NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire

by Jason Crutchfield

  The vantage point, while significantly less, would have served my intent as well as the current bulge on which we stood. With the furious wind tossing my obsidian strands of hair in a wild fan behind me, I cast my gaze forward into the unforgiving wasteland. I drew my jaw into a concerned clench and widened my eyes at what I saw.

  Loftsborough lay far in the distance situated above the churning quicksands which I distinguished even from the few miles separating us from the city. The bright glow of the artificial sun that beamed from the slits in Loftsboroughs clam-like protective plates illuminated it for miles. At first glance, the city appeared normal, but as my enhanced telescopic sight awakened, I noticed several sources of light which did not belong to the peaceful city.

  Several fiery spotlights projected from twin aircraft that hovered just above the city. The imposing lights, an entirely different hue and intensity than the warm glow of the artificial sun, penetrated the city's protective slit like searchlights. I recognized the aircraft. Hoverbusters. Though long antiquated with patches of rust and attachments that provided more flair than function, the aircraft definitely ranked among those constructed and operated by highly trained military personnel.

  “The city's in trouble' it must be Bradich!” I exclaimed between clenched teeth; I curled my hands into fists and leapt down the hill in Loftsborough's direction. I resisted my natural urge to steady myself among the shifting rocks that slid around my feet like miniature surfboards and maintained my balance as their speedy descent carried me down the hill. “Crelyos, Oswald, hold on. I'm on my way!”

  File 30: Loftsborough's Hero

  The cold wind swept my hair back as I sprinted across the rocky desert. The long miles between the peak of the rounded hill and the looming city of Loftsborough extracted their toll on my endurance even with the assistance of my neurotech. The furious stomp of my boots into loose rocks and lifeless sand joined the exhausted huffs of my labored exhales like a lonely chorus in the midday gray.

  By the time I reached the rocky plateau housing our dune buggy, I glistened with a steady stream of perspiration. I wasted no time; my sprint's momentum carried me up the steep hill with relative ease, and as I hopped into the back of the old geezer's trailer, I scanned the dim confines for Oswald or, at the very least, my rifle. When I found neither, I kicked the side of the trailer in frustration; I cursed between my heavy breaths before hopping from the trailer and gazing toward the city.

  In the distance, one of the two Hoverbusters floating near Loftsborough buzzed with activity. The blue lights denoting the antigravity propulsion system twisted to send it along a horizontal path, but those lights intermittently flickered and dimmed. A strange sputter emanated from the engines like that of an antique automobile. It testified to the armored aircraft's age and state of decay. However, despite its decrepit condition, the Hoverbuster streaked through the sky toward the horizon. Upon careful scrutiny, I realized its flickering blue thrusters carried it in the direction of Raze's ransacked fortress.

  After swallowing a few more gulps of precious air, I bounded off toward the towering city. My mind raced with thoughts regarding the intruders as the bridge's metal grating clinked methodically beneath my heavy footfalls. The silver intercom at the bridge's end seemed infinitely farther away during my hectic dash than any of the times I casually strolled up to it. I finally reached it and smashed my thumb into its button with relentless fervor. An eternity passed before the intercom quietly beeped on the other end. Though distorted by the crackle of faulty wiring and ancient electricity, a frantic voice finally escaped the speaker. I recognized the voice; it belonged to Samson.

  “Who goes there? State your name and business! Now is not the time for visitors!” Samson's command carried a concerned but authoritative tone. No doubt the head mercenary desired no outside refugees to become caught in the city's conflict, but I questioned his logic considering any sane visitor would toss one glance at the Hoverbuster floating near Loftsborough and quickly conclude that another location might provide more hospitable lodging.

  “Samson, it's me. What's going on? Why is there a Hoverbuster here?” I called through the intercom while swallowing gulps of air.

