by Lee Bond
Candall frowned. Ever since he’d returned Stride to the brothers, they’d stepped up their efforts in hunting him wherever he hid. They were ungrateful assholes. More now than ever, he regretted saving the Horseman from a fate worse than death and wished he hadn’t been so insistent on returning him to the fold. “Assholes.”
Bliss’ peal of laughter rippled through Huey, accidentally sending some of his viral soldiers toppling into the endless layers of Harmony. “By for now, Candall. Make sure you come see me before too long has passed. I think Huey is getting the hang of this. I might not be here for much longer.”
Candall’s lonely, worrisome expression said it all. The Saint to all God soldiers disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving Bliss to tend to her garden.
“Shall I tell you a story?” Bliss whispered to almost-Huey. The AI nodded to herself. “I think I shall. It might be one you know, so if you can, speak up and let me know so I can find another one, okay? Hmm. Yes. Once upon a time, in a place very far away and a long time ago, there lived a man named Garth N’Chalez…”
Flight of the Dragon
As Tr'ss, it was inappropriate to admit that there was even the mere possibility that the warleader of the mighty Bruushian Empire might dislike any facet of any Bruushian technology, or that it made him feel unwell, but sitting alone, in the relative, soothing darkness of his command center, Andros Medellos had no difficulties admitting such.
"I think we can all agree," the Bruushian commander said to his son, who listened through the walls themselves, "that that was the least bit of fun either of us have ever experienced. Hopefully for you, my son, nothing but grace and excellence from here on out."
The rumbling groans traveling through the corridors echoed Andros' sentiments perfectly. Riding the tsunami-like burst of energy released during the initial stages of destroying that sun until they'd achieved enough velocity to activate their own, cunningly hidden Bruushian slipdrive tech, had been ... torment.
Sheer and utter torment for the self-aware vessel; the angular planes and inelegantly structured vessels in this strange Universe were in no way conducive to a smooth slip through the layers of the Unreality, only deepening Dragon's identity crisis.
"You are better than this, my child." Andros ran a loving hand across a nearby monitor.
Naturally, he was aware of Dragon's utter dislike of the form his son had been forced to wear, yet he still found it difficult to understand how his child knew anything at all about how Bruushian vessels were generally constructed. He'd done a great deal of thinking on the subject, and about the only thing that made any sense was genetic, racial memory, and that was a mighty stretch.
Dragon moaned again, this time rattling the walls and floors.
Andros pursed his lips. His child was behaving ... childlike. It was to be expected, of course, but there was a time and place for churlish temper tantrums, and right here, right now, having just freshly exited the slip inside Trinityspace, was definitely not the place.
Nor the time; they needed to prepare for the likelihood that the machine mind was that very second sending limitless numbers of troops hurtling their way, all with the express purpose of capturing them.
The Tr'ss wasn't concerned for himself. If he were to ever fall into Trinity's hands, he knew it'd just be a matter of being ready for any moment of weakness, or lapse in security. He had the patience of an ancient lizard. He could languish in prison for millennia and show no sign of weakness.
No, no, he held no worries over himself, or what he might endure
What gripped his lizard heart in a tight grasp were deep-seated fears over what could happen to his son, Dragon. There'd never been anything like him in the Unreal Universe before. The child was full of hidden Bruushian technology, fully functional, Dominion science, machinery and weapons that defied the relatively stable physics of this Universe. Presented with such an unrivaled opportunity, Trinity would pull Dragon apart by the seams until all secrets were laid bare before It.
That simply couldn't be allowed to happen. Dragon was glorious and Andros would sooner see his magnificent son dead by his own hand than suffer a moment beneath Trinity's unwavering scrutiny.
"Scan the area, my child." Andros whispered the words in ancient Bruushian, curious to see how deep Dragon's racial memory descended.
There was a slight groan, then the main monitors burst into life with standard scan sigils, and as Andros watched on with interest, Dragon's powerful machines spread throughout the entire solar system, swiftly and easily locating anything that might be remotely considered a threat.
There was the usual gamut of pirates, raiders, smugglers and criminal-type ships of all shapes and sizes scattered throughout the region, but that was fine. Overall, none of the various ne'er-do-wells possessed weapons of sufficient strength to concern him. Dragon was built to wage war on a larger scale. He'd run right through them without breaking a sweat.
Trinity's forces, on the other hand, were a different matter. Given sufficient motivation and the proper numbers, Trinity's war machines would give Dragon a very good run for his money. Which was why they were even risking detection by Trinity in the first place; forewarned was forearmed.
It was just that there seemed to be a noticeable lack of the machine mind's army. Anywhere. According to Dragon's initial scan, the number of military ships in this system could be counted on a single hand. Which was not only impossible, it was ridiculous. There was no way Trinity Itself would leave any solar system under It's care so woefully unprotected , not when there were fiends and demons about.
Andros quirked an eyebrow in surprise. "Run it again, my boy. This report cannot be true. I know we’ve been out of touch, but not long enough for Trinity or any of It's scientists to develop screening techniques sufficient enough to hide from us. At least, not for long. Again, my child, again."
