked for almost two weeks. So far haven't had to pop a LiqNit cylinder but it won't be long now. Otherwise, if something DOES bother, will be too weak to do anything against it.
Writing by moonlight. Pressing on.
Hoping the structures I glimpsed are not just illusions.
Denisovich lifted the sand-glasses from her face and held her breath, afraid her eyes betrayed and the slightest disturbance would blow the apparition away.
Buildings, skyscrapers...built in a style long obsolete. Relics of the height of human domination.
She was not sure what was the more breathtaking—that there were such artifacts from a lost time, a sprawling city of likely great importance...or the degree of devastation which left these structures blown out, scalded shells.
A dead city.
There was a strange ethereal beauty to it all. The broken glass carpeting cracked and crooked streets, blown out from thousands of windows. Corpse houses, blackened walls and twisted metal. Her mind was incapable of processing everything her eyes took in. The air was still, the long shadows cast by high towers cooling and stagnating.
The subdued sounds of her leather boots against pavement the only sound. She tried to imagine what this city must have been like in its prime. Judging by the rate of decay...the extent of moss chocking the pillars, the disintegration of stone and steel...she guess this to be one of the later cities to disappear. So not a capital or anything of military interest, she reasoned. Were most human cities like this? Unlike the cramped technolopolis, where everything had been pushed together even before the vampires took over, the city was spread out, full of alley ways, sidewalks and what seemed to be the remnants of tree pots.
Despite the restless loveliness of the city, she knew instinctively it was not the one she sought. Like every other town, city, and random collection of structures she had encountered, none matched her end quest. Just another trove to be picked clean for any goods other scavengers had left behind.
Passing the majority of skyscrapers—undoubtedly office buildings, none of which would hold anything of interest for her—she left the more industrial area for what seemed to be a downtown. A line of shops appeared more intact that their surroundings, having been sheltered from much of the destruction by their steel bigger siblings.
“Jackpot,” she murmured, an archaic phrase no one remembered the context of anymore. The identifying signs above doors and in windows were long gone, but she'd seen enough of the same type to make educated guesses.
The first building proved to be picked clean, the next boasted a caved in ceiling. She smiled at the third building which still carried a lock on its door, offering hope. With a quick tug, she yanked it off, furtively glancing around in case the noise had attracted unwanted, drooling attention. She opened the door slowly to avoid creaking, but the bell over it sounded out like a bullet breaking the porcelain sky.
“Stupid,” she muttered. Too long alone in the desert. Careful to hold the bell as she closed the door, Denisovich took quick stock of the store. Many shelves still carrying placards were devoid of the food and sweets once put out for quick purchase, as were a variety of useful items. She smiled wryly at the giant display sign which read “SURVIVAL KIT.”
Behind the counter in a locked glass case, she found what she was looking for. Already running for their lives, most humans had wisely avoided adding unnecessary weight and items. Especially items which marked them with a smell that drew NIL's faster than the cancer the little white sticks promised as a bonus. Luckily for her.
Her feline eyes scanned the glass for her favorite brand.
“Can't be too picky,” she quietly reminded herself, glance finally resting on them.
She pulled seven boxes of the Red Tops (having long decided the Gold Tops had no kick and the Blue Tops smelled nastier than they should), slipping six in a thick pouch she carried for just such an occasion, and the last box in her pocket. Turning, she looked for the accessories which were never far from such cases. Unfortunately most of the flame making tools—matches, lighters, etc—had been stolen, for their intended use and for the fuel inside them, undoubtedly. No matter how many times I see it, I'm still surprised what humans thought up to get around us, she thought. Underneath the counter she found another locked case, this one not displayed behind hollow glass. Jerking it open she found additional products, silently waiting to be put on shelves for customers that would never return. Among the litter of items, most of which were now obsolete and few she even recognized, she spied success. Pulling two lighters and a carton of matchbooks from the very back of the case, she straightened, feeling her spine pop. Everything but one of the lighters disappeared into her ruck sack. Quickly, she turned off her Breather, and pulled it down around her neck. Opening the Red Top box, she pulled a cig out and lit it up, taking a slow breath. A happy smile worked across her face.
“Honest to Seladore, the best thing about this place,” she mumbled around it, stuffing the last two items in her pocket and walking out.
A few more blocks down the road (or what she assumed had been a road), Denisovich found a gap in the city. A seven foot wide chasm split street and building for what seemed to be hundreds of yards in either direction. Denisovich knelt and peered into the dark to determine the depth. Instead, what she saw was a pile of bones and rubble. Having been protected from the elements and with the lack of animal scavengers, flesh still hung off bones, flaps of skin stretched over agonized faces and twisted limbs. She stared at them for a bit and, seeing none had anything worth climbing down to get, she left them to their rest. A few steps backward and a sprinted leap later, she was across the chasm. Almost immediately, her sharp ears pricked at a misplaced sound. Taking a final drag, she flicked the cigarette away, swiveling her head to determine the direction of the sound as she returned her Breather to the lower half of her face. Automatically, she canned for a place to store her ruck sack, finally deciding on an knocked over tree pot. After setting it, and her long coat inside, she covered it with some dirt, to camouflage both the sight and smell. Then she returned to the center of the street where there was more open space.
More noise reached her, and now she could tell it wasn't all coming from one place. She closed her eyes and sighed, reaching behind her shoulder to pull her barbed sword from its strappings. Inside, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it was long past the time she should be without feeding, but she ignored it. When she opened her eyes, they were steeled with the resolve that she could hold her own just fine without the benefits of fresh blood. The noise, which had previously been confined to shuffling and the sound of glass being kicked around, rose as moans filled the air, echoing off buildings.
She spotted the first NIL shamble over a large piece of shrapnel, most of its hair gone, an eye hanging out of one socket uselessly. Huge gashes along its arm indicated it was a Second Wave victim, one who had been attacked and turned by the horrors created by the Death Winds. Two more appeared around the corner of a tower, arms dangling at the side, heads lolling around. After 20 she stopped counting as more joined and closed in around her. Her sword gleamed in the pale sunlight as she hefted it with both hands. All the NILs spontaneously changed demeanor, becoming ravenous with prey so near. They snarled, faces contorting into something that barely resembled humanity and rushed at her, functional arms reaching out, broken fingernails reader to tear and scratch. She took a deep breath to avoid inhaling the smell and swung. The first blow caught a zombie in the side of the skull which imploded in a spray of bone and brain matter. Another flesheater leapt low at her, but her sword tore into its neck. A quick jerk upwards and the spine was severed, a junk of vertebrae still hooked on a barb. Three more attacked at once. The first was dispatched easily but Denisovich swore when her blade became embedded in the torso of the second, despite her considerable strength. Letting it go, she grabbed her long curved knife from its holster at her side. Lacking the head-removing force of the larger sword, even wielded by her kind, it was useful for quick cuts and jabs, able to pierce through the skull or sever the spine from behind. Taking care of the third NIL, she utilized a few seconds to grab her sword out, blood and gore spewing to the side. Now carrying a blade in each hand, she whirled, chopped, stabbed; slicing an arm off with this blade to provide an opening for knocking a head off with the other one, dodging bites and claws. Drool, blood and ichor was splattered across her shirt, but she'd been careful to get none on her Breather. Shoving another monster away from her, Denisovich raised her head to see how many were left. Because of this, she was able to see the dark figure in the shadow of a high-rise window before the first shot exploded the skull of a NIL behind her.
A rain of bullets, ranging in all calibers from the sound of it, collapsed corpses and blew apart the moving dead. Denisovich crouched, her sword raised above her head as she tried to identify her “rescuers”. In less than forty five seconds, the City was quiet again. Denisovich stared at the NILs strewn around her, some actually bearing expressions of surprise, a feeling she could easily sympathize with this time. Heavy, assured footsteps echoed out of the darkness, precluding the figure that emerged. He was dressed simply in heavy pants, a turtlenecked sweater and light brown vest. Close cropped brown hair looked like a dark cap, matching deep set eyes. Behind him, a half dozen humans fanned out, all staring at the last standing figure intently. Meeting their eyes, Denisovich could see the hostility and guessed their assistance was not born out of any love for her species.
Suddenly, strong arms gripped her from behind, giving no way to lift her blades and a prick at her neck caught her off-guard. She struggled against the assault but could already feel her strength draining, the result of whatever drug was now slowly making its way through her bloodstream.
“Hold still, suckhead,” the voice growled at her ear. She managed to push her head back, giving her a glimpse of the face so close to her own. Her eyes opened wide in shock as they locked with cobalt blue.
“Marek?”
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Chapter 6
The vast expanse of the Wasteland was mind-wrenching in its emptiness. Having been raised in the highly contained floating city, Denisovich found herself suffering a sharp case of discomfort, bordering on agoraphobia.
“Not your first time,” she muttered, a weak reassurance. Despite having no clear destination in mind, she was at least clear on a direction. As long as she headed east and didn't turn south at all, the temperature would continue to be survivable. No one ventured too deep into the midlands, parts of the country that had been desert even before the bombs fell. There were rumors of nomadic tribes led by enlightened or crazy medicine men but she paid them little attention. It was simply impossible for human or vampire life to sustain itself in the blistering heat of the south.
Keeping both blades loosely sheathed while gloves, hood, Breather and goggles were tightly fastened, she set out into the shimmering brightness.
~~
Cassus Nestor did not usually mind being a serf. While the generous may have attributed this to some kind of indomitable spirit, the truth that Cassus himself well knew: he was simply too simple-minded to be overly bothered. He was up here, the zombies were down there and that was all that mattered. If he had to line up once a month to have a significant amount of his blood emptied into sterile sub-zero temperature containers, well...small price.
Being unambitious, with perhaps a touch of dimwit to accommodate such, Cassus was not particularly suitable for any kind of skilled labor. He was, as the LiqNit technicians liked to refer to him, a Drainer. There to feed on. Most of the time, he found himself charged with sweeping the streets or cleaning the hoods of ventilation shafts...jobs formerly handled by robots before much of the Old Tech was lost. Now, the only automatons were the KingKillers, which made up the Adjudicator's gendarme and gave Cassus the creepies.
The disadvantage of being a lowly Drainer was that it was easy for the Higher Ups to shove undesirable jobs on you, which was what landed Cassus in his current position standing outside a plain black building adorned with a single red flag emblazoned with a black sun. There was no lock on the gate; one would need to be suicidal or crazy to come here uninvited. He fingered the tassel on the end of his delivery, the one he'd been promised guaranteed his safety. The Adjudicator's seal was only good if he lived long enough to present it.
Cassus Nestor sucked in several breaths, intended to be calming but sounding more like a Squee giving birth (assuming they did).
“Come on, Nestor. Man up. Just a messenger. Who knows, maybe they'll be pleased and reward you.” Though this was a tantalizing promise, Cassus twinged, knowing Atreans were better known for their capriciousness than their generosity.
It took several muscle cramping tugs before he was able to pull the door open wide enough for him to squeeze through. The room was lined with huge windows, leaving no need for artificial lighting. At the end of this intimidating foyer, a door obscured another room, but did little to stifle the sounds of combat emanating from it.
Reminding himself once again that this was the barracks of the Sapphire City's elite security force, Cassus scurried down to the door, ignoring his pounding heart. His entrance was less than graceful, but thankfully, everyone seemed too busy to even notice.
“Everyone” here referring to the two vampires making scrap of several large robots. The bots were not androids, bearing closer resemblance to insects and they were huge, with 2 to 8 legs, some armed with spinning blades and razor sharp claws. They climbed the pillars and across the low ceiling, moving with great dexterity. Cassus found himself entranced by their non-humanoid movements, yet even more by the two figures in the center, feet firmly planted on the red mat which covered the floor.
He saw the female first. Her hair was a bright blonde, the color of the sun before ash covered and distorted its light. Cut to her neck in the back, save a long braid in the middle, and chopped bangs in the front, her hair seemed to have no practical purpose. A short braid hung in front of her left ear, which whipped around as she moved. She wore tightly fitting shorts and a cropped shirt which permitted full mobility and showcased a body of toned muscle structure. She moved with a viper's grace and lethality, leaping over this bot's pincers to grab a metal bar to shove through that bot's computer brain. At times, Cassus found himself incapable of fully following her actions; they were too quick and complicated.
The other figure was equally impressive in his abilities to dispatch enemies. A huge man, naked to the waist, with a thick ponytail of dark red hair which hung down his back like a mane. He moved impossibly fast for a man of his frame, the taught muscles turning him into a torpedo. Metallic limbs flew across the room, heads collapsed inward and never an opposing blow was landed.
Cassus Nestor's brain was trying to tell him to close his mouth but he wasn't inclined to listen. These were the Titans, warriors of legend. Even now, a nasty scar, healed but angry looking, crossed diagonally down the man's chest, a testament to his battle with House Thyestes' monster Enforcer, Vesuvius. Rhynharken Kristallnacht alone could boast surviving such an encounter.
Finally, his mind reconnected with the rest of him and Cassus made his presence known.
“Your pardon, lords...” he began, afraid his meek voice would not carry over the sounds of fighting. These concerns were quickly dispelled when the girl, her body shining with perspiration commanded “Off!” forcing all the robotic terrors to power down. Both Atreans turned to stare at the human, but it was the leonine Rhynharken who spoke first, his great torso rumbling as he laughed.
“There are no “lords” here, boy. So don't be so formal.”
Forgetting himself and his fear, Cassus questioned the two as they walked towards him, no longer even breathing heavily.
“Buit you are pure bloods. And you're here. I don't understand.”
The female—Heydrich--stared at him balefully, but Rhynharken laughed again.
“If you think the only dichotomy here is between neophytes and pures, you've got no more sense than a NIL.”
Emboldened by the warrior's easy demeanor, the laughter which danced in his feline gold eyes, Cassus continued.
“I've never seen anyone fight like you.” This time Heydrich answered, shrugging her shapely shoulders in resignation.
“Have to entertain ourselves somehow. Tavian hasn't had needs of our services for decades.”
“I've heard stories but I never-”
“What do you want, human?” Heydrich cut him off sharply, yanking him back to the cold reality that he was alone with the most dangerous beings in the Sapphire City.
“Leave the lad be, Hey, he looks fit to piss.”
Heydrich spun away in disgust, her blonde tail whipping over her shoulder.
“I-I bring a message from the Adjudicator,” Cassus stammered. Heydrich snorted.
“If this is about that incident in Konstanin's Tavern, I do not believe the changing atmospheric conditions is proper excuse for piss poor ale.”
Cassus held out the tasseled cylinder. Rhynarken broke the seal, unwinding the parchment. A feral smile broke open his face.
“Heydrich Veronika, come and see. The little man has brought us good news.” His sister read over his shoulder, her entire demeanor changing. She moved with seductive grace and power of a lynx as she sauntered around Cassus, trailing a finger across his shoulders.
“And would the brave messenger like a reward now?” she whispered enticingly in his ear. His mind flashed to all the other rumors he knew. Drawing in a steady breath, Cassus Nestor performed what was likely to be the bravest act of his life.
“Lady, grateful as I am, I understand that the majority of those you reward find themselves dead for the exertion.”
Heydrich laughed, the sound like hot metal.
“Human hearts are so fragile,” was the only explanation she offered. The bemused looking Rhynharken jerked his head towards the door. On shaky legs, Cassus moved away from the sparring room. At the door, the commander handed him a LiqNit cylinder, murmuring,
“A drink on us, lad.”
Cassus nodded and dashed off, ready to be anywhere else. Rhynharken closed the door after he was gone and when he looked back, his sister was already dressed in a fitted body suit. The two smiled.
“Gather the kids, sister. Tomorrow we go hunting.”
“Not your first time,” she muttered, a weak reassurance. Despite having no clear destination in mind, she was at least clear on a direction. As long as she headed east and didn't turn south at all, the temperature would continue to be survivable. No one ventured too deep into the midlands, parts of the country that had been desert even before the bombs fell. There were rumors of nomadic tribes led by enlightened or crazy medicine men but she paid them little attention. It was simply impossible for human or vampire life to sustain itself in the blistering heat of the south.
Keeping both blades loosely sheathed while gloves, hood, Breather and goggles were tightly fastened, she set out into the shimmering brightness.
~~
Cassus Nestor did not usually mind being a serf. While the generous may have attributed this to some kind of indomitable spirit, the truth that Cassus himself well knew: he was simply too simple-minded to be overly bothered. He was up here, the zombies were down there and that was all that mattered. If he had to line up once a month to have a significant amount of his blood emptied into sterile sub-zero temperature containers, well...small price.
Being unambitious, with perhaps a touch of dimwit to accommodate such, Cassus was not particularly suitable for any kind of skilled labor. He was, as the LiqNit technicians liked to refer to him, a Drainer. There to feed on. Most of the time, he found himself charged with sweeping the streets or cleaning the hoods of ventilation shafts...jobs formerly handled by robots before much of the Old Tech was lost. Now, the only automatons were the KingKillers, which made up the Adjudicator's gendarme and gave Cassus the creepies.