  “Ihlia?! Thank goodness! Oswald and Crelyos have been worried sick! Ah, but now's not the time! You call those things Hoverbusters? They're monsters. Our guns couldn't do anything to that thick hull, and the onboard weapons nearly annihilated the city guard! There are several dead and even more wounded! Some guy calling himself Sarge swung in through the slit between the plates with a small army and demanded we give him Raze! It's madness in here!” The authority in Samson's voice gave way to panic as he accounted for the sudden invasion of Bradich's minions.

  “Sarge? Send the elevator down, quick, Samson. What are their numbers? Where's Crelyos and Oswald? I need more details of the situation.” As my blood settled and the cold winds kissed my glistening skin, I shivered. I regretted rushing headlong into danger without first snatching my coat from Elsa. The elevator screeched to a halt at the base of the bridge, and as I stepped into the cage's confines, Samson's voice scratched through the intercom attached to box's metal wall.

  “They have about twenty foot soldiers. They're all rank and file and follow the Sarge guy's orders explicitly. They look really professional and intimidating,” Samson spoke quickly. His voice dropped to a whisper; undoubtedly he sought to prevent detection.

  “Twenty… Have they injured or taken any of the city hostage? What about the second Hoverbuster? Where did it go? You sound quiet, are you in danger? Don't compromise yourself!” I hissed. With my body temperature stabilizing thanks to a racial adaptation to the cold which the Titan Crisis forced all humans to develop, my shivering ceased.

  “No hostages yet. The second Hoverbuster had a… I don't even know how to describe it. It was a little old man riding some kind of enormous beast. Sarge told them to go collect the hyped that we left in Raze's fortress, so they took off. I still have men there so I'm not too concerned; the old man didn't even take any of the soldiers with him. I'm fine, but this Sarge guy has two lieutenants or something, he calls them the Storm Duo. They're patrolling and keeping everyone in line; they haven't found me yet, but man they're scary as shit. Their powers are—” Samson's quiet words erupted into a shocked cry, and the buzzing intercom system suddenly exploded in a rain of sparks before dying altogether.

  Though the mechanical device ceased functioning, Samson's surprised scream of anguish reached my ears from the watch tower above. A few quiet seconds passed, and with a jarring jolt, the screeching elevator halted in the middle of its ascension. I shot my gaze skyward toward the open hole at the climb's apex; one by one the lights clicked off starting from the uppermost point and rapidly descending. Engulfed in the darkness of the elevator shaft, I flicked on my night vision augment.

  “Samson? Samson, come in! Answer me, Samson!” I desperately rapped my knuckles across the silver intercom box hoping for a response. Naught but silence met me in the lonely confines of the cage. My long obsidian tresses that normally trailed neatly across my back draped around my face like a curtain as I hung my head. I knew the harsh reality of invasion, and I knew the kind of people associated with Bradich. I knew Samson's heart had likely ceased beating, but normal feelings of sympathy or grief failed to find their way to my heart. In their place, a fire crackled like a fanned ember; my curtain of hair did not conceal any expression of sadness, it concealed an expression drowned in wrath.

  A crackling from a far more tangible source interrupted my brooding rage. When I looked up, my night vision revealed a woman standing on the edge of the elevator shaft several feet above me. The crackling emanated from her; vines of lightning embraced her almost as tightly as her clothing. A sleek black leather bodysuit hugged her modest curves. Inky black hair sat atop her head in a carefully planned assortment of spikes. Their glossy texture suggested some applied gel kept them erect.
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  Her odd hairstyle reminded me of porcupine spines, and though they protruded wildly from the back of her scalp, a small gap ran between them and the several strands that she clumped into bangs and hung in the front of her face like antennae of varying lengths. The bald valley in the middle of her skull no doubt housed her surgical scar. The thin slits of her black eyes belied her far eastern heritage; her slender bone structure and high cheek bones vividly complimented that theory.

  Given Panacea served as the staple first implant for any living human, it stood to reason that in order to function as a lieutenant in Sarge's squad, her other two nanites needed to go beyond the scope of normality. If her second optional augment resembled her first in any manner, she passed the intimidation test with flying colors. As she stood ominously over the elevator opening with a menacing expression painted across her thin face, bright cracks of electrical current spread from her fingertips and palms like spider webs hanging between tree branches.

