by Will Crudge
Armed and ready, I crouch by the edge of the ship’s hull to scan for threats. I’m guessing they disabled the auto-defenses. Dust and debris within terrestrial atmospheres can set them off, and it can cause unwanted problems. Good for me, because otherwise, I may not be breathing this far away from the designated entrance approach.
It’s about half a click back to the Nova and the ridge in which her bow is entrenched. Even at a full sprint, I wouldn’t be able to cover the distance without getting caught in the open by enemy fire. I have one realistic option. I plan to use the element of surprise to board the pocket-frigate, take out anyone that could be running scan, retrieve Trixie, and get her to safety.
They’ve pissed me off. But instead of going in with a surge of raw vengeance, I decided to take a few focused breaths to harness my emotions. I can only succeed by balancing my feelings with pragmatic resolve.
But the Rage is back. I feel it. I can only have faith that it’s on my side and that it will let me have a say-so with my actions. Trixie depends on me, and I can’t let these animals take her.
I can’t wait until the drones come back to ambush them. It won’t take too long for the crew to wonder what is taking my former captors so long to report in.
I slip into the bulkhead door and follow my instinct. The bulkheads are newly built, but modest in design. Exposed ribs and conduit line the corridors, and the textured deck plating is strictly functional. Lucky for them, I’m here to kill, and not so much critique their interior decorum.
I turn left. It’s as good a choice as any when you don’t know the layout, but it does seem to get me closer to where the CIC may be found. Most ships have their CIC or bridge in the first one-third of the ship’s structure, so I’m just taking an educated guess. I almost turned back to find engineering. I could have sabotaged the ship from leaving with Trixie, but I decide against it. I don’t know enough about the numbers of their crew, so I don’t want to run the risk of having to hunt them down and kill them all. If I give them the option to fly away, then that’s less killing that has to be done.
The Rage is giving me the sensation that I’m making the wrong call, but I push the sensation aside as I focus on scanning for threats.
My rifle is trained directly ahead, and I quickly approach an intersection. They don’t have any helpful signs to guide me, but I wasn’t expecting there to be any. It makes it more challenging to board a warship if there aren’t signs to direct an enemy to the vulnerable areas, after all.
I stop short of the intersection and press my shoulder against the bulkhead. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and listen for movement down either corridor. I can’t rely on standard ship-clearing maneuvers since I’m alone. I have to trust my senses and take my time.
The Rage is pulling me to the left. It’s like it’s compelling me to go down there. Strangely enough, it doesn’t seem to want me to visually clear the right first. Either it wants me to die, or it knows something I don’t. I roll the dice and comply.
I maintain a sure-footing and keep my weapon trained directly ahead. The corridor is relatively well lit so I can see a thick bulkhead door straight ahead. Unfortunately, I also see a security sensor as well. I can’t just shoot it. It will lock down the ship, and I’d be trapped. I press on regardless.
I close the gap, and I’m standing in front of the door. I hesitate. Not good. Bad place to second guess myself.
C’mon, Mr. Rage! What do I do now? I send it my desperate pleas. To my surprise and relief, it responds.
Without thinking I hold my bare palm up to the sensor, and a flash of spiraling magenta colored energy flows from my hand and into the sensor. The LED flickers and then displays solid green. Nice!
The door lurches open, and I step on through with my weapon at the ready. A single crew member in a dress uniform spits out his coffee and throws his hands in the air. His face is young and narrow. Hair, dirty blonde. He’s an officer, and he’s in full dress.
“D-don’t hurt me!” He stutters.
“Face down on the deck, move!” I order. He blinks a few times but doesn’t budge. I pull back on the charging handle, a ballistic cartridge ejects, and then the bolt of the rifle slams back forward. This time he got the message and got down.
I reach for his collar, pull up slightly, and then slam him face-first on the deck plate. He goes limp. I immediately begin to take stock in the CIC… or bridge. Whichever term this hull-type calls for.
Holographic displays hover over empty workstations, and a single command console is at the back of the space. The main display is on the forward-facing bulkhead, and two helmsmen positions are butted up to the bottom of it. It’s a typical CIC layout, so I make a mental note of the correct brevity to use.
I find the scanning suite, and begin pecking away at the virtual icons on the holographic interface. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I do have experience playing around with some of the Nova’s engineering consoles, so I apply my experience as best I can. I know that Crimson tech is not as advanced as most, and their ships don’t often rely on AI’s to monitor the core systems.
Without a ship’s AI, I can only assume I’ll have to muddle through more manual interfaces. Turns out, I’m right. Damn!
The menus are proprietary to Crimson military specs, so I have to guess the protocols as I go along. I peck through the menu until I find a direct link to the drone feeds. I select, what I believe to be, a feed monitoring window.
A small screen pops up in the display, and I see a dozen little segments of video footage pop up. Only seven of them have any images. Either Marbles has taken out six of the drones, or they’re out of signal range. I pray it’s the former.