The disadvantage of being a lowly Drainer was that it was easy for the Higher Ups to shove undesirable jobs on you, which was what landed Cassus in his current position standing outside a plain black building adorned with a single red flag emblazoned with a black sun. There was no lock on the gate; one would need to be suicidal or crazy to come here uninvited. He fingered the tassel on the end of his delivery, the one he'd been promised guaranteed his safety. The Adjudicator's seal was only good if he lived long enough to present it.
Cassus Nestor sucked in several breaths, intended to be calming but sounding more like a Squee giving birth (assuming they did).
“Come on, Nestor. Man up. Just a messenger. Who knows, maybe they'll be pleased and reward you.” Though this was a tantalizing promise, Cassus twinged, knowing Atreans were better known for their capriciousness than their generosity.
It took several muscle cramping tugs before he was able to pull the door open wide enough for him to squeeze through. The room was lined with huge windows, leaving no need for artificial lighting. At the end of this intimidating foyer, a door obscured another room, but did little to stifle the sounds of combat emanating from it.
Reminding himself once again that this was the barracks of the Sapphire City's elite security force, Cassus scurried down to the door, ignoring his pounding heart. His entrance was less than graceful, but thankfully, everyone seemed too busy to even notice.
“Everyone” here referring to the two vampires making scrap of several large robots. The bots were not androids, bearing closer resemblance to insects and they were huge, with 2 to 8 legs, some armed with spinning blades and razor sharp claws. They climbed the pillars and across the low ceiling, moving with great dexterity. Cassus found himself entranced by their non-humanoid movements, yet even more by the two figures in the center, feet firmly planted on the red mat which covered the floor.
He saw the female first. Her hair was a bright blonde, the color of the sun before ash covered and distorted its light. Cut to her neck in the back, save a long braid in the middle, and chopped bangs in the front, her hair seemed to have no practical purpose. A short braid hung in front of her left ear, which whipped around as she moved. She wore tightly fitting shorts and a cropped shirt which permitted full mobility and showcased a body of toned muscle structure. She moved with a viper's grace and lethality, leaping over this bot's pincers to grab a metal bar to shove through that bot's computer brain. At times, Cassus found himself incapable of fully following her actions; they were too quick and complicated.
The other figure was equally impressive in his abilities to dispatch enemies. A huge man, naked to the waist, with a thick ponytail of dark red hair which hung down his back like a mane. He moved impossibly fast for a man of his frame, the taught muscles turning him into a torpedo. Metallic limbs flew across the room, heads collapsed inward and never an opposing blow was landed.
Cassus Nestor's brain was trying to tell him to close his mouth but he wasn't inclined to listen. These were the Titans, warriors of legend. Even now, a nasty scar, healed but angry looking, crossed diagonally down the man's chest, a testament to his battle with House Thyestes' monster Enforcer, Vesuvius. Rhynharken Kristallnacht alone could boast surviving such an encounter.
Finally, his mind reconnected with the rest of him and Cassus made his presence known.
“Your pardon, lords...” he began, afraid his meek voice would not carry over the sounds of fighting. These concerns were quickly dispelled when the girl, her body shining with perspiration commanded “Off!” forcing all the robotic terrors to power down. Both Atreans turned to stare at the human, but it was the leonine Rhynharken who spoke first, his great torso rumbling as he laughed.
“There are no “lords” here, boy. So don't be so formal.”
Forgetting himself and his fear, Cassus questioned the two as they walked towards him, no longer even breathing heavily.
“Buit you are pure bloods. And you're here. I don't understand.”
The female—Heydrich--stared at him balefully, but Rhynharken laughed again.
“If you think the only dichotomy here is between neophytes and pures, you've got no more sense than a NIL.”
Emboldened by the warrior's easy demeanor, the laughter which danced in his feline gold eyes, Cassus continued.
“I've never seen anyone fight like you.” This time Heydrich answered, shrugging her shapely shoulders in resignation.
“Have to entertain ourselves somehow. Tavian hasn't had needs of our services for decades.”
“I've heard stories but I never-”
“What do you want, human?” Heydrich cut him off sharply, yanking him back to the cold reality that he was alone with the most dangerous beings in the Sapphire City.
“Leave the lad be, Hey, he looks fit to piss.”
Heydrich spun away in disgust, her blonde tail whipping over her shoulder.
“I-I bring a message from the Adjudicator,” Cassus stammered. Heydrich snorted.
“If this is about that incident in Konstanin's Tavern, I do not believe the changing atmospheric conditions is proper excuse for piss poor ale.”
Cassus held out the tasseled cylinder. Rhynarken broke the seal, unwinding the parchment. A feral smile broke open his face.
“Heydrich Veronika, come and see. The little man has brought us good news.” His sister read over his shoulder, her entire demeanor changing. She moved with seductive grace and power of a lynx as she sauntered around Cassus, trailing a finger across his shoulders.
“And would the brave messenger like a reward now?” she whispered enticingly in his ear. His mind flashed to all the other rumors he knew. Drawing in a steady breath, Cassus Nestor performed what was likely to be the bravest act of his life.
“Lady, grateful as I am, I understand that the majority of those you reward find themselves dead for the exertion.”
Heydrich laughed, the sound like hot metal.
“Human hearts are so fragile,” was the only explanation she offered. The bemused looking Rhynharken jerked his head towards the door. On shaky legs, Cassus moved away from the sparring room. At the door, the commander handed him a LiqNit cylinder, murmuring,
“A drink on us, lad.”
Cassus nodded and dashed off, ready to be anywhere else. Rhynharken closed the door after he was gone and when he looked back, his sister was already dressed in a fitted body suit. The two smiled.
“Gather the kids, sister. Tomorrow we go hunting.”
Chapter 5
Terms like “Day” or “Night” had little significance on the fully enclosed airship, despite the somewhat translucent solar panels of blue crystal which lent the Sapphire City its name. Artificial lights lined walls, walkways, streets and windows, set to timers which ruled the cycle of time. This was predominantly for the benefit of the serfs; without these familiar patterns the humans had a tendency to lose their feeble minds.
Tavian moved down corridors, smiling pleasantly to those he passed. Another day at court, making sure his gleaming city ran smoothly. Those who nodded in return noted a slight spring in the Adjudicator's step, a tad more sincerity to his smile. The opportunistic took the chance to make otherwise unpopular requests and the ignorant bowed their head, missing openings. Taking the lift to the top of the Adjudicator's Spire, he prepared to meet with the head nobles. It would be a few hours before the first lord arrived, but the city was already bustling. Serfs scrambled to clean and prepare, knowing the painful cost of any inconvenience befalling the Atreans. Tavian ignored them, mentally filing their presence with the carefully maintained shrubs and trees.
The lift was quiet on the way to the top floor. On days like these, when he was required to mingle with the citizens (a duty that was more difficult some days than others), this was one of the last moments he would get to himself. The lift was the most carefully inspected and maintained machinery in the city, constantly scrutinized and protected against wear. There was no way the Adjudicator was going to walk the steps up thirteen floors.
Alix Lucretia was waiting in the Feasting Hall when he arrived. As always, Tavian smiled at the irony of the name. There was no table in this room, and never had a feast been consumed within its walls. Still, the old traditions lingered. In her official capacity as Châtelaine, Alix wore a complex outfit made of various pieces held together by a network of bands and straps which defied all logic. Clasped at her breast, a huge collar rose several inches above and behind her head. Tavian's mind instinctively perceived a cobra, but with her diminutive frame and shy smile, his second-in-command looked anything but menacing.
“Lady Olivia, you look absolutely majestic,” he greeted, his words coated in honey. As always, Alix colored, never comfortable with the praise her lord placed on her. Tavian carelessly tossed himself onto his throne, a leg thrown over one arm rest.
“Alix, I won't lie, I am in a fantastic mood. Everything is going according to plan, and I think all of our schemes are coming to an immediate conclusion.”
“I am happy for you, my lord,” Alix smiled, though her own tone was cautious.
“We should get away, take the ship somewhere new.”
Alix looked surprised. “Away from a dock city?” Tavian shrugged.
“We'll have them build a new one.”
Alix was not convinced it was quite that simple, but she saw no reason to spoil Tavian's pleasant disposition. Energetically, Tavian bounded up, stretching his arms above his head.
“So. What's the lineup for today?”
Alix referred to a data sheet she'd been holding. The plunging neckline of her dress made a distracting view which Tavian allowed himself to savor while she confirmed his schedule. The dress was cut in an upside down V-shape underneath the bosom, giving full view of her abdomen. At the waist, the dress was connected to a tabard in the front, a concession to propriety which still left little to the imagination in regards to her shapely legs. If she noticed his scrutiny, Alix made no sign.
“Lady Tiamat canceled, business has called her to the fourth port city, she sends her apologies.”
Tavian responded with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Wonderful, this day only improves. If there was one thing I did not feel the need for, it was her clumsy passive-aggressive attempts to impugn my honor.”
Though she was sorely tempted, Alix made no comment on the fact that Tavian Justinian allowed many of ladies of court to “impugn his honor” on a nigh daily basis. Lady Tiamat simply had the misfortune
of being married to a vindictive oaf of a man who would make more trouble than a lady of her mediocre bedding abilities (if court gossip was to be believed) was worth.
“Some petitioners from the sixth port city will come first then, that should please them.”
“Is there anything special about PC6?”
Alix consulted another sheet.
“Not as far as we know.”
“Any idea what they want?”
Alix chewed the end of her scriber nervously, her sharp canines bending the plastic while she studied the pages.
“No, sir, there’s been no reports to indicate-“
“No matter,” another of his characteristic dismissal waves, “Next?”
“A meeting with the Interior Overseer about replacing some of the panels with stained glass and other beautification projects.”
Tavian stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“What do you advise?”
Alix looked surprised, but needed only a moment to collect herself and formulate a response.
“With all due respect to the lord Overseer, I do not consider his plan prudent. I agree it would increase the morale of the citizens, however, sacrificing their safety is a poor trade off. Though there hasn’t been a Thyestrian assault for a few decades, we cannot allow ourselves to become complacent. Besides, allowing the serfs a greater view of the Wasteland will only increase the likelihood of their insurrection.”
Tavian laughed. “As always, Lady Olivia, your every word rains Seladore’s cunning and the ancients’ wisdom.”
“First meeting in the afternoon—Gregor Denisovich,” Alix hurried on. Tavian’s face sobered.
“What have we learned there?”
Closing her eyes, Alix focused on the mission she’d taken on just a few days earlier.
“Without Lacrymosa Cerastes, Gregor is forced to rely upon the children born After Outbreak. He’s dispatched several of the elder offspring to the surface with two missions: to increase pressure on his agents to find the Chalice and to determine the identity of your neophyte spy.” Tavian nodded; all as he’d expected.
“Anything else?”
Brow furrowing, Alix continued, frustration lacing her voice, “I’ve heard vague rumors regarding interest in one of the port cities but no one seems capable of substantiating any of them.”
“Probably financial affairs. Or he’s found a new wife. I understood his last one was quite a disappointment.”
After that, the schedule seemed quite routine: a few internal meetings with the various department heads, reorganizing the Justinian holdings, examining profits. Though Tavian appreciated the usefulness of the bureaucracy, he found the number crunching mind-numbingly monotonous.
Now warned what he would be facing for the day, the Adjudicator enjoyed a morning drink, tested by Alix and served in a crystal goblet, a remnant from the old-world. A quick face wash as the rest of the city woke and the court could open.
PC6 was affectionately referred to by its inhabitants as Midnight, as most of it was built into the side of or in the shadow of a great mountain. When the petitioners from PC6 entered, they were greeted with a warm golden light, an expansive hall gilded with plush red curtains and devoid of any furniture save the Adjudicator’s Seat.
What Tavian saw were two extremely agitated, if not downright terrified pair of neophytes. What concerned him was that they were not terrified of him. He kept his expression aloof but friendly, offering his typical greeting smile.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming. What can I, and the City, do for you today?”
The two bitten vampires repeatedly glanced at the windows and the columns which rose at intervals. They were a humorous looking pair; dressed in long coats of unpolished leather, the high turtle collars obscuring the lower half of their face, though the top of a Breather could be seen peeking just above. Their eyes were bloodshot, though whether this was from fear or from years of dust was impossible to determine. Tavian followed their glances.
“There is no one else here but the four of us, sirs, I assure you.”
Finally, the petitioners seemed to relax, though both still twitched spontaneously.
“Sir, the Potentate has sent us to request aid,” the dark-haired, older looking neophyte began.
Inwardly, Tavian sighed, Always in need of aid.
“What kind of aid?”
Now the sandy-haired, blue eyed youth, probably barely out of adolescence when he was turned, jumped in, his words and breath coming out in a rush.
“Honorable Tavian, please send Enforcers, lots of them. Our people are being picked off, every patrol we’ve sent out has been murdered and we’ve run out of our own city guards. Soon, I just know we will be overrun.”
Tavian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. Behind him, he could feel Alix’s heart rate increase but otherwise, she may have been made of marble.
“Is it the Thyestrians?”
The older of the petitioners shook his head.
“Surely not the NIL’s, you should be quite capable of handling any of them,” Tavian blinked in confusion.
“Mutants, sir,” the younger informed him, “New ones. They’re vicious and don’t hide underground like the Squees. Just one of them took out an Enforcer triad, good fighters, too, sir.”
“How many of them are there?”
Both the neophytes shook their heads.
“We’ve no idea, sir. We can’t afford to lose anymore guards, so no one has tried investigating.”
Tavian’s mind raced. Ever he was loathe to lose some of the City’s protectors, but Midnight was an important resource-extracting station and he hated the thought of losing it too. The Adjudicator snapped his fingers.
“Alix, get these men rooms and something to eat, they’ve performed a great service for us. Tell the Kristallnacht to prepare their team; they can have one of the shuttles. We want this resolved as quickly as possible.”
Alix nodded and led the petitioners, who were at this moment prostrating themselves with cries of thanks, out of the hall. Tavian leaned back and sighed, closing his eyes. Times like these kept things interesting, and though he would prefer all things to run smoothly, a challenge was always welcome. It kept the game stimulating. In just a few moments, Alix Lucretia had returned.
“Sir, are you sure it is prudent to dispatch our strongest Enforcers?” Tavian responded without opening his eyes.
“Like I said, lady, I want this resolved as quickly as it can. The best way to guarantee that is to neutralize the situation with my sharpest weapon. Besides, Rhynharken and his sister will appreciate the fresh air. We both know how well they deal with boredom.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I send the Overseer up?”
Tavian straightened his collar. “Please.”
When the lift doors opened, it was not the opulent head of the Interior but one of Tavian’s messengers, which he used when a messenger golem would not be considered reliable enough. The vampire (a pure-blood, though of no high standing), took two steps into the hall and knelt.
“My lord, urgent news.”
Tavian motioned him closer.
“What is it, Krasdar?”
Tavian’s favorite agent looked up, his pale-blue-almost-clear eyes bearing an unusual dark hue.
“Sir. We’ve lost contact with Marek. He’s gone.”
Tavian moved down corridors, smiling pleasantly to those he passed. Another day at court, making sure his gleaming city ran smoothly. Those who nodded in return noted a slight spring in the Adjudicator's step, a tad more sincerity to his smile. The opportunistic took the chance to make otherwise unpopular requests and the ignorant bowed their head, missing openings. Taking the lift to the top of the Adjudicator's Spire, he prepared to meet with the head nobles. It would be a few hours before the first lord arrived, but the city was already bustling. Serfs scrambled to clean and prepare, knowing the painful cost of any inconvenience befalling the Atreans. Tavian ignored them, mentally filing their presence with the carefully maintained shrubs and trees.
The lift was quiet on the way to the top floor. On days like these, when he was required to mingle with the citizens (a duty that was more difficult some days than others), this was one of the last moments he would get to himself. The lift was the most carefully inspected and maintained machinery in the city, constantly scrutinized and protected against wear. There was no way the Adjudicator was going to walk the steps up thirteen floors.
Alix Lucretia was waiting in the Feasting Hall when he arrived. As always, Tavian smiled at the irony of the name. There was no table in this room, and never had a feast been consumed within its walls. Still, the old traditions lingered. In her official capacity as Châtelaine, Alix wore a complex outfit made of various pieces held together by a network of bands and straps which defied all logic. Clasped at her breast, a huge collar rose several inches above and behind her head. Tavian's mind instinctively perceived a cobra, but with her diminutive frame and shy smile, his second-in-command looked anything but menacing.
“Lady Olivia, you look absolutely majestic,” he greeted, his words coated in honey. As always, Alix colored, never comfortable with the praise her lord placed on her. Tavian carelessly tossed himself onto his throne, a leg thrown over one arm rest.
“Alix, I won't lie, I am in a fantastic mood. Everything is going according to plan, and I think all of our schemes are coming to an immediate conclusion.”
“I am happy for you, my lord,” Alix smiled, though her own tone was cautious.
“We should get away, take the ship somewhere new.”
Alix looked surprised. “Away from a dock city?” Tavian shrugged.
“We'll have them build a new one.”
Alix was not convinced it was quite that simple, but she saw no reason to spoil Tavian's pleasant disposition. Energetically, Tavian bounded up, stretching his arms above his head.
“So. What's the lineup for today?”