This time, Dragon heeded his father's request without the usual childish moaning and wailing, which was nice; the Tr'ss thanked heaven he had yet to give Dragon a corporeal body, because quite frankly, he couldn't fathom dealing with an actual kicking, screaming and wailing child. This moaning and wailing silent treatment was more than enough, thank you.
The monitors slowly began populating with further information, Dragon's deeper scan of the system pinpointing stationary facilities like space stations, hidden or otherwise covert scientific facilities, mining operations, camouflaged criminal hubs, everything a person might need to truly dominate a solar system.
There were a fair number of Trinity Military Service outposts throughout the system, as expected, and from the looks of things, they were completely protected by the new-style gravnetic shielding developed by none other than Garth Nickels himself, which only made sense, but in terms of practical defense, there were no more than a dozen military vessels across the entire width and breadth of the solar system, and they were spread so thinly that should the criminal element make a concerted effort at destroying things, they'd be far more successful than they imagined.
"This is odd." Andros scratched a cheek, deep in thought.
Could Trinity's ill-conceived war against the Latelians actually have pulled so very many forces away from all of It's systems?
"If that's the case, the machine mind has finally gone mad. It cannot expect that It's planetary shielding will remain effective forever. N'Chalez' grasp on science is definitely without parallel, but given enough time and opportunity ... I just can't imagine It being this foolish. Organic life does have a tendency to outthink It, given enough opportunities."
What to do?
As with all things Bruush, the almost carnal desire to lay wanton destruction wherever he could warred with the more practical need of acquiring information -any information- on Garth Nickels; the only thing staying his hand was the even greater need to maintain as much secrecy around his true identity. For the time being -hopefully until the charade that was Andros Medellos was no longer needed - he was going to have to play it as straight as possible.
So. No pointless destruction, no senseless feeding. He'd done more than enough damage in the creation of Dragon. Andros accepted he was just going to have to ride the rush of being properly free for the first time since coming to the Unreality and hope it sustained him during the lean times.
Andros examined the rapidly growing datafiles on the various legal and semi-legal forces inside the system. Dragon, aided by the surprisingly in-depth data stored inside AI spheres stolen from the planet of his birth, was proving admirably adept at comprehending the rich strata of Intelligence; in addition to boring, low-level criminals who barely had enough cachet to pull the occasional heist, there was a Glass Hammer outpost, an infestation of Yellow Dogs and a smattering of a new organization calling itself 'Dread Rangers'.
Andros snorted. "Dread Rangers indeed. Show them just one of the things growing in the basement and they'd learn the true meaning of dread. Let me see here."
The Tr'ss asked for and received further information on the Glass Hammers and the Yellow Dog Clan; his goal here was to determine which of the two groups -one a semi-legitimate mercenary group ostensibly deployed to the system to provide the half-dozen Trinity Reserveships assistance should things get squirrely, the other a well-established EuroJapanese crime family- would be likely to have access to the data he needed.
On the one hand, the Hammers were working, if not directly for, then with the permission of, Trinity Itself or one of it's representatives. It was more than likely someone inside that organization had access to crucial TMS data, which was what Andros sought; if there was any entity in the Unreality that'd know where Garth was at all times, it'd be Trinity Itself.
The downside to hacking fully into Glass Hammer servers was the very real risk that they were home to some of the most ... intense ... digital protection that Trinity offered up to anyone associated with It. The type of digging he and his son were doing at the moment was risky, yes, but for the time being, their signal was a broad spectrum, making it difficult for Glass Hammer techies to pinpoint a location.
Once he went in search of specific files buried deep inside encrypted servers?
Different story altogether. Andros, having never really bothered with anything like this before, had no clue whether or not Dragon would stand up to the rigorous scrutiny from Trinity-provided Intel-watchdogs.
Andros shook his head. "No. Simply not worth the trouble. Not even worth the smallest risk."
Therefore, the Yellow Dogs. Andros knew the organized crime family very well. Some would argue extremely well; for nearly as long as he could remember, he'd been providing powerful and wealthy Elders and their family members the very best organic and mechanical augmentations the world had ever seen. As a result, there were many things about the Yellow Dogs Andros knew that they would certainly wish he did not.
One, they very much definitely had access to military Intel. If not directly in their own servers, then in hidden storage ports throughout their territories. Their association with the Emperor-for-Life all but guaranteed that they needed to be just as informed about Trinity's comings and goings as did actual civilizations. If not through illegitimate means, then through Yellow Dog footsoldiers who'd made it through the vetting process and were now actual soldiers in Trinity's Army.
Two, you learned the most interesting things while Yellow Dog Elders were under the knife, all without remembering anything they might've let slip during the procedure. Andros held scores of passcodes and access questions and actual decryption codes inside his head.
The downside was that he could still get caught, and the difference between being found out by Yellow Dogs over Glass Hammer was that the Dogs would follow you to the ends of the Universe, whereas the Hammer usually gave up after a few weeks.