The feeds I can see are dizzying. It’s almost as if the drones are on the run. I also see an icon in the lower corner of each screen, and it’s got a red ‘X’ displayed. I’m guessing their audio feed is being jammed. Go Marbles!
No wonder the commandos aren’t too concerned with the disposition of the drones. Their calls for assistance have likely gone unanswered. Then I see a dark flash in the corner of one drone’s field of vision. A single metallic hand covers its visual sensors, and the feed is cut off.
Marbles is separating them and taking them out one by one. Nice!
Now I have to find something useful that I can use to locate Trixie. I don’t know what they did with my sword either, but it’s only a secondary concern.
I know Crimson ships may not be operated by AI’s, but their tech allows for it. Most of the Crimson Fleet is built from commercial, wholesale, or captured military vessels. They likely have an AI node storage unit. It’s a standard feature on any ship. Even the most advanced and benevolent AI’s have malfunctioned at some point so each ship would have a stasis containment unit that can secure an AI without giving it access to shipboard systems. I just have to locate it.
My Rage rises up, and I feel the urge to select a series of icons. I just let it happen. It’s gotten me this far, at least.
Sure enough, a file comes into view. I select it, and it opens up to a three-dimensional deck layout. Fuck, yeah!
I scour the layout. I maneuver my hands to spin it, zooming in and out, and then applying search filters. Finally, I isolate a section of the ship that’s clearly labeled AI Containment.
Then the Rage prompts me to do one more thing. I end up spreading my forefinger and my thumb apart and then collapse them back together once more. To my surprise, a dialogue box opens, and it’s giving me the option to pull up a binary analog version of the file. I select it, and then a prickly sensation emerges in my forehead. I shake it off, and my face forms an awkward grimace. By the time the chills are done radiating up and down my spine, I see the full image of the ship’s layout in my mind.
Holy shit! I just downloaded a file to my biological brain! I think to myself. If my Rage had a voice, then I’m pretty sure it would say, ‘you’re welcome’.
Armed with knowledge, and a heavy rifle, I make my way down the corridor. I follow t
he images in my mind and quickly close the gap between me and the AI containment unit with every turn I take. My pulse is pounding, but I feel totally relaxed. It’s a surreal feeling I can’t quite express, but I assure you that I would if I could.
Something prompts me to stop. I don’t know if it’s the Rage or my own instincts, but I comply either way. I plant myself against a bulkhead, and I try to press into it so a nearby structural rib can give me some semblance of cover from enemy fire. I look down at the rifle and realize it has a plasma mode. I switch it to plasma without thinking, and then I scan for threats.
Using plasma onboard a ship is preferable to heavy ballistics, so something prompted me to select the option. The ship isn’t underway, so I can’t image why it would matter.
The answer comes soon enough…
A plasma bolt comes screaming out from where I had just came from, and impacted a few centimeters away from my left shoulder. I feel the searing heat from the impact, but I’m not burned. I was about to return fire, but something told me not to. After a few more agonizing seconds, my instincts proved right. Ballistic rounds spackled the bulkhead to my right. They came from the other direction.
The first shot was intended to prompt me to betray my cover and return fire. I would have been exposed to cross-fire. Yay, instincts!
But now I’m trapped. Ballistics to the left of me, plasma to the right. ‘Here I am, stuck in the middle with you!’
Then the bulkheads began to glow blue. My hands began to sparkle in waves of magenta spirals. Primal Rage activated!
The rest is a blur. A dream, really. I’m in control, but I’m not. My fear is gone. My higher thoughts have gone. I see the world in waves of mathematics and glorious symmetry. So pretty!
I step out to my left, and I see three lightly armored soldiers with ballistic rifles shooting at me. I can’t tell if they’re hitting me, and frankly, I don’t give a shit. They’re so pretty to watch! Even the numerical ratio of the rifling twists in relation to the barrel length gives off a spectacular show of light and grace. It’s magic!
My arms bring up the rifle. Headshot. Headshot, Headshot. All dead. So pretty!
I step out and pivot. I aim at four soldiers in heavier armor. They’re spitting out plasma bolts like it’s a celebration of light and glory. Gorgeous!
Headshot. Headshot. Headshot. Rifle overloads. Switched to ballistic. Ping! The last head shot only knocked the last soldier’s head back, and she stumbled. But before she could regain her footing, I see myself seem to float up to her while she’s in slow motion. I gently reach out with my hand, and casually crush her skull with my grip. Adorable!
I don’t even know why I’m here anymore. I don’t care. Everything is just so beautiful! I just want to prance around naked and crush windpipes! La-la-la, dead! La-la-la, you’re dead too! Hehe!
Before I know what’s happening, I glide down the corridors. I’m giggling. This is fun! My Rage is trying to tell me to get a grip, but I ignore it. Everything is so pretty!