Alix referred to a data sheet she'd been holding. The plunging neckline of her dress made a distracting view which Tavian allowed himself to savor while she confirmed his schedule. The dress was cut in an upside down V-shape underneath the bosom, giving full view of her abdomen. At the waist, the dress was connected to a tabard in the front, a concession to propriety which still left little to the imagination in regards to her shapely legs. If she noticed his scrutiny, Alix made no sign.
“Lady Tiamat canceled, business has called her to the fourth port city, she sends her apologies.”
Tavian responded with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Wonderful, this day only improves. If there was one thing I did not feel the need for, it was her clumsy passive-aggressive attempts to impugn my honor.”
Though she was sorely tempted, Alix made no comment on the fact that Tavian Justinian allowed many of ladies of court to “impugn his honor” on a nigh daily basis. Lady Tiamat simply had the misfortune
of being married to a vindictive oaf of a man who would make more trouble than a lady of her mediocre bedding abilities (if court gossip was to be believed) was worth.
“Some petitioners from the sixth port city will come first then, that should please them.”
“Is there anything special about PC6?”
Alix consulted another sheet.
“Not as far as we know.”
“Any idea what they want?”
Alix chewed the end of her scriber nervously, her sharp canines bending the plastic while she studied the pages.
“No, sir, there’s been no reports to indicate-“
“No matter,” another of his characteristic dismissal waves, “Next?”
“A meeting with the Interior Overseer about replacing some of the panels with stained glass and other beautification projects.”
Tavian stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“What do you advise?”
Alix looked surprised, but needed only a moment to collect herself and formulate a response.
“With all due respect to the lord Overseer, I do not consider his plan prudent. I agree it would increase the morale of the citizens, however, sacrificing their safety is a poor trade off. Though there hasn’t been a Thyestrian assault for a few decades, we cannot allow ourselves to become complacent. Besides, allowing the serfs a greater view of the Wasteland will only increase the likelihood of their insurrection.”
Tavian laughed. “As always, Lady Olivia, your every word rains Seladore’s cunning and the ancients’ wisdom.”
“First meeting in the afternoon—Gregor Denisovich,” Alix hurried on. Tavian’s face sobered.
“What have we learned there?”
Closing her eyes, Alix focused on the mission she’d taken on just a few days earlier.
“Without Lacrymosa Cerastes, Gregor is forced to rely upon the children born After Outbreak. He’s dispatched several of the elder offspring to the surface with two missions: to increase pressure on his agents to find the Chalice and to determine the identity of your neophyte spy.” Tavian nodded; all as he’d expected.
“Anything else?”
Brow furrowing, Alix continued, frustration lacing her voice, “I’ve heard vague rumors regarding interest in one of the port cities but no one seems capable of substantiating any of them.”
“Probably financial affairs. Or he’s found a new wife. I understood his last one was quite a disappointment.”
After that, the schedule seemed quite routine: a few internal meetings with the various department heads, reorganizing the Justinian holdings, examining profits. Though Tavian appreciated the usefulness of the bureaucracy, he found the number crunching mind-numbingly monotonous.
Now warned what he would be facing for the day, the Adjudicator enjoyed a morning drink, tested by Alix and served in a crystal goblet, a remnant from the old-world. A quick face wash as the rest of the city woke and the court could open.
PC6 was affectionately referred to by its inhabitants as Midnight, as most of it was built into the side of or in the shadow of a great mountain. When the petitioners from PC6 entered, they were greeted with a warm golden light, an expansive hall gilded with plush red curtains and devoid of any furniture save the Adjudicator’s Seat.
What Tavian saw were two extremely agitated, if not downright terrified pair of neophytes. What concerned him was that they were not terrified of him. He kept his expression aloof but friendly, offering his typical greeting smile.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming. What can I, and the City, do for you today?”
The two bitten vampires repeatedly glanced at the windows and the columns which rose at intervals. They were a humorous looking pair; dressed in long coats of unpolished leather, the high turtle collars obscuring the lower half of their face, though the top of a Breather could be seen peeking just above. Their eyes were bloodshot, though whether this was from fear or from years of dust was impossible to determine. Tavian followed their glances.
“There is no one else here but the four of us, sirs, I assure you.”
Finally, the petitioners seemed to relax, though both still twitched spontaneously.
“Sir, the Potentate has sent us to request aid,” the dark-haired, older looking neophyte began.
Inwardly, Tavian sighed, Always in need of aid.
“What kind of aid?”
Now the sandy-haired, blue eyed youth, probably barely out of adolescence when he was turned, jumped in, his words and breath coming out in a rush.
“Honorable Tavian, please send Enforcers, lots of them. Our people are being picked off, every patrol we’ve sent out has been murdered and we’ve run out of our own city guards. Soon, I just know we will be overrun.”
Tavian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. Behind him, he could feel Alix’s heart rate increase but otherwise, she may have been made of marble.
“Is it the Thyestrians?”
The older of the petitioners shook his head.
“Surely not the NIL’s, you should be quite capable of handling any of them,” Tavian blinked in confusion.
“Mutants, sir,” the younger informed him, “New ones. They’re vicious and don’t hide underground like the Squees. Just one of them took out an Enforcer triad, good fighters, too, sir.”
“How many of them are there?”
Both the neophytes shook their heads.
“We’ve no idea, sir. We can’t afford to lose anymore guards, so no one has tried investigating.”
Tavian’s mind raced. Ever he was loathe to lose some of the City’s protectors, but Midnight was an important resource-extracting station and he hated the thought of losing it too. The Adjudicator snapped his fingers.
“Alix, get these men rooms and something to eat, they’ve performed a great service for us. Tell the Kristallnacht to prepare their team; they can have one of the shuttles. We want this resolved as quickly as possible.”
Alix nodded and led the petitioners, who were at this moment prostrating themselves with cries of thanks, out of the hall. Tavian leaned back and sighed, closing his eyes. Times like these kept things interesting, and though he would prefer all things to run smoothly, a challenge was always welcome. It kept the game stimulating. In just a few moments, Alix Lucretia had returned.
“Sir, are you sure it is prudent to dispatch our strongest Enforcers?” Tavian responded without opening his eyes.
“Like I said, lady, I want this resolved as quickly as it can. The best way to guarantee that is to neutralize the situation with my sharpest weapon. Besides, Rhynharken and his sister will appreciate the fresh air. We both know how well they deal with boredom.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I send the Overseer up?”
Tavian straightened his collar. “Please.”
When the lift doors opened, it was not the opulent head of the Interior but one of Tavian’s messengers, which he used when a messenger golem would not be considered reliable enough. The vampire (a pure-blood, though of no high standing), took two steps into the hall and knelt.
“My lord, urgent news.”
Tavian motioned him closer.
“What is it, Krasdar?”
Tavian’s favorite agent looked up, his pale-blue-almost-clear eyes bearing an unusual dark hue.
“Sir. We’ve lost contact with Marek. He’s gone.”
Monday, December 14, 2009
Chapter 4
Records. Locked.
No data is unattainable.
Breaching.
Just today, they'd lost two workers. Some of the men were beginning to question the wisdom of this dig. This cave had been occupied by Squees, but scouts of the Sons of Adam had driven the mutants out without incident. The Sons had quickly set up base, years of underground migration teaching them to be thorough and efficient. Formations of rock rising from the ground or hanging from the ceiling were utilized as stakes, walls or defense. Any body of water (in this case, a pool that flowed in from a hole in the wall) was tested for potability, then protected.
Not two weeks earlier, having occupied this set of underground spaces for months, some of the patrol scouts had come across a soft wall. Excited, they had reported back to Kalten Brunner, their unanimously elected leader. He'd been studying the Family Trees, determining the next generation of marriages. With news of a wall that could be burrowed through, he had immediately ordered a detachment of miners to begin work on it. This was always dangerous work, as the men believed there was a possibility they would release the same deadly fumes which were purported to cause the initial NIL Outbreak. The full armor the miners wore, complete with head coverings and gas masks, made working slow but the alternative terrified the “Last Humans” more than anything else. A few feet into the soft rock, and something gaseous had released, but it was not the dreaded Death Winds. Kalten had been standing a safe distance back and would later swear it sounded like a pressurized container opening. Then his people started dying. Whatever was behind this wall was not wishing to be found. Tiny explosions, pressurized darts and blades, even automatic firearms rarely seen underground burst through the flesh, spilling precious blood. There were now several holes in the wall, but standing in front of them, let alone looking through them proved extremely hazardous.
Their first big break had come yesterday when a tiny marble-bomb frequently used for extreme security measures turned out to be a dud. After carefully ensuring it would not ever go off, the Sons of Adam had examined the sphere for information. Though tiny, the M-B proved quite useful, if for no other reason that engraved carefully into the glass was a heraldic device which told them all they needed to know.
“Atreans,” Kalten had spit. This find had only strengthened their resolve to break through to the inner chamber. If the cursed vampires didn't want them to have something, they would do anything to get it. Still, Kalten was concerned over the rising body count.
The two deaths this morning decided it for him. He brought together his council, the best years of carefully planned eugenics had produced.
“As far as I can see, there is only one thing we can do. We know the security is reacting to us as intruders. My guess is it's AI controlled, either a computer or android. Either way, it's a good bet it would permit one of its masters in.”
“What are you thinking?” the head miner, Rudolph asked, his eyes twitching (a nervous tic he'd developed ever since they'd started breaching the chamber). Kalten smiled, resolve and malice dancing in his eyes.
“We're going to kidnap an Atrean and make them open the door for us.”
~~
Journal Entry #21
Often when an administration is replaced, the currency is changed. This is true even when dealing with a change of every administration in the world all at once. The back-alley battle between the Thyestrians and my people spilled into the daylight world when the House of Atreus staged a carefully planned and executed attack, which upset the entire world order. The House of Thyestes was driven underground, their strange appearance making it impossible to gain human allies. Furthermore, having always been strong advocates of brute force over subversiveness, the Thyestrians had no way of politically attacking once the Atreans took control of the surface world's resources. In short, the Thyestrians were outmaneuvered.
The Adjudicator soon realized that a new system of economics would be necessary for society to function. Sure, most humans were going to live the rest of their meager existences as serfs, but there were simply not enough vampires to control them all, and honestly, who would want to bother anyway? At the same time, human blood was the vampires sustenance, so simply outright killing them would be counter-productive. It was therefore necessary for these humans to make themselves useful to the greater good (read: us), even if not directly serving them. Thus, the LiqNit Gun was developed and so named because scientists are not known for their creativity. The LNG worked very similar to the way doctors drew blood from patients, only more precisely and more quickly. The individual, usually a human, would set the LNG to a specific value setting and draw blood from him or herself. This was kept at sub-zero temperatures in metal cylinders surrounded by liquid nitrogen. There were many theories on why vampires needed live blood to survive; the most prevalent was that the blood itself was incidental, it merely acted as a conduit for the life force inherent in all living beings, but strongest in humans. The cause of that phenomenon was still uncertain. Freezing the blood allowed it to be stored for later consumption. The mechanism which allowed it to draw specific amounts ensured the human's safety and allowed for the trading of good and services.
How this system would have worked is impossible to say now, as not long after, the Outbreak began and all semblance of civilized systems, economic or otherwise, disappeared into the darkness of the Black Winter. Concepts like money became even more meaningless. However, because of their decades of decadence, and reliance on human Techniks, engineers and agriculturalists, the vampires had lost all competence for practical living. Now it seemed the humans were necessary to the vampires survival as things needed to be grown, repaired or built.
“Good business,” Denisovich concluded. With the bits she had salvaged from the Emerald City, as well as a few saved LN cylinders, she had acquired some new clothes, including a leather bodice fitted just under the chest and held on by a strap at the top and four buckles down the front. Besides appealing to her personal aesthetic (she'd never understood the ladies of court who insisted on carrying the weight of a tank around their waist for the sake of fashion), it served as a practical form of armor: diminishing the possibility of getting clawed or scratched by a NIL or mutant, without hindering her mobility. Phraestus had sharpened both her blades and given them a good polish. He'd even reinforced the handle of her saw sword free of charge and refused all offers of compensation. Wing sold her an off-white shirt spun from a substance Denisovich didn't recognize but which felt superb. From Alice Fracas, Denisovich purchased a pair of desert goggles, as her own had been damaged by acid rain and setting out into the Wasteland with faulty gear was a quick way to become some thing's mid afternoon snack.
She'd seen nothing of Jael or Kaze all morning but the mini-electrical storm from an even deeper section of the Junkyard gave her a notion why.
Perhaps her most surprising and lucrative find was a set of interlinked messenger golems. These Old Tech machines each fit in the palm of the hand and came in a variety of designs. The high nobility of the Sapphire City, as well as the neophytes of the port and the Junkyard survivors found them highly valuable as they were the only ranged means of communication. Depending on the level of technology, the golem either relayed text messages through a projector or audio messages through a speaker. Only a few years passed after the House of Atreus had seized control of the surface world before these machines had replaced telephones. At that time, they could be used to transmit real-time video messages as well, but now, not only was the recording mechanism faulty the more advanced a golem was, there was also some delay, as the infrastructure once used to ensure speedy transmission had long disintegrated. Few functioning golems remained, making them even more valuable and despite no longer retaining their former ubiquitous usefulness, they still offered the most reliable method of communication, regardless of location.
This particular set had seen easier days; what had once been a gleaming chrome was worn away to a dull gray. The remains of a black archaic cross wrapped around what appeared to be the back. Denisovich recognized it quickly, a relic of the Church.
The Church was one of the first institutions to be dismantled once the Atreans took power, for no other reason than that it had a propensity for generating members exceedingly good at killing the pires. This, of course, led to an underground resistance, which, though laughable, had obviously managed to spread out enough to require the ranged messengers. Denisovich smiled at the irony that one of her kind would now be making use of the Church's toys.
“Why exactly did you guys decide to use these instead of phones?” Alice had asked her as she inspected the marks. Denisovich glanced at her, surprised the young human would be aware of such ancient technology. Alice smiled, impishly.
“I collect a lot of old books and movies, anything to hold onto the culture from before the Outbreak. I see people holding these...boxes, like this,” she curled her middle three fingers and put her hand to the side of her head so that her thumb pressed against her ear and her little finger rested in front of her mouth. Denisovich nodded her understanding.
“I saw telephones and even computers used for communication. We took those out to ensure our monopoly on information sharing, to keep rebellious factions from organizing. Besides, golems can work anywhere in the world, even underground. There's no need for towers, lines, no need for a connection. Though, to be honest, even I'm not sure exactly how they work.”
Alice considered this. “I guess you guys thought of everything. Well, almost everything,” she added, no small amount of bitterness creeping into her voice. Denisovich's face darkened.
“Thus my people's arrogance becomes our weakness. Pride goes before a fall, as they say.”
Alice's eyes flared. “I don't see them doing too badly, whizzing around in that flying fortress of yours. They don't have to scratch out a living here on the ground like we do! They live comfortably, with no concerns, no worries, just let the human slaves take care of everything. All they lost was the right to strut around down here, so now they strut around up there.” Tears had started pooling in the sides of her eyes. Denisovich shifted awkwardly, at a loss for what to say.
“You are not wrong,” she started at length, speaking slowly, “It's-” She cut herself off, realizing anything she could say was meaningless. Quietly, she thanked Fracas for the golems and walked out, leaving the young woman alone with her hurt.
Denisovich mind was still doing cartwheels when she felt something bounce off her leg. Startled, she looked down, expecting some kind of attack. What she was met with instead was a very upset looking Mara Li.
“You weren't even gunna byebye?” she asked, her mouth a bow of anger. Denisovich laughed, the agitation caused by Alice's outburst pushed the back of her mind.
“Actually, I have something for you, little one.”
“I'm not that little!” Mara Li protested, puffing herself up. Denisovich poked her in the stomach and all the breath the little girl had been holding in rushed out. “Unfair!” she exclaimed, but giggled immediately after. Denisovich drew one of the smaller golems from her rucksack and handed it to Mara Li who looked like she'd never seen one before. Denisovich knelt down so she could look the little girl in the eye.
“I want you to hold on to this for me,” Denisovich told her, making her voice as solemn as she possibly could, “And sometime, if I need your help, I will call you on it, okay? You have to make sure to never lose it or sell it, do you understand? This is a big responsibility, do you think you can handle it?”
Whether Mara Li totally understood or not, she nodded gravely, before pulling at a string around her neck. Attached to it was a pouch, similar to the one Denisovich kept her LN cylinders in.
“I put all my special things in here,” Mara Li whispered, opening it up for Denisovich to inspect. Inside there were a few pieces of things Denisovich didn't recognize, and a picture of a smiling couple she assumed to be Mara Li's parents. Watching the little survivor drop the golem inside to rest with all of what remained of her former life, what might have been without the NIL's and the Black Winter, made Denisovich's chest hurt. She patted the little girl on the head and turned to leave. At the massive iron gate on the opposite side she had entered, Kaze and Jael awaited her. If they were pleased or sad to see her go, they made no sign.
“We appreciate you following our rules and behaving inside the Junkyard,” Jael started.
“You sound surprised,” Denisovich responded, wryly. Jael shrugged.
“You clearly have more self-control than the rest of your rabid kind,” Kaze explained. Denisovich's jaw twitched. Her distaste for the decadent life of the nobility in no way hampered her own personal pride.