"Yellow Dog it is." Andros highlighted the nearest Clan hideout and commanded Dragon to make his way there as quietly as possible. Once they were within range, he'd launch a dozen or so organic hacking devices -living machines about the size of a softball, each capable of accessing networks and servers- into the atmosphere and simply wait for the streams to begin. Self-destruction methods should prevent any wary Yellow Dogs from realizing what they were looking at, should they stumble upon one of the devices.
If not? Time to run again.
"And then, my son," Andros ran a loving hand against the top of the monitor nearest him a second time, "off to grab Nickels and then? Home, my boy, home to meet the family."
This time around, the sounds flooding the corridors resonated with excitement.
Andros smiled. This was a good thing. This was the right thing to do.
In no time at all, he'd back home.
Okay, Now, Come On
Jeremiah 31:16-17
Marshak stood off to one side, scrupulously avoiding eye contact with Ragar and most definitely avoiding Mirabelle. At least for the time being; the aging ex-soldier was completely and utterly overwhelmed by what he’d just seen, and after everything he’d been through since falling in with the Clan of the Weeping Eye, that was saying more than a little bit.
No one else was as affected by what they’d witnessed a moment ago, so Marshak took a moment out of his wordless considerations on what he’d actually hitched himself to, thinking perhaps that he was somehow being unreasonable. It was possible. Hell, given the weird shit he’d seen during his very brief time in the Army and the kinds of awful stuff he’d gotten up to while eking out a life as a criminal mastermind in Stack 17, maybe it was him and not the other way around.
Some fifty feet from where he stood, Lady Mirabelle, the Lady of the Weeping Eye, stood off to one side, huge brass-bound Book clutched to her thin bosom. For a change, her sorrowful face was momentarily sketched with gentle stirrings of happiness.
Understandable; she’d managed to vanquish three other Arcadians and the whole lot of them had given those Enforcers the most thorough beating any of them had ever gotten. A few of his boys were taking inordinate risk and extreme care to see if they could … ah … liberate any of the tech going into those Suits. Or perhaps a lost gun or other, missed weapon.
No. His dis-ease didn’t come from Mirabelle’s happiness, no matter that the odds were ludicrously high that her sorrow would return, full force, bringing that shattered, ruined face back to tears once more.
No. It wasn’t happiness. It was the … elephant in the room.
Marshak nodded.
It was the ship that had him on edge.
The ship that’d been summoned.
Out of dust and debris, wreckage and ruination. From shattered glass and warped metal. From blood and bone and air. Assembled from massive metal plates stripped down to tiny pieces. Constructed from huge chunks of concrete, upended and shivered into cubes no bigger than his tiniest fingernail. Built upon the blood and bones and skeletons of the men and women who’d already suffered and died, all thanks to the very same Book Mirabelle held to her bosom with such strength that her knuckles were unusually pale.
The ship was enormous.
It dominated the level they were on. One entire wall –the same wall, Marshak noticed, that the oldest-looking Arcadian had used as both entrance and exit- was but a memory, the matter gone into the impossible construction of a ship that shouldn’t exist. The craft looked like nothing he’d ever seen, and while Marshak didn’t make any pretensions towards being the sort of man who could identify any vessel’s origins simply by looking at the ship, he was nevertheless intelligent.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about Mirabelle’s ship that was … off. Somehow. It looked like every other ship he’d personally ever seen or been on. The front was where it was supposed to be, as were the sides and there was a part at the backside for the engines. He hadn’t yet gone aboard to check out the insides, and probably wouldn’t until everyone else was aboard …
He snapped his fingers. That’s what it was. It was a ship, and would do all the things a ship could do, it was just that it’d been built according to the wi
ll of a woman who’d never seen anything like a space vessel in her entire life. Had ever even been able to dream of a ship like this. The dimensions were slightly off. The shape of it, weird … as if -even as it’d risen up out of the dust and the godawful heat given off from it’s impossible birth- Mirabelle’s own instincts had warred with the natural drive from, Marshak supposed, Book itself. Unused to thinking along those lines, unsure of what she was doing, Mirabelle had planted the seeds of oddness into the ship’s frame.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Marshak grunted, embarrassed he’d let Ragar creep up on him like that. “It’s something, all right.”
“Oh come now, Marshak.” Ragar clapped the surly Master-of-Arms on the shoulder in friendly enough fashion and pointed at the ship. “It rose up out of the earth like a dream, guided from that place of soft musings to here, the real world. Driven there by nowt but Lady Mirabelle’s own desires to be well quit of this place.”
“Book is the thing that did it.” Marshak reminded Ragar of this fact with the purpose of continually reminding the idiot of the literal truth, as opposed to the observable truth. “Our Lady of the Weeping Eye is many things, Chancellor Ragar, but godlike isn’t amongst her many talents. Her skills are predominantly violent and unstoppable in nature. Creation isn’t in her wheelhouse.”
“Ah!” Ragar held a finger up, eyes twinkling. “But she possesses Book, and Book does as she wills, so in the end, it does not matter who does the creating, hey?”
“Well, when you put it that way…” Marshak drawled sarcastically, stiffening just a moment later. “Fuck my life. How in the hell did those people get down here?”