I noticed that I always feared losing control of the Rage, but now the Rage has lost control of me! That’s the big secret! I am the Rage’s conduit in the physical world! The War Master’s don’t lose control of their Rage… The Rage loses control over their War Master’s! Now it’s stuck inside me. No Zodiac to bring me down to reality. My pet primal Rage! So adorable!
I would like to tell you I snap out of this, but it only gets worse.
Yes. This is happening. SMH.
For reasons I cannot explain, I find myself out in the open. I don’t know how. I’m just outside of the ship. I believe the Rage is helping me not die. Thank you, fluffy, friendly Rage-monster!
Hey, look! I’m surrounded! Soldiers are everywhere. They’re shooting at me. Most are running towards me with a variety of restraint thingies, but others are tearing my sub armor to shreds. It’s a shame. I looked hot in that getup!
I don’t feel the impact of dozens of ballistics, plasma bolts, or even the occasional pulse blast. The Rage has altered my molecular structure. My clothes are being burned and shredded. I’m naked. In the open. Enemies are shooting. So pretty!
A new voice enters my mind. It’s primordial and animalistic.
Oh, look! I found my sword! I have no idea where I got it from. It’s in my hand. I must have retrieved it somehow. I’m having gaps in my consciousness. Time is either too fast, or too slow. I can only guess that the limits of my third-dimensional brain can’t process everything. Just as well, I suppose. The horde of enemy troops are getting to see my crazy naked ass, as I contemplate the cosmos without a care in the world. So pretty!
The Rage is surging. I feel it flowing up from my root chakra. It’s apologizing as it rushes through me. I understand all at once. It’s not the dangerous energy I once believed. It’s benevolent. Holy, even. I’m the true being of chaos. I’m the one who corrupts it. I have forged it into a weapon. I have one last tearful thought of regret. One last fleeting moment of empathy.
Everything goes black. So pretty! I know no more.
A RUDE AWAKENING
“Wake up, Kat!” Marbles calls out to me. I can hear him. Feel him, even. Traces of the Rage are still resonating in my body. I feel every molecule in his body. For a split second, I see his sublime life force in all its glory. Then it’s gone. I snap into reality.
My eyes open. His eyes fill me with joy. But I can’t shake off the emptiness that is looming within me. The surge of Primal Rage has left me. I am a dried husk. An empty vessel. My soul has been wrenched, and now my brother has to pick up the pieces.
He takes me home. To the Nova. I’m too overwhelmed with grief to know much else. I don’t even notice the passage of time. I barely respond as he desperately tries to tell me what happened. I just don’t care. He can talk to the wall, for all I care.
I am nothing. Shattered. Broken.
I spend the next several months in a perpetual state of severe melancholy. My brain’s chemicals are askew. I can’t find my soul. I am a husk of damaged goods.
Only Marble’s unshakeable empathy drives me to leave my bed. I haven’t seen the brilliant glow of the binary suns in the sky since I lost myself in the Rage. He brings me food. He strokes my hair. He even bathes me with washc
loths and hand-soap.
I would have let myself die without his grace. I owe him my life. I hold myself responsible for Trixie’s fate. I should have stayed in that bunker. She would have been taken either way, but at least I wouldn’t have forced the enemy’s hand. My actions prompted their escape.
Marbles explained everything to me many times. It took weeks before I bothered to listen. I don’t know if it was the depression from the Rage nearly killing me, or if it was my own defense mechanisms that tried to numb me from the emotional trauma. All I know is that the more time that passed, the more I blame myself for her kidnapping.
He tries to explain that it was her plan the entire time. She knew that my Rage would take me if I tried to intervene. She wanted to be taken if it meant that I would be safe. She’d always known that she would have to sacrifice herself for our survival. She did what she thought would keep us safe, and I spit in her face with my selfishness.
Now I am a depressed sack of meat, and I have nothing to show for it but my own self-loathing. I couldn’t save the only mother I ever knew. The only mother Marbles actually had. I did that. It’s on me.
It’s his resilience that kept me alive. He doesn’t blame me. Even if he did, he never shows it. Sometimes I wonder if he hides his blame for fear that he’ll alienate me. I’m all he has left. Perhaps his logic is holding back the disdain he holds for me. If only to maintain some semblance of companionship.
I wrestle with this irrational thought process for years. It takes nearly a decade of reassurance and meditation to overcome them. I had almost become a victim of my own self-hatred, but Marbles is my rock. My antidote.
I never tell him about Kaylen. I’m not certain it actually happened. I became so mentally devastated by the surge of energy that it took years for me to come to grips with the fallout.
I bet you’re wondering what actually happened. I can only tell you what Marbles told me. These are his words.
“I didn’t realize you’d left the bunker until it was too late. I methodically lured the drones away and picked them off one by one. I blocked their messaging capabilities, but I couldn’t block their visual feeds, so I had to work fast.