“My “rabid kind” seemed to have no problem conquering your world in just a few short decades,” she pointed out. Kaze seemed ready to make an issue of it, but Jael just laughed.
“By such logic, the NIL's are far superior to you, 'cause the Atreans took nearly half a century to completely overcome the human race, where the NIL's took a mere decade or so.”
For the second time in a half hour, Denisovich felt distinctly uncomfortable. Though she considered the way humans were treated in the Sapphire City unjust, it had never diminished her belief in the superiority of her species. Yet, Jael was right, by all accounts, the mindless, ravenous zombies which now covered the globe were clearly the fittest race. It was a disturbing paradox.
“But Kaze is right,” Jael went on, not missing Denisovich's inner conflict, “You are a testament to the Atreans as a reasonable people. Thank you for bringing us some fresh supplies. You're welcome to come back next time you're passing this direction.”
Denisovich face colored, uncertain now what the socially appropriate response was.
“You may not be as happy to see me next time.”
Jael craned her head to one side and for the first time Denisovich heard the whir of her inner motors spinning.
“You don't take compliments well, do you?”
Pulling the goggles over her eyes and buckling her coat tightly, Denisovich's mind was already preparing for the next leg of her nomadic journey.
“My people have a saying. “Beware of those who flatter, for in such confections are hidden razor blades.”
No data is unattainable.
Breaching.
Just today, they'd lost two workers. Some of the men were beginning to question the wisdom of this dig. This cave had been occupied by Squees, but scouts of the Sons of Adam had driven the mutants out without incident. The Sons had quickly set up base, years of underground migration teaching them to be thorough and efficient. Formations of rock rising from the ground or hanging from the ceiling were utilized as stakes, walls or defense. Any body of water (in this case, a pool that flowed in from a hole in the wall) was tested for potability, then protected.
Not two weeks earlier, having occupied this set of underground spaces for months, some of the patrol scouts had come across a soft wall. Excited, they had reported back to Kalten Brunner, their unanimously elected leader. He'd been studying the Family Trees, determining the next generation of marriages. With news of a wall that could be burrowed through, he had immediately ordered a detachment of miners to begin work on it. This was always dangerous work, as the men believed there was a possibility they would release the same deadly fumes which were purported to cause the initial NIL Outbreak. The full armor the miners wore, complete with head coverings and gas masks, made working slow but the alternative terrified the “Last Humans” more than anything else. A few feet into the soft rock, and something gaseous had released, but it was not the dreaded Death Winds. Kalten had been standing a safe distance back and would later swear it sounded like a pressurized container opening. Then his people started dying. Whatever was behind this wall was not wishing to be found. Tiny explosions, pressurized darts and blades, even automatic firearms rarely seen underground burst through the flesh, spilling precious blood. There were now several holes in the wall, but standing in front of them, let alone looking through them proved extremely hazardous.
Their first big break had come yesterday when a tiny marble-bomb frequently used for extreme security measures turned out to be a dud. After carefully ensuring it would not ever go off, the Sons of Adam had examined the sphere for information. Though tiny, the M-B proved quite useful, if for no other reason that engraved carefully into the glass was a heraldic device which told them all they needed to know.
“Atreans,” Kalten had spit. This find had only strengthened their resolve to break through to the inner chamber. If the cursed vampires didn't want them to have something, they would do anything to get it. Still, Kalten was concerned over the rising body count.
The two deaths this morning decided it for him. He brought together his council, the best years of carefully planned eugenics had produced.
“As far as I can see, there is only one thing we can do. We know the security is reacting to us as intruders. My guess is it's AI controlled, either a computer or android. Either way, it's a good bet it would permit one of its masters in.”
“What are you thinking?” the head miner, Rudolph asked, his eyes twitching (a nervous tic he'd developed ever since they'd started breaching the chamber). Kalten smiled, resolve and malice dancing in his eyes.
“We're going to kidnap an Atrean and make them open the door for us.”
~~
Journal Entry #21
Often when an administration is replaced, the currency is changed. This is true even when dealing with a change of every administration in the world all at once. The back-alley battle between the Thyestrians and my people spilled into the daylight world when the House of Atreus staged a carefully planned and executed attack, which upset the entire world order. The House of Thyestes was driven underground, their strange appearance making it impossible to gain human allies. Furthermore, having always been strong advocates of brute force over subversiveness, the Thyestrians had no way of politically attacking once the Atreans took control of the surface world's resources. In short, the Thyestrians were outmaneuvered.
The Adjudicator soon realized that a new system of economics would be necessary for society to function. Sure, most humans were going to live the rest of their meager existences as serfs, but there were simply not enough vampires to control them all, and honestly, who would want to bother anyway? At the same time, human blood was the vampires sustenance, so simply outright killing them would be counter-productive. It was therefore necessary for these humans to make themselves useful to the greater good (read: us), even if not directly serving them. Thus, the LiqNit Gun was developed and so named because scientists are not known for their creativity. The LNG worked very similar to the way doctors drew blood from patients, only more precisely and more quickly. The individual, usually a human, would set the LNG to a specific value setting and draw blood from him or herself. This was kept at sub-zero temperatures in metal cylinders surrounded by liquid nitrogen. There were many theories on why vampires needed live blood to survive; the most prevalent was that the blood itself was incidental, it merely acted as a conduit for the life force inherent in all living beings, but strongest in humans. The cause of that phenomenon was still uncertain. Freezing the blood allowed it to be stored for later consumption. The mechanism which allowed it to draw specific amounts ensured the human's safety and allowed for the trading of good and services.
How this system would have worked is impossible to say now, as not long after, the Outbreak began and all semblance of civilized systems, economic or otherwise, disappeared into the darkness of the Black Winter. Concepts like money became even more meaningless. However, because of their decades of decadence, and reliance on human Techniks, engineers and agriculturalists, the vampires had lost all competence for practical living. Now it seemed the humans were necessary to the vampires survival as things needed to be grown, repaired or built.
“Good business,” Denisovich concluded. With the bits she had salvaged from the Emerald City, as well as a few saved LN cylinders, she had acquired some new clothes, including a leather bodice fitted just under the chest and held on by a strap at the top and four buckles down the front. Besides appealing to her personal aesthetic (she'd never understood the ladies of court who insisted on carrying the weight of a tank around their waist for the sake of fashion), it served as a practical form of armor: diminishing the possibility of getting clawed or scratched by a NIL or mutant, without hindering her mobility. Phraestus had sharpened both her blades and given them a good polish. He'd even reinforced the handle of her saw sword free of charge and refused all offers of compensation. Wing sold her an off-white shirt spun from a substance Denisovich didn't recognize but which felt superb. From Alice Fracas, Denisovich purchased a pair of desert goggles, as her own had been damaged by acid rain and setting out into the Wasteland with faulty gear was a quick way to become some thing's mid afternoon snack.
She'd seen nothing of Jael or Kaze all morning but the mini-electrical storm from an even deeper section of the Junkyard gave her a notion why.
Perhaps her most surprising and lucrative find was a set of interlinked messenger golems. These Old Tech machines each fit in the palm of the hand and came in a variety of designs. The high nobility of the Sapphire City, as well as the neophytes of the port and the Junkyard survivors found them highly valuable as they were the only ranged means of communication. Depending on the level of technology, the golem either relayed text messages through a projector or audio messages through a speaker. Only a few years passed after the House of Atreus had seized control of the surface world before these machines had replaced telephones. At that time, they could be used to transmit real-time video messages as well, but now, not only was the recording mechanism faulty the more advanced a golem was, there was also some delay, as the infrastructure once used to ensure speedy transmission had long disintegrated. Few functioning golems remained, making them even more valuable and despite no longer retaining their former ubiquitous usefulness, they still offered the most reliable method of communication, regardless of location.
This particular set had seen easier days; what had once been a gleaming chrome was worn away to a dull gray. The remains of a black archaic cross wrapped around what appeared to be the back. Denisovich recognized it quickly, a relic of the Church.
The Church was one of the first institutions to be dismantled once the Atreans took power, for no other reason than that it had a propensity for generating members exceedingly good at killing the pires. This, of course, led to an underground resistance, which, though laughable, had obviously managed to spread out enough to require the ranged messengers. Denisovich smiled at the irony that one of her kind would now be making use of the Church's toys.
“Why exactly did you guys decide to use these instead of phones?” Alice had asked her as she inspected the marks. Denisovich glanced at her, surprised the young human would be aware of such ancient technology. Alice smiled, impishly.
“I collect a lot of old books and movies, anything to hold onto the culture from before the Outbreak. I see people holding these...boxes, like this,” she curled her middle three fingers and put her hand to the side of her head so that her thumb pressed against her ear and her little finger rested in front of her mouth. Denisovich nodded her understanding.
“I saw telephones and even computers used for communication. We took those out to ensure our monopoly on information sharing, to keep rebellious factions from organizing. Besides, golems can work anywhere in the world, even underground. There's no need for towers, lines, no need for a connection. Though, to be honest, even I'm not sure exactly how they work.”
Alice considered this. “I guess you guys thought of everything. Well, almost everything,” she added, no small amount of bitterness creeping into her voice. Denisovich's face darkened.
“Thus my people's arrogance becomes our weakness. Pride goes before a fall, as they say.”
Alice's eyes flared. “I don't see them doing too badly, whizzing around in that flying fortress of yours. They don't have to scratch out a living here on the ground like we do! They live comfortably, with no concerns, no worries, just let the human slaves take care of everything. All they lost was the right to strut around down here, so now they strut around up there.” Tears had started pooling in the sides of her eyes. Denisovich shifted awkwardly, at a loss for what to say.
“You are not wrong,” she started at length, speaking slowly, “It's-” She cut herself off, realizing anything she could say was meaningless. Quietly, she thanked Fracas for the golems and walked out, leaving the young woman alone with her hurt.
Denisovich mind was still doing cartwheels when she felt something bounce off her leg. Startled, she looked down, expecting some kind of attack. What she was met with instead was a very upset looking Mara Li.
“You weren't even gunna byebye?” she asked, her mouth a bow of anger. Denisovich laughed, the agitation caused by Alice's outburst pushed the back of her mind.
“Actually, I have something for you, little one.”
“I'm not that little!” Mara Li protested, puffing herself up. Denisovich poked her in the stomach and all the breath the little girl had been holding in rushed out. “Unfair!” she exclaimed, but giggled immediately after. Denisovich drew one of the smaller golems from her rucksack and handed it to Mara Li who looked like she'd never seen one before. Denisovich knelt down so she could look the little girl in the eye.
“I want you to hold on to this for me,” Denisovich told her, making her voice as solemn as she possibly could, “And sometime, if I need your help, I will call you on it, okay? You have to make sure to never lose it or sell it, do you understand? This is a big responsibility, do you think you can handle it?”
Whether Mara Li totally understood or not, she nodded gravely, before pulling at a string around her neck. Attached to it was a pouch, similar to the one Denisovich kept her LN cylinders in.
“I put all my special things in here,” Mara Li whispered, opening it up for Denisovich to inspect. Inside there were a few pieces of things Denisovich didn't recognize, and a picture of a smiling couple she assumed to be Mara Li's parents. Watching the little survivor drop the golem inside to rest with all of what remained of her former life, what might have been without the NIL's and the Black Winter, made Denisovich's chest hurt. She patted the little girl on the head and turned to leave. At the massive iron gate on the opposite side she had entered, Kaze and Jael awaited her. If they were pleased or sad to see her go, they made no sign.
“We appreciate you following our rules and behaving inside the Junkyard,” Jael started.
“You sound surprised,” Denisovich responded, wryly. Jael shrugged.
“You clearly have more self-control than the rest of your rabid kind,” Kaze explained. Denisovich's jaw twitched. Her distaste for the decadent life of the nobility in no way hampered her own personal pride.
“My “rabid kind” seemed to have no problem conquering your world in just a few short decades,” she pointed out. Kaze seemed ready to make an issue of it, but Jael just laughed.
“By such logic, the NIL's are far superior to you, 'cause the Atreans took nearly half a century to completely overcome the human race, where the NIL's took a mere decade or so.”
For the second time in a half hour, Denisovich felt distinctly uncomfortable. Though she considered the way humans were treated in the Sapphire City unjust, it had never diminished her belief in the superiority of her species. Yet, Jael was right, by all accounts, the mindless, ravenous zombies which now covered the globe were clearly the fittest race. It was a disturbing paradox.
“But Kaze is right,” Jael went on, not missing Denisovich's inner conflict, “You are a testament to the Atreans as a reasonable people. Thank you for bringing us some fresh supplies. You're welcome to come back next time you're passing this direction.”
Denisovich face colored, uncertain now what the socially appropriate response was.
“You may not be as happy to see me next time.”
Jael craned her head to one side and for the first time Denisovich heard the whir of her inner motors spinning.
“You don't take compliments well, do you?”
Pulling the goggles over her eyes and buckling her coat tightly, Denisovich's mind was already preparing for the next leg of her nomadic journey.
“My people have a saying. “Beware of those who flatter, for in such confections are hidden razor blades.”
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Chapter 3
Authors Note: I hope to have some concept art, maybe some pictures up, relatively soon. Finals Week and traveling may get in the way, but every endeavor shall be made.
Inquiry. Denied.
Interference. Intriguing.
Futile.
I am the all.
Nothing is hidden from me.
Journal Entry #19
Let him think I keep secrets. Better than admitting I don't know. Truth—I don't think anyone does. I've long known we are considered no more alive than the NIL's but this simply demonstrates human ignorance. My heart beats, just quietly and significantly slower than a human's. This is the difference. We need to eat to survive, same as everything else alive. NIL's do not eat to survive. They are a horde of demons, mindless drones of some mad evil.
When the particles were released from the bowels of a hateful planet, many of my own people perished, even more of the bitten vampires. Even those who did not die found themselves greatly damaged. Unlike humans with their ridiculously short lifespans and constant breeding, my people are slow to evolve. After almost 300 years, those who spend their lives on the surface, those humans who migrate or live in Junkyards like these, are mostly immune, while any of my people find ourselves weakened.
I still believe we got it easy. Because our immune system is set up differently, we just die. We do not return.
“Update,” Tavian commanded. A scroll of text moved up the screen as the electronic telegram read off the message.
Message delivered. Subject refused. Permission to return?
With a flick of his hand, Tavian called a bare formed android. No flesh covered its metallic skin, but in an obscene twist of humor, he had left its human head intact, the flesh abruptly ending at the neck. The face was that of a dark skinned man with strong cheekbones.
“Bring me Lord Denisovich.” The KingKiller nodded and melted back into the dark. Tavian paced the floor of his relay station. Aside from some maintenance Techniks, few saw the inside of this room, were not even aware of its existence. Tavian firmly believed in keeping as much technology with himself and hidden from common knowledge. Let them ponder how he kept in contact with his surface agents without the use of messenger golems.
Tavian lived under a plain philosophy. People are simple. Tell them they don't deserve something and they will strive to better themselves for it. Tell them they can't earn it and they will adapt to seize it. Tell them you won't let them have it and they will overthrow you.
But offer them hope...promise them an end goal and they belong to you, willing to sell their soul to make you happy. This was how he made the city float. He controlled who—human or vampire—was allowed to escape the harsh reality of the Wasteland and begin a new life in the glittering dream that was the Sapphire City. With very limited resources, Tavian had no interest in the greater good. With total say over space, food, water and safety, he held sway over every action. Of the surviving vampires, only four percent or so lived on the Old tech airship. The majority of the rest were clustered around the docking ports the ship stopped in to refresh supplies on its trek across the sky. Tavian maintained a purposefully inflated bureaucracy, encouraging competition between the surface Atreans for the chance to become neophytes. Of course, this only applied to individuals who had been bitten. No pure blood would ever consent to participate in such a rat race. Most of the population on the ship, however, were serfs. Some were volunteers, humans willing to do anything to get away from the Wasteland. Most were simply taken. So dependent were the vampires on their old familiars, it was essentially impossible for them to get on without humans. If this concerned the Atreans, they made no indication, especially the individual making his way to Tavian's communication room. The door hissed open and a barrel-chested man with long silver hair entered. Tavian flashed his most gracious smile.
“Ah, Gregor!”
Lord Denisovich bowed only just as far as his station required.
“My Lord Adjudicator.”
“Oh, come now, don't be so formal,” Tavian exclaimed, the statement itself a mere formality. They
continued this ritual dance, voices jovially proclaiming old friendship whilst their eyes sized up the kill. Gregor Orlovii Denisovich had always been an imposing figure, even now, when his waistline had gained more bulge than brawn. He wore a blue double breasted jacket with two lines of buttons running down the front, which stopped fashionably at the waste. The back stretched on, almost to the floor. The collar was high and stiff, reaching almost to his ears. He wore no cravat, though they had come back into fashion, yet he was not without decoration. His beige breeches sported a black stripe down the side and his thick folded cuffs boasted gold embroidery of the finest tailoring. His pants tucked into black soft leather boots and from his pocket hung a silver watch.
Finally, they came to the subject which had summoned Lord Denisovich from his estates.
“I've received contact from the neophyte sent to find your daughter.”
Any surprise or excitement the father may have felt was well hidden. Tavian pressed on.
“It does not appear she will be joining us anytime soon.” Gregor grunted.