  My eyes widened; to make matters worse, she tightly clasped the hilt of a well-honed, expertly crafted katana. Her twisting currents of electricity ominously raced down the slender blade's edge. I presumed that though the display filtered through my night vision as an assortment of dark greens and bright whites, the actual energy likely adopted an imposing yet impressive blue. The vacant stare on her face indicated she possessed no night vision of her own; instead, she merely stared down at my general area with a menacing glare. She slowly lifted her head until her eyes, flickering with her dancing sparks, suggestively rested upon the thick cord supporting the giant cage in which I stood. I immediately leapt to action.

  A quick hum set my Cognitive Accelerator into motion, and as the electrifying female drew back her katana with the poise of a master swordswoman, I pressed my palm fiercely against the roof to pop off one of the grated metal tiles on the elevator's ceiling. Her blade arched through the air like a bolt of lightning just as my hands gripped the lip of the opening I created. As I worked to hoist myself to the roof, I felt the cage wrench and groan around me.

  I glanced up in time to see the female's back turned on the elevator shaft; the tense chord wriggled freely through the air like a squirming worm as it descended through the darkness toward me. The jolting lurch warned me that the box on which I hung had begun its destructive free fall. I swiftly finished hoisting my body through the hole I created and planted both feet firmly against the roof. With my legs in mind, I activated my Supersoldier nanite to aid my jump as I leapt from the cage at the last moment.

  The screeching sparks beneath me as the cage scraped against the walls reminded me that I might have joined its fate. Instead, I clenched the indented groove that housed one of the shaft's many light fixtures. With my chest and abs flattened against the vertical tunnel walls, I searched with my dangling feet for a fixture close enough to gain a foothold but grunted when my endeavor left me empty… footed.

  I furrowed my slender brows with determination; after clenching my abdominal muscles to fold my lower torso up toward my chest, I drove both feet into the wall. A deep inhale and a second of concentration activated my Supersoldier enhancement again. Targeting the muscles in my thighs, I vaulted off the wall like a coiled spring. A quick calculation allowed me to properly distribute the power I needed to ascend to the next light fixture and the horizontal power I needed to reach it on the other side of the elevator shaft.

  In midair, I twisted my body to face the opposing wall and extended my hands instinctively. My fingers slid into the groove with little difficulty, and I immediately clenched the muscles in my upper body to stabilize my weight as I hung down from my new precarious perch several feet above my previous one. A quick glance up informed me that a significant investment of time and effort would be required to reach the shaft's apex.

  I ground my teeth together; I possessed an abundance of effort, but time was an unaffordable luxury. Circumstances left me with only one logical course of action; I needed to double my efforts. I shot through the elevator shaft with immense exertion, bounding from fixture to fixture. When my hands finally gripped the edge of the shaft, I swiftly hoisted myself into the city. I used the momentum of my ascension to roll to an upright squat, and as I settled into my alert crouch on the city's surface, I immediately drew my dagger from its sheath on my hip.

  A quick survey revealed little more than the quiet whistle of the wind passing through the metal lips of the city's protective plates. My night vision provided enough illumination to discern the city's entrance in the darkness, and though the immediate area lacked any enemies I could see, I remained vigilant. My thoughts fleetingly drifted to the question of how one might exit Loftsborough with the elevator destroyed, but I decided more pressing issues warranted my attention and crept quickly to the elevator watchtower.

  It did not take long for my green and white filtered vision to detect the fallen body of Loftsborough's recently appointed head mercenary. I rushed to his side and knelt beside him; cupping the back of his head in the palm of my free hand, I lifted him to a half seated position and examined his injuries. A crusted stream of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He used one hand to cover two wounds directly atop his chest over his lungs; it was obviously caused by a blade impalement, but aside from the smudge of charred crimson that stained his palm, the wounds bled very little, if at all.