“All wolves return to the den eventually,” he declared, fingering his pocket watch, emblazoned with the Denisovich family crest: a snarling wolf's head. Tavian smiled indulgently.
“In any case, we must press on. What have your men on the ground turned up?”
Gregor shifted, his face twisting in frustration.
“Aggravatingly little. Either no one has found it or can find it...or all our methods of persuasion are ineffective at convincing them to reveal its location.” Tavian's fine eyebrows arched.
“And you have the best persuaders in the land.” The Lord bowed at the compliment.
“Well,” Tavian stretched his arms out and yawned as if unconcerned, “I'm sure you won't mind if I put some of my own people on it.” Denisovich visibly grimaced, clearly unhappy with this turn in events, yet powerless to argue.
“Whatever you think is best, m'lord,” was all the response he could give. Tavian dismissed him with a nod. A flash of coat tails and Gregor was gone.
“Who will you send?” A voice that sounded like a breeze passing through crystallized moonlight drifted down to Tavian's ears. He looked up to the obscured balcony where his Châtelaine stood. Though her presence had gone undetected by all his visitors, he'd always known she was there. She rarely left his side, enveloped by shadows, acting as counselor, spy and bodyguard. In his position, such duties frequently overlapped. Briefly, she disappeared before materializing seemingly out of nothingness on his audience floor.
“Denisovich will not take this slight lightly. You know he was hoping to use the opportunity to undermine your seat.” Tavian waved his hand dismissively.
“Gregor is too far entrenched in his quarrel with the Thraxin family to focus his energies on me.”
“A quarrel you orchestrated, my lord,” his companion reminded him with a smile. Her age was impossible to determine. Her lustrous hair was the color of polished silver worn away from her face, save a few tendrils which trailed in front of her elfin ears. She dressed simply but elegantly, with a dress of deep crimson accented only with a black tabard laced through with thread spun of fine gold.
Tavian smiled, returning to her first question.
“I'll have Marek do it.”
She frowned, her bow-shaped lips twitching.
“You put too much faith in the neophyte. The others are becoming suspicious.”
Tavian laughed, deep and throaty.
“Good, let them worry they have fallen out of favor, it will make them sharper.”
“Be cautious, Tavian. Marek is still something of a wild card. Who knows what may happen if he retrieves his memories?”
Tavian grew serious. True, Marek was a strange case. Most infected vampires retained some memory of their lives as humans, yet he claimed total amnesia. This had proved highly beneficial considering his previous self's chosen occupation. Tavian nodded in agreement. Should the situation change, his plans would be set back. He touched the face of second-in-command, her skin soft and warm below his fingertips.
“What would I do without you, Alix?”
Alix Lucretia Olivia blushed and looked away, her lavender eyes closing.
“As always, I seek only to serve you, master.”
“Of course,” he responded, expecting nothing less. She watched him leave, his half cape trailing due to his long steps. Part of her yearned to follow him, but she would not be welcome where he was going and beside, her task was elsewhere. No doubt Denisovich would be mobilizing his forces, endeavoring to reach the goal before Tavian could interfere. Alix tapped out a succinct message to the still waiting neophyte.
Permission refused. New mission. Seek out the Chalice. Stealth required. Lethal force authorized.
Once she knew the message had been received, the Gate Keeper of the Sapphire City placed an indistinguishable panel on the wall. A door slid open, one of thousands which connected virtually every room on the airship with a labyrinth of hidden corridors. She sighed. It was a long walk to the holdings of Gregor Denisovich and his children.
Inquiry. Denied.
Interference. Intriguing.
Futile.
I am the all.
Nothing is hidden from me.
Journal Entry #19
Let him think I keep secrets. Better than admitting I don't know. Truth—I don't think anyone does. I've long known we are considered no more alive than the NIL's but this simply demonstrates human ignorance. My heart beats, just quietly and significantly slower than a human's. This is the difference. We need to eat to survive, same as everything else alive. NIL's do not eat to survive. They are a horde of demons, mindless drones of some mad evil.
When the particles were released from the bowels of a hateful planet, many of my own people perished, even more of the bitten vampires. Even those who did not die found themselves greatly damaged. Unlike humans with their ridiculously short lifespans and constant breeding, my people are slow to evolve. After almost 300 years, those who spend their lives on the surface, those humans who migrate or live in Junkyards like these, are mostly immune, while any of my people find ourselves weakened.
I still believe we got it easy. Because our immune system is set up differently, we just die. We do not return.
“Update,” Tavian commanded. A scroll of text moved up the screen as the electronic telegram read off the message.
Message delivered. Subject refused. Permission to return?
With a flick of his hand, Tavian called a bare formed android. No flesh covered its metallic skin, but in an obscene twist of humor, he had left its human head intact, the flesh abruptly ending at the neck. The face was that of a dark skinned man with strong cheekbones.
“Bring me Lord Denisovich.” The KingKiller nodded and melted back into the dark. Tavian paced the floor of his relay station. Aside from some maintenance Techniks, few saw the inside of this room, were not even aware of its existence. Tavian firmly believed in keeping as much technology with himself and hidden from common knowledge. Let them ponder how he kept in contact with his surface agents without the use of messenger golems.
Tavian lived under a plain philosophy. People are simple. Tell them they don't deserve something and they will strive to better themselves for it. Tell them they can't earn it and they will adapt to seize it. Tell them you won't let them have it and they will overthrow you.
But offer them hope...promise them an end goal and they belong to you, willing to sell their soul to make you happy. This was how he made the city float. He controlled who—human or vampire—was allowed to escape the harsh reality of the Wasteland and begin a new life in the glittering dream that was the Sapphire City. With very limited resources, Tavian had no interest in the greater good. With total say over space, food, water and safety, he held sway over every action. Of the surviving vampires, only four percent or so lived on the Old tech airship. The majority of the rest were clustered around the docking ports the ship stopped in to refresh supplies on its trek across the sky. Tavian maintained a purposefully inflated bureaucracy, encouraging competition between the surface Atreans for the chance to become neophytes. Of course, this only applied to individuals who had been bitten. No pure blood would ever consent to participate in such a rat race. Most of the population on the ship, however, were serfs. Some were volunteers, humans willing to do anything to get away from the Wasteland. Most were simply taken. So dependent were the vampires on their old familiars, it was essentially impossible for them to get on without humans. If this concerned the Atreans, they made no indication, especially the individual making his way to Tavian's communication room. The door hissed open and a barrel-chested man with long silver hair entered. Tavian flashed his most gracious smile.
“Ah, Gregor!”
Lord Denisovich bowed only just as far as his station required.
“My Lord Adjudicator.”
“Oh, come now, don't be so formal,” Tavian exclaimed, the statement itself a mere formality. They
continued this ritual dance, voices jovially proclaiming old friendship whilst their eyes sized up the kill. Gregor Orlovii Denisovich had always been an imposing figure, even now, when his waistline had gained more bulge than brawn. He wore a blue double breasted jacket with two lines of buttons running down the front, which stopped fashionably at the waste. The back stretched on, almost to the floor. The collar was high and stiff, reaching almost to his ears. He wore no cravat, though they had come back into fashion, yet he was not without decoration. His beige breeches sported a black stripe down the side and his thick folded cuffs boasted gold embroidery of the finest tailoring. His pants tucked into black soft leather boots and from his pocket hung a silver watch.
Finally, they came to the subject which had summoned Lord Denisovich from his estates.
“I've received contact from the neophyte sent to find your daughter.”
Any surprise or excitement the father may have felt was well hidden. Tavian pressed on.
“It does not appear she will be joining us anytime soon.” Gregor grunted.
“All wolves return to the den eventually,” he declared, fingering his pocket watch, emblazoned with the Denisovich family crest: a snarling wolf's head. Tavian smiled indulgently.
“In any case, we must press on. What have your men on the ground turned up?”
Gregor shifted, his face twisting in frustration.
“Aggravatingly little. Either no one has found it or can find it...or all our methods of persuasion are ineffective at convincing them to reveal its location.” Tavian's fine eyebrows arched.
“And you have the best persuaders in the land.” The Lord bowed at the compliment.
“Well,” Tavian stretched his arms out and yawned as if unconcerned, “I'm sure you won't mind if I put some of my own people on it.” Denisovich visibly grimaced, clearly unhappy with this turn in events, yet powerless to argue.
“Whatever you think is best, m'lord,” was all the response he could give. Tavian dismissed him with a nod. A flash of coat tails and Gregor was gone.
“Who will you send?” A voice that sounded like a breeze passing through crystallized moonlight drifted down to Tavian's ears. He looked up to the obscured balcony where his Châtelaine stood. Though her presence had gone undetected by all his visitors, he'd always known she was there. She rarely left his side, enveloped by shadows, acting as counselor, spy and bodyguard. In his position, such duties frequently overlapped. Briefly, she disappeared before materializing seemingly out of nothingness on his audience floor.
“Denisovich will not take this slight lightly. You know he was hoping to use the opportunity to undermine your seat.” Tavian waved his hand dismissively.
“Gregor is too far entrenched in his quarrel with the Thraxin family to focus his energies on me.”
“A quarrel you orchestrated, my lord,” his companion reminded him with a smile. Her age was impossible to determine. Her lustrous hair was the color of polished silver worn away from her face, save a few tendrils which trailed in front of her elfin ears. She dressed simply but elegantly, with a dress of deep crimson accented only with a black tabard laced through with thread spun of fine gold.
Tavian smiled, returning to her first question.
“I'll have Marek do it.”
She frowned, her bow-shaped lips twitching.
“You put too much faith in the neophyte. The others are becoming suspicious.”
Tavian laughed, deep and throaty.
“Good, let them worry they have fallen out of favor, it will make them sharper.”
“Be cautious, Tavian. Marek is still something of a wild card. Who knows what may happen if he retrieves his memories?”
Tavian grew serious. True, Marek was a strange case. Most infected vampires retained some memory of their lives as humans, yet he claimed total amnesia. This had proved highly beneficial considering his previous self's chosen occupation. Tavian nodded in agreement. Should the situation change, his plans would be set back. He touched the face of second-in-command, her skin soft and warm below his fingertips.
“What would I do without you, Alix?”
Alix Lucretia Olivia blushed and looked away, her lavender eyes closing.
“As always, I seek only to serve you, master.”
“Of course,” he responded, expecting nothing less. She watched him leave, his half cape trailing due to his long steps. Part of her yearned to follow him, but she would not be welcome where he was going and beside, her task was elsewhere. No doubt Denisovich would be mobilizing his forces, endeavoring to reach the goal before Tavian could interfere. Alix tapped out a succinct message to the still waiting neophyte.
Permission refused. New mission. Seek out the Chalice. Stealth required. Lethal force authorized.
Once she knew the message had been received, the Gate Keeper of the Sapphire City placed an indistinguishable panel on the wall. A door slid open, one of thousands which connected virtually every room on the airship with a labyrinth of hidden corridors. She sighed. It was a long walk to the holdings of Gregor Denisovich and his children.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Chapter 2
New entries.
Blocked.
Inquiry.
Denied.
Puzzlement.
Nothing should be hidden. I am the City. I am all.
Further study.
Journal Entry #17
The rain was a change of pace. Felt so much more comfortable among the soggy hollows of the technolopolis, perhaps hearkening back to the affinity we have always had for the area. I've only vague memories of the first haven, what they called the Emerald City. Before it was abandoned for the new tech. Tavian and his floating fortress. I caught a glimpse of it before I left the desert. Guess that's how he knew I'd be here.
I found a notebook filled with poetry inside the coffee shop before being interrupted by Marek. Most of the words had melted away from water damage but one piece remained virtually undamaged. I brought it with me.
Sun destroys then vanishes then returns
Rain poisons and blesses
Fangs tear and pull
And save and welcome
Machines grind to nothing
Lover is metal, friend is demon
Upside down, backwards
No sense make, gone, left
In the Wasteland,
The NIL's are the only constant.
Kaze had been gone too long. Jael paced across the square, stepping over broken hunks of machinery.
“You will trip eventually,” a young voice exclaimed from above. Jael glanced up, peeking through dark blue bangs.
“No, I won't,” she responded simply to the figure hanging off the top of a broken street lamp. Mara Li shimmied across and slid down the silver pipe, muttering:
“Yeah, I know you won't. Whatever.”
“Kaze should be back.”
Hunkering down into the dirt, Mara Li played with a toy truck. She was short, weighed little but was the most nimble person in this Junkyard. She also had a propensity for putting things together in unconventional ways. Jael had long seen the potential of a great Technik in her. Assuming she lived to puberty. Mara Li had been born in the ECB Junkyard, her parents having barely escaping from the horde of NILs only to be destroyed like so many others whose bodies hadn't adapted to the after effects of the Black Winter, making Mara Li one of the many orphaned babies who grew up knowing nothing outside the heaps of scrap and garbage that was their fortress.
“Maybe he found something,” Mara Li offered, always optimistic. Jael bit her lip. It was possible, of course. NIL sightings had gone down, only to be replaced with more mutant attacks. Not the timid underground Squees, but the far more aggressive kinds which had only recently come to light. Jael knew that Kaze could handle almost any trouble he might find outside the Yard. It was the 'almost' that concerned her.
“I'm getting a signal!” A yell from the lookout, Jef, captured everyone's attention. By the time Jael had climbed the watchtower, Kaze could be seen by the naked eye. She scrambled down again, but Mara Li beat her to the cloaked figure. He was not particularly tall, but was quite stout and made all the more imposing by the arsenal he carried on him with great ease. The most impressive item in his collection was what looked like a double-barreled shotgun, but the barrels were far too big to fit any normal shell. They were still uncertain of its original intent; it was just one of countless finds in the Junkyard. Kaze called it Sigrid.
His tattered cloak shedding dust everywhere, Kaze looked like a true child of the desert, with weathered skin and a noticeable cross-shaped scar across the top right side of his face, underneath a black eye patch. Jael had mentioned several times that a Meyechine could probably be found but he refused to consider it and seemed to get by fine without.
Kaze put a finger to Mara Li's mouth, stifling any exclamation she was about to burst into. With a jerk of his head, he motioned Jael to the shade.
“We have company,” he informed her, keeping his voice low.
“Mutants?”
He shook his head and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“Traders?” A more hopeful prospect. Kaze looked uncomfortable, uncommon considering his usual level of confidence. Jael's brow furrowed.
“What is it?”
“It's...not human.” Jael's stomach turned over and she had to suck in a calming breath.
“Fang or Blood?”
“From what I could tell, Blood. Front of the complex.” Jael looked up at the sky, the sun beating down. It would have to be a Blood to survive this exposed. She glanced sideways at her companion.
“We need fresh supplies.”
“I know.” A sigh.
“Let's just get this over with.”
~~
Journal Entry #18
I was not wholly surprised by my reception in the Emerald City Border Junkyard. Scavengers like those who live in the refuse heaps leftover from the Black Winter need traders like me to keep supplies fresh and develop middlemen connections. Furthermore, they (humans) are always more comfortable dealing with me because of my pure blood status. I know this has nothing to do with respect, only experience. Those born to the Houses are superior in every way from our infected counter parts. Most notably, our survival capabilities; in short, how long we can go without feeding. We've been know to go for weeks without fresh blood and even longer with the supplemental tablets that act like a drug, keeping hunger at bay. Bitten crave all the time and would be more likely to kill a human instead of bargaining with it as we do. We, the stronger realized the wisdom of this path long ago. There are so few humans left after all. In general, we are simply a more reasonable lot. On the other hand, I did not begrudge them the armed snipers trained on me at all times while I enjoyed their 'hospitality'.
“Thank you for waiting,” the woman was saying. Denisovich knew she should respond but there was something off and she was not allowing herself to be surrounded inside the compound till she worked it out and only had to deal with two humans, instead of a group. There were surface idiosyncrasies to consider first. Jael wore a long coat common to all who dealt with sandstorms and merciless sun that looked like it had passed through a few owners, but underneath she wore Old Tech body armor in remarkably good shape. The white heavy duty plastic molded all the way around her torso and abdomen, clearly custom built for her. Her coloring was strange, but not impossible to conceive. Colors that had previously been considered unnatural had made their way into the genetic makeup of After Outbreak children, making it possible for one to be born with blue hair and red eyes. It was the way those eyes moved that made Denisovich feel so awkward.
“You're a KingKiller,” she blurted out in surprise. A muscle clenched in Jael's jaw but she made no denial. Denisovich studied her more intently, the notions of etiquette no longer applying. She had never seen the assassin androids anywhere but the Sapphire City. Officially, after they'd been utilized to usurp the human governments of the world, they had all been decommissioned, save the Adjudicator's personal guard. Jael gave a mock salute, followed by a bow.
“Counter-Insurgence Series 2095, Unit 23, call sign Jael, at your service.”
“How do you survive down here away from the City's power grid?” Denisovich asked, fascinated.
“What do you want, bloodsucker?” the one called Kaze broke in. Denisovich straightened her spine and fixed him with a cold gaze.
“I came down from the north and passed through the Emerald City. I have to go through your Border Yard to get to the inner Wasteland and thought we may do some trading.”
The robot and the human traded glances. Denisovich could see the desperation in their eyes but she didn't press, feeling no need to antagonize them further.
Jael pressed a button her belt and spoke in a language Denisovich didn't recognize, though it sounded like a B.A. Asian dialect. With a nod to the vampire, Jael led them into the Junkyard.
~~
There were few human settlements above ground, both because of the harsh conditions and the constant threat of NIL's. Junkyards served as livelihood and fortress who preferred to stay beneath the sky. This area had once been a border control post for the technolopolis but at the beginning of the Black Winter, it had become a dumping ground for everything found in the Wasteland. The assumption the humans had made was that one day they would be able to go through everything and rebuild. The Winter carried on for decades and those charged with cataloging and sorting the various items were either eaten, diseased or taken as serfs for the Houses. No matter the reason, the Yards were virtually abandoned, save a few survivors who made a living trading or fixing machinery with the items found.
It had been a long time since Denisovich had entered one, despite the fact it was her only experience with After Outbreak settlements. Those who made their home in the toxic earth would never tolerate her presence. She noted the various watchtowers, with their mounted automatic weapons, only some of which were manned at the time. Faces peeked out from doorways, underneath boxes and various openings that seemed too small for humans to fit. The Squees would be so proud, Denisovich thought. She was trailed in by one of the watchtower scouts, a wiry, handsome youth called Jef who had been the first to greet her with a smile.
A young woman was barreling towards her, determination chiseled in her face. Denisovich tensed, a hand moving to her left where her curved blade rested.
“Tell me you brought something,” the young woman said, breathlessly, stopping only six or so inches away.
“Alice! Don't cause a scene.” Jael actually looked embarrassed, her sheepish face apologizing for the young woman's behavior. Stil a bit surprised, Denisovich studied the newcomer. She appeared in her early 20's with choppy blonde hair and bright green eyes. Her cheeks were pink with exertion, contrasting her freckled skin. Around her neck, she wore a pair of welder goggles, implying she was a Technik, though the rest of her clothing (a green tank top, patched and holed and brown shorts) seemed more to deal with the desert heat than any practical labor. Denisovich reached into her rook sack. Jef, the red-headed guardsmen had his huge flat blade over her head in a flash. Distantly, she wondered how he lifted it. Slowly, so as not to cause alarm, Denisovich pulled the body of the spybot she'd taken from the Emerald City. The one called Alice leaned forward, excitedly examining the tech. Unthinkingly, she reached for it, but Denisovich pulled back, snapping everyone back to reality.
“I need a place to stay,” she began the negotiations. Jef's brown eyes widened as he looked from her to Jael. Denisovich also stared at the android.
“Just for the night,” the vampire promised. Jael nodded mutely and Denisovich deftly tossed the spybot to Alice who held it like an infant.
Past the outer courtyard, they entered what passed for the residential area. Structures made from slabs of aluminum, rotting wood were held together by a variety of wires. There were few windows or doors. Those less able to fight stayed in this area, foraging through the mounds of junk. Denisovich speculated they'd be at it for at least a century and a half before getting through it all. Most impressive were the rebuilt machinery. Clearly, there were some talented Techniks here and she found herself wondering why the Adjudicator hadn't sent some Enforcers to steal them for use in the Sapphire City. A whirring acted as prologue to the two individuals who appeared around what looked like a steel obelisk. The female had extremely long strawberry blonde hair, worn in a loose braid. Her eyes were obscured by dark grey glasses with metal guards on each side and she wore a lavender dress, the first Denisovich had seen on the surface. At her side, a bulky, beared man rolled forward in a mechanical wheelchair. He too wore goggles and a leather apron over a dirty white shirt which offset his huge arms. Neither seemed particularly bothered by Denisovich's inhuman status.
“This is Wing, our resident tailor and Phraestus, the blacksmith,” Jael introduced them. Denisovich greeted them formally, noticing Phraestus' gaze resting on her great sword. Raising an eyebrow in inquiry at Jael, she pulled the barbed blade from its strappings and held the hilt out to the seated figure. He turned it over appreciatively.
“You do this?” he asked, his voice thickly accented.
“I took it off a piece of logging machinery and replaced the chain with melded teeth.”
“Tis fine work.” He returned it to her. Wing gave a small smile.
“He's stingy with the compliments so be pleased.”
Denisovich smiled her thanks. There was motion on top one of the heaps. A little girl was darting around, her face hidden under a hooded shrug.
“Get down, Mara Li,” Wing commanded, without turning her head. The figure disappeared into the trash.
“I'm afraid all of our guest houses have been turned into infirmaries. As you can imagine, we get a lot more injured than guests,” Wing continued, apologetically. Denisovich shook her head.
“It is no problem. I would just prefer to wait till morning to head back into the desert.”
Phraestus warily eyed the sky, reddening in the dusk.
“Wise choice.”
~~
The fire crackled low. She stared into it, more comforted by the embers than any heat it might give off. A rustling to her right told her she wasn't alone and a thin smile reached her lips.
“Is it considered proper manners to spy on guests here?”
In response, sounds of stumbling and a surprised, “Ow.”
The little girl Denisovich had caught a glimpse of earlier tumbled into the light. She had wide, dark eyes, greasy brown hair and an expression that bespoke a curious mind.
“You talk funny,” she greeted. Denisovich smiled. At the sight of her fangs, the child shrank back, but regained her composure remarkably fast. They sat quietly for awhile, unsure what to say. The girl looked up at the dark gray sky.
“You're like, super old, right?” she asked, bluntly. Denisovich found herself laughing at the frankness.
“You would think so, yes.”
“Were you here before...” Mara Li trailed off, biting her lip. Denisovich nodded. Mara Li pointed upward.
“So you saw the watching gods? Before the Black Winter chased them all away?”
Denisovich cocked her head to one side in confusion.
“Those weren't gods, they were stars. And yes, I saw them.” The little girl contemplated this for a while and Denisovich recognized the same expression countless Atrean children assumed when presented with one of the many tests pushed on them.
“I like the watching gods better. Don't you have gods?”
Denisovich leaned forward, nodding and brought her hands together, forming a complex circle filled with the lines of her fingers.
“My people have a personification of our highest values. Seladore, the moonlight. She is our representation of cunning, stealth and wisdom. The Thyestrians have the Kurgantz, god of blood. He symbolizes strength, force.” She leaned back, reclining again. Mara Li's eyes twinkled with interest.
“But are they like, for real?”
“As real as you want them to be,” Denisovich shrugged.
“Yours seems nicer,” Mara Li commented, brushing a dirty strand of hair away from her face. Denisovich laughed again, this time without humor.
“Not really. Both seek total domination, whether through manipulation or force.” The child pouted at the contradiction and the apparent bitterness felt by her storyteller.
“But you're not like the other Bloods or Fangs. Why do you-”
“Mara Li,” a gruff voice called, sharply. The little girl jumped up, flashing Denisovich one last smile before scurrying away. Kaze was staring fire at the vampire through his one good eye. Denisovich refused to meet his gaze, instead returning her attention to the almost-dead fire.
“Not healthy to ask too many questions in this world, huh?” she murmured.
“Or to befriend serpents,” Kaze shot back. Denisovich glanced back.
“Bloods and Fangs she called us.”
Kaze nodded tersely. “Bloods for those born, Fangs for those bitten.” He paused in thought. “She has never spoken to a Blood before, nor ever left this place.” Denisovich's mind twinged, trailing to the children who would never see life outside the Sapphire City.
“I've long wondered. You wear a Breather. I thought your types didn't have problems with the fumes.”
“Do you also think “my types” count as living?”
He did not respond, the flickering firelight making dancing shadows across his expressionless face.
“The death winds destroy all forms of life,” she remarked absently, considering the vast deserts which accounted for most of the Wasteland. Though she'd come nowhere near answering his question, Kaze had lost interest in talking and left her alone.
And though she knew there were several guns eying her still, Denisovich had little trouble falling asleep.
Blocked.
Inquiry.
Denied.
Puzzlement.
Nothing should be hidden. I am the City. I am all.
Further study.
Journal Entry #17
The rain was a change of pace. Felt so much more comfortable among the soggy hollows of the technolopolis, perhaps hearkening back to the affinity we have always had for the area. I've only vague memories of the first haven, what they called the Emerald City. Before it was abandoned for the new tech. Tavian and his floating fortress. I caught a glimpse of it before I left the desert. Guess that's how he knew I'd be here.
I found a notebook filled with poetry inside the coffee shop before being interrupted by Marek. Most of the words had melted away from water damage but one piece remained virtually undamaged. I brought it with me.
Sun destroys then vanishes then returns
Rain poisons and blesses
Fangs tear and pull
And save and welcome
Machines grind to nothing
Lover is metal, friend is demon
Upside down, backwards
No sense make, gone, left
In the Wasteland,
The NIL's are the only constant.
Kaze had been gone too long. Jael paced across the square, stepping over broken hunks of machinery.
“You will trip eventually,” a young voice exclaimed from above. Jael glanced up, peeking through dark blue bangs.
“No, I won't,” she responded simply to the figure hanging off the top of a broken street lamp. Mara Li shimmied across and slid down the silver pipe, muttering:
“Yeah, I know you won't. Whatever.”
“Kaze should be back.”
Hunkering down into the dirt, Mara Li played with a toy truck. She was short, weighed little but was the most nimble person in this Junkyard. She also had a propensity for putting things together in unconventional ways. Jael had long seen the potential of a great Technik in her. Assuming she lived to puberty. Mara Li had been born in the ECB Junkyard, her parents having barely escaping from the horde of NILs only to be destroyed like so many others whose bodies hadn't adapted to the after effects of the Black Winter, making Mara Li one of the many orphaned babies who grew up knowing nothing outside the heaps of scrap and garbage that was their fortress.
“Maybe he found something,” Mara Li offered, always optimistic. Jael bit her lip. It was possible, of course. NIL sightings had gone down, only to be replaced with more mutant attacks. Not the timid underground Squees, but the far more aggressive kinds which had only recently come to light. Jael knew that Kaze could handle almost any trouble he might find outside the Yard. It was the 'almost' that concerned her.
“I'm getting a signal!” A yell from the lookout, Jef, captured everyone's attention. By the time Jael had climbed the watchtower, Kaze could be seen by the naked eye. She scrambled down again, but Mara Li beat her to the cloaked figure. He was not particularly tall, but was quite stout and made all the more imposing by the arsenal he carried on him with great ease. The most impressive item in his collection was what looked like a double-barreled shotgun, but the barrels were far too big to fit any normal shell. They were still uncertain of its original intent; it was just one of countless finds in the Junkyard. Kaze called it Sigrid.
His tattered cloak shedding dust everywhere, Kaze looked like a true child of the desert, with weathered skin and a noticeable cross-shaped scar across the top right side of his face, underneath a black eye patch. Jael had mentioned several times that a Meyechine could probably be found but he refused to consider it and seemed to get by fine without.
Kaze put a finger to Mara Li's mouth, stifling any exclamation she was about to burst into. With a jerk of his head, he motioned Jael to the shade.
“We have company,” he informed her, keeping his voice low.
“Mutants?”
He shook his head and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“Traders?” A more hopeful prospect. Kaze looked uncomfortable, uncommon considering his usual level of confidence. Jael's brow furrowed.
“What is it?”
“It's...not human.” Jael's stomach turned over and she had to suck in a calming breath.
“Fang or Blood?”
“From what I could tell, Blood. Front of the complex.” Jael looked up at the sky, the sun beating down. It would have to be a Blood to survive this exposed. She glanced sideways at her companion.
“We need fresh supplies.”
“I know.” A sigh.
“Let's just get this over with.”
~~
Journal Entry #18
I was not wholly surprised by my reception in the Emerald City Border Junkyard. Scavengers like those who live in the refuse heaps leftover from the Black Winter need traders like me to keep supplies fresh and develop middlemen connections. Furthermore, they (humans) are always more comfortable dealing with me because of my pure blood status. I know this has nothing to do with respect, only experience. Those born to the Houses are superior in every way from our infected counter parts. Most notably, our survival capabilities; in short, how long we can go without feeding. We've been know to go for weeks without fresh blood and even longer with the supplemental tablets that act like a drug, keeping hunger at bay. Bitten crave all the time and would be more likely to kill a human instead of bargaining with it as we do. We, the stronger realized the wisdom of this path long ago. There are so few humans left after all. In general, we are simply a more reasonable lot. On the other hand, I did not begrudge them the armed snipers trained on me at all times while I enjoyed their 'hospitality'.
“Thank you for waiting,” the woman was saying. Denisovich knew she should respond but there was something off and she was not allowing herself to be surrounded inside the compound till she worked it out and only had to deal with two humans, instead of a group. There were surface idiosyncrasies to consider first. Jael wore a long coat common to all who dealt with sandstorms and merciless sun that looked like it had passed through a few owners, but underneath she wore Old Tech body armor in remarkably good shape. The white heavy duty plastic molded all the way around her torso and abdomen, clearly custom built for her. Her coloring was strange, but not impossible to conceive. Colors that had previously been considered unnatural had made their way into the genetic makeup of After Outbreak children, making it possible for one to be born with blue hair and red eyes. It was the way those eyes moved that made Denisovich feel so awkward.
“You're a KingKiller,” she blurted out in surprise. A muscle clenched in Jael's jaw but she made no denial. Denisovich studied her more intently, the notions of etiquette no longer applying. She had never seen the assassin androids anywhere but the Sapphire City. Officially, after they'd been utilized to usurp the human governments of the world, they had all been decommissioned, save the Adjudicator's personal guard. Jael gave a mock salute, followed by a bow.
“Counter-Insurgence Series 2095, Unit 23, call sign Jael, at your service.”
“How do you survive down here away from the City's power grid?” Denisovich asked, fascinated.
“What do you want, bloodsucker?” the one called Kaze broke in. Denisovich straightened her spine and fixed him with a cold gaze.
“I came down from the north and passed through the Emerald City. I have to go through your Border Yard to get to the inner Wasteland and thought we may do some trading.”
The robot and the human traded glances. Denisovich could see the desperation in their eyes but she didn't press, feeling no need to antagonize them further.
Jael pressed a button her belt and spoke in a language Denisovich didn't recognize, though it sounded like a B.A. Asian dialect. With a nod to the vampire, Jael led them into the Junkyard.
~~
There were few human settlements above ground, both because of the harsh conditions and the constant threat of NIL's. Junkyards served as livelihood and fortress who preferred to stay beneath the sky. This area had once been a border control post for the technolopolis but at the beginning of the Black Winter, it had become a dumping ground for everything found in the Wasteland. The assumption the humans had made was that one day they would be able to go through everything and rebuild. The Winter carried on for decades and those charged with cataloging and sorting the various items were either eaten, diseased or taken as serfs for the Houses. No matter the reason, the Yards were virtually abandoned, save a few survivors who made a living trading or fixing machinery with the items found.
It had been a long time since Denisovich had entered one, despite the fact it was her only experience with After Outbreak settlements. Those who made their home in the toxic earth would never tolerate her presence. She noted the various watchtowers, with their mounted automatic weapons, only some of which were manned at the time. Faces peeked out from doorways, underneath boxes and various openings that seemed too small for humans to fit. The Squees would be so proud, Denisovich thought. She was trailed in by one of the watchtower scouts, a wiry, handsome youth called Jef who had been the first to greet her with a smile.
A young woman was barreling towards her, determination chiseled in her face. Denisovich tensed, a hand moving to her left where her curved blade rested.
“Tell me you brought something,” the young woman said, breathlessly, stopping only six or so inches away.
“Alice! Don't cause a scene.” Jael actually looked embarrassed, her sheepish face apologizing for the young woman's behavior. Stil a bit surprised, Denisovich studied the newcomer. She appeared in her early 20's with choppy blonde hair and bright green eyes. Her cheeks were pink with exertion, contrasting her freckled skin. Around her neck, she wore a pair of welder goggles, implying she was a Technik, though the rest of her clothing (a green tank top, patched and holed and brown shorts) seemed more to deal with the desert heat than any practical labor. Denisovich reached into her rook sack. Jef, the red-headed guardsmen had his huge flat blade over her head in a flash. Distantly, she wondered how he lifted it. Slowly, so as not to cause alarm, Denisovich pulled the body of the spybot she'd taken from the Emerald City. The one called Alice leaned forward, excitedly examining the tech. Unthinkingly, she reached for it, but Denisovich pulled back, snapping everyone back to reality.
“I need a place to stay,” she began the negotiations. Jef's brown eyes widened as he looked from her to Jael. Denisovich also stared at the android.
“Just for the night,” the vampire promised. Jael nodded mutely and Denisovich deftly tossed the spybot to Alice who held it like an infant.
Past the outer courtyard, they entered what passed for the residential area. Structures made from slabs of aluminum, rotting wood were held together by a variety of wires. There were few windows or doors. Those less able to fight stayed in this area, foraging through the mounds of junk. Denisovich speculated they'd be at it for at least a century and a half before getting through it all. Most impressive were the rebuilt machinery. Clearly, there were some talented Techniks here and she found herself wondering why the Adjudicator hadn't sent some Enforcers to steal them for use in the Sapphire City. A whirring acted as prologue to the two individuals who appeared around what looked like a steel obelisk. The female had extremely long strawberry blonde hair, worn in a loose braid. Her eyes were obscured by dark grey glasses with metal guards on each side and she wore a lavender dress, the first Denisovich had seen on the surface. At her side, a bulky, beared man rolled forward in a mechanical wheelchair. He too wore goggles and a leather apron over a dirty white shirt which offset his huge arms. Neither seemed particularly bothered by Denisovich's inhuman status.