  As I worked to analyze my initial theories regarding the nature and purpose of the attack, Samson's free hand shot up and encircled my wrist in a vice grip. His throat worked to swallow air, but I doubted he succeeded considering the pained look on his face.

  “Ih-Ihlia… I… It hurts,” Samson's hoarse whisper expelled air far more quickly than he inhaled it. At first I did not understand; Samson's chest heaved rapidly and I clearly heard him suck the air into his lungs. Unfortunately, he exhaled it just as quickly and I soon understood the nature of his doom. Either the woman that stabbed Samson did not understand the nature of her ability, or she was a cruel, demonic human being.

  “Samson, you're going to die. That woman stabbed you in the lungs and used her electrical abilities to superheat the area. She fried your alveoli. No matter how much you breathe, you're not losing any carbon dioxide and you're not getting any oxygen,” I frowned.

  “I'm sure your nanites are working desperately, but something as delicate and finite as repairing the tiny sacs in your lungs is going to take too long, especially since without oxygen your brain will shut down. If your brain shuts down, Panacea will stop working. This is going to be a long death, Samson… I'm sorry, I don't know what to say.” I placed my hand atop his and gazed down into his tormented face. Samson's shaky fingertips wrapped around my hand, dagger and all, and drew it slowly toward his own neck.

  “It… hurts. You talk… too much. End…” The last word that escaped him sounded like a crackling squeak, as though Samson just swallowed a piece of burning coal and washed it down with a healthy dose of helium. I repositioned the tip of my dagger against the side of his neck; the point indented his skin directly near his brain stem.

  “Understood,” I responded plainly and tensed the muscles in my arm, driving the dagger through Samson's flesh. His body jerked one final time before falling completely limp in my arms; I stood and shoved my dagger into its sheath on my hip. I found myself secretly grateful that I left Elsa behind. For that small child, witnessing the emotions and thoughts of a dying man would have assuredly caused her immense grief.

  As I thought back to the hazy memory of the young girl reaching out and sobbing for the hyped warrior when I slew him, I briefly wondered what she felt or heard in the minds of those psychotic afflicted. Unfortunately, I needed to place my musing on hold and focus on the situation at hand.

  As I crouched and prepared to exit the elevator tower with stealthy haste, I offered one last glance to Samson's corpse. “Rest well,” I thought to myself.

  File 31: Out of the Frying
Pan…

  The artificial incandescence emanating from the city's various light sources painted a painful glare on my night vision augment as I neared the archway that led to the city's central square. I deactivated the the nanite and flattened my back against the large stone arch. I cautiously peered around the corner into the city square while clicking my telescopic sight and auditory enhancement to life. As the lenses of my pupils dilated and constricted to adjust to various bright or dim details from extreme distances, I slowly scanned the immediate vicinity.

  The market seemed to be the focal point of the invasion; a small group of ten soldiers stood in perfect rows and columns and occupied a large portion of the central square. The rigid nature of their stance indicated strict military training, and their uniforms certainly appeared to match the feel of an armed military. Their faces from the tips of their noses down to the dips above their collar bones were concealed by skin-tight, black latex masks resembling the lower half of balaclava.

  From the tallest man located in the back corner to the shortest at the front, the soldiers' eyes radiated a sense of focus and resolve. If any of the men still possessed hair, the thin strips barely poked down from underneath dark black berets. A silver emblem embossed the center of the berets. I clenched my lower lip between my teeth; rage slowly clouded my head when I recognized the symbol as the same one used to denote our mercenary group many years before.

  An eagle, presumably a bald eagle, spread its wings across the circular emboss. Its head faced its left wing, and a giant striped shield rested across its chest. At the base of the emblem, the phrase “E Pluribus Unum” shimmered in a far lighter metal. In fact, the phrase almost glowed like white light from the decoration itself. Bradich once told me the letters belonged to a dead language, and formed the words “Out of many, One,” but I considered most of his historical myth more amusing than informative and disregarded it.