“This is Wing, our resident tailor and Phraestus, the blacksmith,” Jael introduced them. Denisovich greeted them formally, noticing Phraestus' gaze resting on her great sword. Raising an eyebrow in inquiry at Jael, she pulled the barbed blade from its strappings and held the hilt out to the seated figure. He turned it over appreciatively.
“You do this?” he asked, his voice thickly accented.
“I took it off a piece of logging machinery and replaced the chain with melded teeth.”
“Tis fine work.” He returned it to her. Wing gave a small smile.
“He's stingy with the compliments so be pleased.”
Denisovich smiled her thanks. There was motion on top one of the heaps. A little girl was darting around, her face hidden under a hooded shrug.
“Get down, Mara Li,” Wing commanded, without turning her head. The figure disappeared into the trash.
“I'm afraid all of our guest houses have been turned into infirmaries. As you can imagine, we get a lot more injured than guests,” Wing continued, apologetically. Denisovich shook her head.
“It is no problem. I would just prefer to wait till morning to head back into the desert.”
Phraestus warily eyed the sky, reddening in the dusk.
“Wise choice.”
~~
The fire crackled low. She stared into it, more comforted by the embers than any heat it might give off. A rustling to her right told her she wasn't alone and a thin smile reached her lips.
“Is it considered proper manners to spy on guests here?”
In response, sounds of stumbling and a surprised, “Ow.”
The little girl Denisovich had caught a glimpse of earlier tumbled into the light. She had wide, dark eyes, greasy brown hair and an expression that bespoke a curious mind.
“You talk funny,” she greeted. Denisovich smiled. At the sight of her fangs, the child shrank back, but regained her composure remarkably fast. They sat quietly for awhile, unsure what to say. The girl looked up at the dark gray sky.
“You're like, super old, right?” she asked, bluntly. Denisovich found herself laughing at the frankness.
“You would think so, yes.”
“Were you here before...” Mara Li trailed off, biting her lip. Denisovich nodded. Mara Li pointed upward.
“So you saw the watching gods? Before the Black Winter chased them all away?”
Denisovich cocked her head to one side in confusion.
“Those weren't gods, they were stars. And yes, I saw them.” The little girl contemplated this for a while and Denisovich recognized the same expression countless Atrean children assumed when presented with one of the many tests pushed on them.
“I like the watching gods better. Don't you have gods?”
Denisovich leaned forward, nodding and brought her hands together, forming a complex circle filled with the lines of her fingers.
“My people have a personification of our highest values. Seladore, the moonlight. She is our representation of cunning, stealth and wisdom. The Thyestrians have the Kurgantz, god of blood. He symbolizes strength, force.” She leaned back, reclining again. Mara Li's eyes twinkled with interest.
“But are they like, for real?”
“As real as you want them to be,” Denisovich shrugged.
“Yours seems nicer,” Mara Li commented, brushing a dirty strand of hair away from her face. Denisovich laughed again, this time without humor.
“Not really. Both seek total domination, whether through manipulation or force.” The child pouted at the contradiction and the apparent bitterness felt by her storyteller.
“But you're not like the other Bloods or Fangs. Why do you-”
“Mara Li,” a gruff voice called, sharply. The little girl jumped up, flashing Denisovich one last smile before scurrying away. Kaze was staring fire at the vampire through his one good eye. Denisovich refused to meet his gaze, instead returning her attention to the almost-dead fire.
“Not healthy to ask too many questions in this world, huh?” she murmured.
“Or to befriend serpents,” Kaze shot back. Denisovich glanced back.
“Bloods and Fangs she called us.”
Kaze nodded tersely. “Bloods for those born, Fangs for those bitten.” He paused in thought. “She has never spoken to a Blood before, nor ever left this place.” Denisovich's mind twinged, trailing to the children who would never see life outside the Sapphire City.
“I've long wondered. You wear a Breather. I thought your types didn't have problems with the fumes.”
“Do you also think “my types” count as living?”
He did not respond, the flickering firelight making dancing shadows across his expressionless face.
“The death winds destroy all forms of life,” she remarked absently, considering the vast deserts which accounted for most of the Wasteland. Though she'd come nowhere near answering his question, Kaze had lost interest in talking and left her alone.
And though she knew there were several guns eying her still, Denisovich had little trouble falling asleep.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Chapter 1
Power On. Start up sequence initiated.
Data loading.
Voice simulator on-line.
Background programming loading...Complete.
It is the year 284 After Outbreak. Even my people, long lived almost to immortality as they are, do not know for certain the date in the classic sense.
My people. We trace our origins back to Ancient Greece. Others came before us, but only we thrived into the modern world. Only we lived...to carry on the blood feud.
Two brothers vied for a crown. At any one time, the gods favored one, then the other and even the gods were split over what to do. As each brother tried to outdo the other, the rivalry reached its highest (or lowest) point.
They were called Atreus and Thyestes. While Thyestes sat on the throne, Atreus begged for reconciliation, denying and interest in ruling. Thyestes invited him back and the two embraced as loving siblings. Thyestes had two sons whom he loved beyond all else, which Atreus well knew, inviting his royal brother to a grand banquet. Thyestes ate and drank much. So positive was his mood that he failed to notice his host barely touched the feast and appeared to have become a vegetarian. When all the dishes had been cleared away and Thyestes appeared stuffed and pleased, stroking his stomach and complimenting his brother's hospitality, Atreus smiled and wit ha wave of his hand, beckoned servants, who brought out a locked box. Believing this to be a gift, Thyestes excitedly threw open the lid, then stumbled over his chair in soul-wrenching horror. For there, set on lush red cushions, rested the heads of his two young sons.
The legends claim his wail broke open the sky itself. This allowed him to stare into the faces of the gods before they cursed him. There is no greater sin, they bellowed, with voices made of the ocean waves, the thunder in the mountains and the hurricane winds, than the consumption of flesh of your own progeny. Thyestes begged and pleaded, claiming ignorance, his shaking fingers pointing at his brother as the words whipped around him in a frenzy. For your crime, the powers continued, you and all your people are confined to the earth, never to see the gates of the Hereafter. Because you have consumed flesh, so shall it be for you, for always.
Then eyes which had seen the end of all things turned to Atreus. And you, serpent-brother, you too shall share this fate, consuming the flesh and blood of the living to survive, despised by all light. You and all your people.
And so they were cursed. One brother for his ignorance, one for his cleverness.
The rain made a queer sound off the broken pavement, echoing off the skeletal remains of skyscrapers. A harsh wind blew the droplets sideways, but this close to ocean, there was no chilling bite. The sound of rain was all the more strange for the total lack of any other sound, save a single set of booted footsteps. A heavily armored box floated up, the servo-motors inside humming as red lights indicating audio and visual surveillance sprang to life. Gold lettering of no human origin decorated its underside as it stealthily positioned itself in the broken window frame of an abandoned office building. The figure walked without determination, though not without confidence, and only a vague sense of direction. The figured wore a long brown coat which covered everything to the knees, which in turn were deeply set into a pair of black boots, laced all the way up. A hood covered the head, strong enough to keep away the acid rain which had turned the once industrious tehnolopolis into a bog devoid of anything resembling biological life. The face was covered by a pair of heavy brass goggles for the eyes and a leather flap for everything else. The only other distinguishable items were a green rook sack and an oddly proportioned pack, too long and narrow to be food and supplies, strapped with to two leather belts with metal filigree laced through, across the figure's chest. As the spy-bot relayed all this information, the last piece indicated that because of the preternatural grace of movement usually only seen in predatory cats, this individual could only be a vampire.
The sky was always gray here. The Northwest coast of the former Unites States had never been known for an overabundance of sunshine, making it a popular nesting zone, but after the decades of Black Winter, even the damned Houses grew tired of the incessant fog, the cycle of toxic precipitation and moved farther inland to enjoy the incessant sun and lack of any kind of moisture instead. Despite the lack of sun, the sky was getting noticeably darker. The hovering spybot watched the figure stop in the gutted remains of one was (given the location) probably a coffee shop. The rain continued to dribble like infant spittle, but the wind had died away. A sensory alarm in the spybot caused it to activate another camera in its rear wall. A shadow detached itself from a pool of shadows and picked its way towards the probably-a-coffee-shop. The spybot analyzed movement to determine entity type. Biological or mechanical? Mutant—one of the underground Squees that still burrowed under the city streets? A rogue mech scavenger? Or worse, one of the slavering, wretched creatures who had decimated the planet nearly three centuries earlier? The bot eliminated this last suggestion. The NIL (Non-Intelligent Lifeforms as the Old governments had referred to them) moved predominantly in groups and one could not live out here alone for long. Between the humidity and the acid rain, it would have rotted away. Likewise, the shadow was too big to be a Squee. Unable to distinguish anything else, the spybot refocused on the resting figure, curious how it would respond to being stalked.
Seemingly unaware of any potential danger, the figure pushed back its hood with gloved hands, revealing dark red hair that curled around the neck. The leather flap came down revealing a respirator of copper and silver, showing signs of well-worn age. The spybot was not surprised by this development as the Breathers had become necessary due to the toxic fumes generally blamed for the Outbreak, which still floated around and could still debilitate any living thing which inhaled it. The shadow was closer now, crouching in an awning. The mechanical watcher continued flickering its red light as it recorded every motion. The narrow pack was dropped to the ground with a solid thud as the coat slid off. Despite the absence of sunlight and the constant northern downpour, the abandoned city was perpetually warm because of the trapped humidity and the generators which still ran underneath the city. Underneath the coat, the figure wore a navy blue form-fitted suit, reinforced with worn leather at the shoulders and high at the neck. The silhouette outlined curves declaring the vampire a female, albeit a broad-shouldered one. At her waist, among several belts of varying sizes, hung a gray pouch and a few brown utility containers. Off one of the belts was strapped a long, slightly curved blade, kept from movement by another leather thong wrapped around the thigh. Heavy pants tucked into her boots, which appeared reinforced at the knee, heel and ankle with molded steel.
There were more details but the spybot didn't dare move closer for fear of discovery—its primary function was observation via concealment. The shadowy figure did not seem to have such orders as it crept closer to the she-pire. Something crashed just outside, a metallic clang against cement, and the shadow jumped, startled. In these few seconds, the vampire had disappeared. The light had all but faded from the growing dusk. The spybot risked edging closer. Nothing moved for long moments.
An overhead bulb, bereft of any covering burst into illumination. Before the shadowed figure could flee, a sharp barb was pressed to his throat from behind. This barb was connected to a long, thick sword and was just one of many. The spybot, acclimating its lens to the new light, saw the figure tense as the blade pushed just millimeters closer to his jugular. He was clearly male, well-toned and armed for espionage, with a needle gun and a utility belt holding an incalculable number of possibilities. A tangled mess of dark hair fell around his shoulders. The vampire asked a question but it was garbled by the Breather.
“What was that? Can't 'ear ya, love,” the male figure spoke with a confidence not common to a person about to be nine pounds lighter. A hissing sound as the Breather unlocked. Without the blade ever wavering, the female vampire had pulled it down around her neck.
“I said,” she repeated, tension lacing her voice, “Who sent you?”
With his hands raised above his head, the figure turned, laughing.
“Marek,” she snarled. The figure moved back and dropped his arms, though the sword, nor the female holding it had not relaxed.
“I guess that means you know 'oo sent me, then, eh, Denisovich?”
The woman lifted the goggles off her face, revealing lion-gold eyes, complete with a felines slitted pupils. The spybot zoomed the lens in on her face. As it had speculated, behind her ear was marked the line of tattoos that named her a pure blood, Before Outbreak.
“What does the Adjudicator want with me?” she asked, a level of clearly expected respect seeping into the words. Marek seemed intent on studying the dirt under his nails. Growing tired of waiting, she lowered her sword, holding the hilt loosely in her hand. With his broad features and physique, he looked the type to be blazoned on the ancient frescoes of long-dead warriors. Yet his blue eyes betrayed a cool, entitled sense of nobility which would best be complimented by the long-tails and cravats he so often sported in the Sapphire City.
“Well-” he started, before being cut off with a terse glare.
“And drop the accent, Marek, you fool no one.”
A sardonic smile crossed his lips, revealing one lengthened canine.
“Glad to know you haven't lost the edge.”
“One doesn't go soft in the Wasteland,” she snapped back, before adding a forced, “...sir.”
A slight shrug was her only response. Denisovich motioned up to where the spybot still hovered.
“Is that yours as well?” she asked. The spybot began to move about, frantically. It had been spotted! When, how long ago? In nanoseconds it had replayed every moment since activated by the female vampire, but nothing indicated it had broken stealth. Before it could finish planning the most prudent escape route, a silver needle, a quarter of an inch at its broadest center, pulverized its hard-drive. It collapsed onto the ground, sending shrapnel bouncing off in all direction. The two vampires inspected it, taking special note of the glyphs on its belly. Despite this examination, they failed to note the auxiliary cameras continuing to record, making no movement to zoom or change angle.
“My, my,” Marek murmured appreciatively, “Thyestrian Techniks have made remarkable improvements on an old model.” Denisovich spit onto the ground. Marek stood, his large frame making no sound.
“I suppose I shall have to make this quick then.”
In his palm rested a holographic recorder, one of the last innovations Before Outbreak. He indicated the password-receiver for her to speak into and identify herself. She sighed and glanced away, every nerve reluctant. Finally, compelled by traditions held for centuries, she responded accordingly.
“Lacrymosa Cerastes Durkovai Petruvskaiia Denisovich. Of the House of Atreus.”
The holo-recorder whirred to life, and the head of a handsome man was projected above. He had blonde hair, tied by a loose ribbon near his neck. Noble, though almost childlike features, a hawkish nose and sharp eyes (complete with a pair of slitted pupils in each) all declared him of highest birth. Although the hologram had been pre-recorded, Denisovich felt herself automatically bowing her head regardless. The spybot ran a diagnostic determining the best course of action and decided it was best to continue playing dead, even if that meant only utilizing one faulty lens.
“Adjudicator Tavian,” she greeted.
“Lady Denisovich,” the caramel warm voice began. Already she flinched, Marek noted, his eyes missing nothing behind half-closed lids.
“I have an update on your filial affairs and I wished to relay them to you myself. Your father is doing well and sends you greeting. Like myself, he wonders why you do not return to the Sapphire City. There is nothing for you out in the Wasteland. Still, he knows how...determined you are, and assures me that it is only a matter of time before you come home.” Through the projected image, Marek saw golden eyes narrow and lips curl back in sneering disdain. The message continued for some time and even Marek found himself stuck (and more than a bit insulted) by the banality of it all. This is what he had been sent out into the Wasteland for? It seemed a very tasteless joke but one he'd have to swallow nonetheless. One did not argue with the Adjudicator and expect a long lifespan. When finally the message ended (with a parting smile and “Goodbye, Lacy” which he found particularly amusing), Marek let out a long yawn. Denisovich spun on her heel and began bend to collect her few belongings. Having dismissed Marek from her mind, Denisovich was surprised to feel his hand on her back, making her stiffen instantly.
“You must feel very special to receive message from Tavian himself. And such concern from your father...”his voice was low, his hands attempted to emulate. She stepped away from him, eyes flashing.
“And to send one of his special-”
“Pets.” She cut him off, utter contempt in her voice. He let the jibe at his status pass, his mind already on other things. He caught her wrist as she attempted to pick up her rook sack, pulling her close to him.
“So why don't you return to the Sapphire City with me, Lacy?”
His face moved in close to hers when he felt a sharp jab in his side. He stumbled back, staring at one of his own needles protruding from his abdomen. In less than a second, she was on him, shoving him against a metal post.
“Listen to me, you bitten fop,” she growled at him, “My father is a decadent tyrant whom the world will be better without, I pray, someday soon. I care nothing for him, nor his games of power. And I will not return to that jewel-encrusted dungheap to become one of Tavian Justinian's broodmares.” Now it was her grip on his wrists as she twisted his arm behind his back, causing no damage yet keeping him in a vulnerable position as he could not struggle without potentially breaking his own bones.
“And as for you, arrogant son of a bitch,” her voice was calm, but serious, “I've no interest in you. Return to your crystal palace and leave me be.” She abruptly released him and he rubbed his bruised wrist, hate glaring in his eyes.
“I see you've added some color to your vocabulary living down here with the vermin.”
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she tugged on her coat, and wrapped her sword again. As almost an afterthought, she picked up the spybot, which had managed to catch all of this and relayed it to the base computer before the wiring in its motor short-circuited and the last of its life sparked away. The moment of its demise had gone unnoticed to the quarreling vampires. Denisovich stuffed it in her rook sack among the other items she'd found in the technolopolis and without sparing Marek a final glance, disappeared into the drizzling dark.
Data loading.
Voice simulator on-line.
Background programming loading...Complete.
It is the year 284 After Outbreak. Even my people, long lived almost to immortality as they are, do not know for certain the date in the classic sense.
My people. We trace our origins back to Ancient Greece. Others came before us, but only we thrived into the modern world. Only we lived...to carry on the blood feud.
Two brothers vied for a crown. At any one time, the gods favored one, then the other and even the gods were split over what to do. As each brother tried to outdo the other, the rivalry reached its highest (or lowest) point.
They were called Atreus and Thyestes. While Thyestes sat on the throne, Atreus begged for reconciliation, denying and interest in ruling. Thyestes invited him back and the two embraced as loving siblings. Thyestes had two sons whom he loved beyond all else, which Atreus well knew, inviting his royal brother to a grand banquet. Thyestes ate and drank much. So positive was his mood that he failed to notice his host barely touched the feast and appeared to have become a vegetarian. When all the dishes had been cleared away and Thyestes appeared stuffed and pleased, stroking his stomach and complimenting his brother's hospitality, Atreus smiled and wit ha wave of his hand, beckoned servants, who brought out a locked box. Believing this to be a gift, Thyestes excitedly threw open the lid, then stumbled over his chair in soul-wrenching horror. For there, set on lush red cushions, rested the heads of his two young sons.
The legends claim his wail broke open the sky itself. This allowed him to stare into the faces of the gods before they cursed him. There is no greater sin, they bellowed, with voices made of the ocean waves, the thunder in the mountains and the hurricane winds, than the consumption of flesh of your own progeny. Thyestes begged and pleaded, claiming ignorance, his shaking fingers pointing at his brother as the words whipped around him in a frenzy. For your crime, the powers continued, you and all your people are confined to the earth, never to see the gates of the Hereafter. Because you have consumed flesh, so shall it be for you, for always.
Then eyes which had seen the end of all things turned to Atreus. And you, serpent-brother, you too shall share this fate, consuming the flesh and blood of the living to survive, despised by all light. You and all your people.
And so they were cursed. One brother for his ignorance, one for his cleverness.
The rain made a queer sound off the broken pavement, echoing off the skeletal remains of skyscrapers. A harsh wind blew the droplets sideways, but this close to ocean, there was no chilling bite. The sound of rain was all the more strange for the total lack of any other sound, save a single set of booted footsteps. A heavily armored box floated up, the servo-motors inside humming as red lights indicating audio and visual surveillance sprang to life. Gold lettering of no human origin decorated its underside as it stealthily positioned itself in the broken window frame of an abandoned office building. The figure walked without determination, though not without confidence, and only a vague sense of direction. The figured wore a long brown coat which covered everything to the knees, which in turn were deeply set into a pair of black boots, laced all the way up. A hood covered the head, strong enough to keep away the acid rain which had turned the once industrious tehnolopolis into a bog devoid of anything resembling biological life. The face was covered by a pair of heavy brass goggles for the eyes and a leather flap for everything else. The only other distinguishable items were a green rook sack and an oddly proportioned pack, too long and narrow to be food and supplies, strapped with to two leather belts with metal filigree laced through, across the figure's chest. As the spy-bot relayed all this information, the last piece indicated that because of the preternatural grace of movement usually only seen in predatory cats, this individual could only be a vampire.
The sky was always gray here. The Northwest coast of the former Unites States had never been known for an overabundance of sunshine, making it a popular nesting zone, but after the decades of Black Winter, even the damned Houses grew tired of the incessant fog, the cycle of toxic precipitation and moved farther inland to enjoy the incessant sun and lack of any kind of moisture instead. Despite the lack of sun, the sky was getting noticeably darker. The hovering spybot watched the figure stop in the gutted remains of one was (given the location) probably a coffee shop. The rain continued to dribble like infant spittle, but the wind had died away. A sensory alarm in the spybot caused it to activate another camera in its rear wall. A shadow detached itself from a pool of shadows and picked its way towards the probably-a-coffee-shop. The spybot analyzed movement to determine entity type. Biological or mechanical? Mutant—one of the underground Squees that still burrowed under the city streets? A rogue mech scavenger? Or worse, one of the slavering, wretched creatures who had decimated the planet nearly three centuries earlier? The bot eliminated this last suggestion. The NIL (Non-Intelligent Lifeforms as the Old governments had referred to them) moved predominantly in groups and one could not live out here alone for long. Between the humidity and the acid rain, it would have rotted away. Likewise, the shadow was too big to be a Squee. Unable to distinguish anything else, the spybot refocused on the resting figure, curious how it would respond to being stalked.
Seemingly unaware of any potential danger, the figure pushed back its hood with gloved hands, revealing dark red hair that curled around the neck. The leather flap came down revealing a respirator of copper and silver, showing signs of well-worn age. The spybot was not surprised by this development as the Breathers had become necessary due to the toxic fumes generally blamed for the Outbreak, which still floated around and could still debilitate any living thing which inhaled it. The shadow was closer now, crouching in an awning. The mechanical watcher continued flickering its red light as it recorded every motion. The narrow pack was dropped to the ground with a solid thud as the coat slid off. Despite the absence of sunlight and the constant northern downpour, the abandoned city was perpetually warm because of the trapped humidity and the generators which still ran underneath the city. Underneath the coat, the figure wore a navy blue form-fitted suit, reinforced with worn leather at the shoulders and high at the neck. The silhouette outlined curves declaring the vampire a female, albeit a broad-shouldered one. At her waist, among several belts of varying sizes, hung a gray pouch and a few brown utility containers. Off one of the belts was strapped a long, slightly curved blade, kept from movement by another leather thong wrapped around the thigh. Heavy pants tucked into her boots, which appeared reinforced at the knee, heel and ankle with molded steel.
There were more details but the spybot didn't dare move closer for fear of discovery—its primary function was observation via concealment. The shadowy figure did not seem to have such orders as it crept closer to the she-pire. Something crashed just outside, a metallic clang against cement, and the shadow jumped, startled. In these few seconds, the vampire had disappeared. The light had all but faded from the growing dusk. The spybot risked edging closer. Nothing moved for long moments.
An overhead bulb, bereft of any covering burst into illumination. Before the shadowed figure could flee, a sharp barb was pressed to his throat from behind. This barb was connected to a long, thick sword and was just one of many. The spybot, acclimating its lens to the new light, saw the figure tense as the blade pushed just millimeters closer to his jugular. He was clearly male, well-toned and armed for espionage, with a needle gun and a utility belt holding an incalculable number of possibilities. A tangled mess of dark hair fell around his shoulders. The vampire asked a question but it was garbled by the Breather.
“What was that? Can't 'ear ya, love,” the male figure spoke with a confidence not common to a person about to be nine pounds lighter. A hissing sound as the Breather unlocked. Without the blade ever wavering, the female vampire had pulled it down around her neck.
“I said,” she repeated, tension lacing her voice, “Who sent you?”
With his hands raised above his head, the figure turned, laughing.
“Marek,” she snarled. The figure moved back and dropped his arms, though the sword, nor the female holding it had not relaxed.
“I guess that means you know 'oo sent me, then, eh, Denisovich?”
The woman lifted the goggles off her face, revealing lion-gold eyes, complete with a felines slitted pupils. The spybot zoomed the lens in on her face. As it had speculated, behind her ear was marked the line of tattoos that named her a pure blood, Before Outbreak.
“What does the Adjudicator want with me?” she asked, a level of clearly expected respect seeping into the words. Marek seemed intent on studying the dirt under his nails. Growing tired of waiting, she lowered her sword, holding the hilt loosely in her hand. With his broad features and physique, he looked the type to be blazoned on the ancient frescoes of long-dead warriors. Yet his blue eyes betrayed a cool, entitled sense of nobility which would best be complimented by the long-tails and cravats he so often sported in the Sapphire City.
“Well-” he started, before being cut off with a terse glare.
“And drop the accent, Marek, you fool no one.”
A sardonic smile crossed his lips, revealing one lengthened canine.
“Glad to know you haven't lost the edge.”
“One doesn't go soft in the Wasteland,” she snapped back, before adding a forced, “...sir.”
A slight shrug was her only response. Denisovich motioned up to where the spybot still hovered.
“Is that yours as well?” she asked. The spybot began to move about, frantically. It had been spotted! When, how long ago? In nanoseconds it had replayed every moment since activated by the female vampire, but nothing indicated it had broken stealth. Before it could finish planning the most prudent escape route, a silver needle, a quarter of an inch at its broadest center, pulverized its hard-drive. It collapsed onto the ground, sending shrapnel bouncing off in all direction. The two vampires inspected it, taking special note of the glyphs on its belly. Despite this examination, they failed to note the auxiliary cameras continuing to record, making no movement to zoom or change angle.
“My, my,” Marek murmured appreciatively, “Thyestrian Techniks have made remarkable improvements on an old model.” Denisovich spit onto the ground. Marek stood, his large frame making no sound.
“I suppose I shall have to make this quick then.”
In his palm rested a holographic recorder, one of the last innovations Before Outbreak. He indicated the password-receiver for her to speak into and identify herself. She sighed and glanced away, every nerve reluctant. Finally, compelled by traditions held for centuries, she responded accordingly.
“Lacrymosa Cerastes Durkovai Petruvskaiia Denisovich. Of the House of Atreus.”
The holo-recorder whirred to life, and the head of a handsome man was projected above. He had blonde hair, tied by a loose ribbon near his neck. Noble, though almost childlike features, a hawkish nose and sharp eyes (complete with a pair of slitted pupils in each) all declared him of highest birth. Although the hologram had been pre-recorded, Denisovich felt herself automatically bowing her head regardless. The spybot ran a diagnostic determining the best course of action and decided it was best to continue playing dead, even if that meant only utilizing one faulty lens.
“Adjudicator Tavian,” she greeted.
“Lady Denisovich,” the caramel warm voice began. Already she flinched, Marek noted, his eyes missing nothing behind half-closed lids.
“I have an update on your filial affairs and I wished to relay them to you myself. Your father is doing well and sends you greeting. Like myself, he wonders why you do not return to the Sapphire City. There is nothing for you out in the Wasteland. Still, he knows how...determined you are, and assures me that it is only a matter of time before you come home.” Through the projected image, Marek saw golden eyes narrow and lips curl back in sneering disdain. The message continued for some time and even Marek found himself stuck (and more than a bit insulted) by the banality of it all. This is what he had been sent out into the Wasteland for? It seemed a very tasteless joke but one he'd have to swallow nonetheless. One did not argue with the Adjudicator and expect a long lifespan. When finally the message ended (with a parting smile and “Goodbye, Lacy” which he found particularly amusing), Marek let out a long yawn. Denisovich spun on her heel and began bend to collect her few belongings. Having dismissed Marek from her mind, Denisovich was surprised to feel his hand on her back, making her stiffen instantly.
“You must feel very special to receive message from Tavian himself. And such concern from your father...”his voice was low, his hands attempted to emulate. She stepped away from him, eyes flashing.
“And to send one of his special-”
“Pets.” She cut him off, utter contempt in her voice. He let the jibe at his status pass, his mind already on other things. He caught her wrist as she attempted to pick up her rook sack, pulling her close to him.
“So why don't you return to the Sapphire City with me, Lacy?”
His face moved in close to hers when he felt a sharp jab in his side. He stumbled back, staring at one of his own needles protruding from his abdomen. In less than a second, she was on him, shoving him against a metal post.
“Listen to me, you bitten fop,” she growled at him, “My father is a decadent tyrant whom the world will be better without, I pray, someday soon. I care nothing for him, nor his games of power. And I will not return to that jewel-encrusted dungheap to become one of Tavian Justinian's broodmares.” Now it was her grip on his wrists as she twisted his arm behind his back, causing no damage yet keeping him in a vulnerable position as he could not struggle without potentially breaking his own bones.
“And as for you, arrogant son of a bitch,” her voice was calm, but serious, “I've no interest in you. Return to your crystal palace and leave me be.” She abruptly released him and he rubbed his bruised wrist, hate glaring in his eyes.
“I see you've added some color to your vocabulary living down here with the vermin.”
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she tugged on her coat, and wrapped her sword again. As almost an afterthought, she picked up the spybot, which had managed to catch all of this and relayed it to the base computer before the wiring in its motor short-circuited and the last of its life sparked away. The moment of its demise had gone unnoticed to the quarreling vampires. Denisovich stuffed it in her rook sack among the other items she'd found in the technolopolis and without sparing Marek a final glance, disappeared into the drizzling dark.
Introduction
This pseudo-novel was originally begun as a NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month) project, but as these things usually go...it will not be completed in time. Too much life got in the way. However, I had a good time working on it, and have done enough world building and character development that I want to keep it going. I'm posting it here so that it can be enjoyed at leisure and so that I can receive feedback.
Please note that this is a work in progress. Usually I am wary of letting people see things I write before I edit the heck out of it, but we are going to experiment anyway. I am always open to suggestion and will implement ones that fit and that I feel would improve the story.
I classify this as a steam punk story because a tenet of steam punk is the idea of wiping away technology and starting over at a certain point in time. The idea that we would not have the amenities that we enjoy now. This story keeps a lot of the steam punk aesthetic...there is a lot of Victorian dress and some classic steam punk staples like pocket watches and welding goggles and airships.
I felt steam punk was appropriate because most of the story revolves around another byproduct of the Victorian era: Vampires. There have been legends of vampiric creatures almost since writing began, but our modern notion (and none of this Stephanie Meyer bullcrap) stems directly from Victorian "repression."
You can tell a lot about a culture by studying what they were afraid of. With all of the pent up sexuality and concerns about deviance and assertiveness, it is not surprising that the Victorian monster would be a seductive, powerful, controlling creature born of shadow and blood and desire.
While I ignore a lot of vampire assumptions and recreate others (mine have heartbeats, for example), it is this classic, terrifying creature that I am using as a base. Creatures that were never intended to be sympathetic or loving or moral.
Fantasy readers will probably get a "Drow" sense, from the Forgotten Realms universe, which in turn probably, like myself, takes a lot from political intrigues of Ancient Rome. I wanted more than just a monster story, I wanted a deep political mystery ala Dune (but no where near that talented I'm afraid).
This story could also be classified as Atomic Punk. Certainly there has been a nuclear fallout, there are aesthetics of this as well. Gas masks are probably the most recognizable. Futuristic technology, such as androids, cyborgs and nanobots mix with mutants and zombies. While I've tried to stay within the bounds of reason concerning the effects of a nuclear winter, there are gaps in my knowledge, and so if some things seem to be just too much of a stretch, I apologize. The zeitgeist of the atomic era, of course, is the zombie. What this says about our society...the desire to question our basic moral foundations, to push the limits of science to the point of analyzing our very notions of humanity...is still open to debate.
I admit the story starts slow. I'm a very visual writer and wanted the reader to get a good view of the world. At the same time, much needs to be explained, context seems constantly required. I beg the reader's indulgence in this matter, as it is a concern I am still attempting to address.
Have I scared you off yet? No? Good. Then put on your Breathers, and enter...the Wasteland.
Please note that this is a work in progress. Usually I am wary of letting people see things I write before I edit the heck out of it, but we are going to experiment anyway. I am always open to suggestion and will implement ones that fit and that I feel would improve the story.
I classify this as a steam punk story because a tenet of steam punk is the idea of wiping away technology and starting over at a certain point in time. The idea that we would not have the amenities that we enjoy now. This story keeps a lot of the steam punk aesthetic...there is a lot of Victorian dress and some classic steam punk staples like pocket watches and welding goggles and airships.
I felt steam punk was appropriate because most of the story revolves around another byproduct of the Victorian era: Vampires. There have been legends of vampiric creatures almost since writing began, but our modern notion (and none of this Stephanie Meyer bullcrap) stems directly from Victorian "repression."
You can tell a lot about a culture by studying what they were afraid of. With all of the pent up sexuality and concerns about deviance and assertiveness, it is not surprising that the Victorian monster would be a seductive, powerful, controlling creature born of shadow and blood and desire.
While I ignore a lot of vampire assumptions and recreate others (mine have heartbeats, for example), it is this classic, terrifying creature that I am using as a base. Creatures that were never intended to be sympathetic or loving or moral.
Fantasy readers will probably get a "Drow" sense, from the Forgotten Realms universe, which in turn probably, like myself, takes a lot from political intrigues of Ancient Rome. I wanted more than just a monster story, I wanted a deep political mystery ala Dune (but no where near that talented I'm afraid).
This story could also be classified as Atomic Punk. Certainly there has been a nuclear fallout, there are aesthetics of this as well. Gas masks are probably the most recognizable. Futuristic technology, such as androids, cyborgs and nanobots mix with mutants and zombies. While I've tried to stay within the bounds of reason concerning the effects of a nuclear winter, there are gaps in my knowledge, and so if some things seem to be just too much of a stretch, I apologize. The zeitgeist of the atomic era, of course, is the zombie. What this says about our society...the desire to question our basic moral foundations, to push the limits of science to the point of analyzing our very notions of humanity...is still open to debate.
I admit the story starts slow. I'm a very visual writer and wanted the reader to get a good view of the world. At the same time, much needs to be explained, context seems constantly required. I beg the reader's indulgence in this matter, as it is a concern I am still attempting to address.
Have I scared you off yet? No? Good. Then put on your Breathers, and enter...the Wasteland.
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