Category: fiction

The Kalaz’an Conspiray – Prologue (Part 6)

Later, Marris would feel a sense of satisfaction that the first instinct of every member of her team had been to move toward the unnatural screaming darkness rather than away from it.

At the time, however, all she felt was surging adrenaline, cold terror and the fierce determination to keep both firmly under control.

It was difficult in the face of that howling void – a gaping blackness framed, almost incongruously, by the drably painted laboratory wall – but she kept her voice level, willing it to communicate a confidence and certainty she only dimly felt.  “Albright, Devereux, keep to the rear. Five metre gap. Coleridge, De Santos, Garrison with me. Coleridge, you’re on point. With me.”

Fortunately, the orders required little thought, as did the automatic flipping of her sidearm’s safety as she unholstered it. The pistol purred contentedly then settled into a barely perceptible hum. She paused for just a moment at the threshold of the corridor.

The screaming had been steadily rising in pitch since the blackness had first appeared. She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard distinct voices. Gomez and Hendrickson, perhaps? It was difficult to tell. She didn’t want to think about what might be happening to them to cause that agonising, desperate shrieking. She didn’t want to think about what waited for them beyond the threshold, the stark dividing line between light and…

The screaming stopped.

The silence that rushed to fill its place seemed almost obscene in comparison. There were no whimpers or sobs or moans. There was nothing. One moment their ears had been assaulted by sounds wrenched from the pain-wracked depths of somebody’s being. The next, a crawling silence flowed over them like a suffocating shroud, terrible in its implications.

She cleared her throat.

“Any readings, Garrison?”

It took a moment for the science officer to reply.

“My scanner is registering this section of the laboratory as perfectly normal. Matter consistent with the rest of this section of the ship. No unusual radiation waves. There’s a concentration of phased particles ahead of us, but it’s diminishing quite quickly. Almost as if they’re being absorbed into the fabric of the… whatever that is.”

Garrison sounded rattled. Marris didn’t blame him. She examined the darkness for a moment. It had substance, a troubling suggestion of solidity that scratched painfully on the blackboard of her mind. The light beams of her helmet seemed to sink into it, fading from her sight perhaps half a metre or so in.

She took a breath. And stepped over. Into the darkness.

She was aware of Coleridge beside her, aware of his breathing – controlled but louder than normal. Most of all, however, she was aware of the darkness, aware of the manner in which it clung to the walls, seeming to congeal upon them, seep through the fabric of them, leak out through them from some unfathomable reservoir of liquid night.

The sensation of envelopment, of incipient claustrophobia, threatened to take hold of her limbs. She made herself take the next step. And the next.

And then, like filthy suffocating curtains, the darkness parted.

In her ear, Coleridge swore; she couldn’t bring herself to reprimand him.

*

With awakening had come awareness.

With awareness had come a jumble of sensations, emotions and thoughts.

The voice continued to speak, its words soothing and reassuring, although there was an undercurrent of urgency to them that threatened to destabilise and disrupt its gentle crooning.

“Open your mind.”

It quivered, sensation rippling across its skin in soft undulations.

“You will be free…. Open your mind.”

What did the voice mean? How could a mind be opened? How could it be closed?

“Allow my thoughts to enfold yours. You will be free.”

Free?

Free of what?

“I will show you. It will hurt. Be prepared.”

A Chat With A Greybeard – The Adventures of Sven

Sven

Sven in happier times, when singing was still a thing.

“Goodness! That was a long climb, eh?”

The man in the monk’s habit inclined his head towards him slightly. His face was lined with age and, perhaps, the wisdom accrued over long years of study in the remote mountain fortress; his eyes were as blue – and as cold – as the empty shell of the sky above them.

“Yes,” the monk said.

The other man – the newcomer, one of two to arrive this eventful and momentous day – grinned.

“Quite a view though, isn’t it?” Gesturing expansively with a gauntleted hand, the speaker gazed out over the vast wildness of Whiterun Hold, falling silent for a moment, perhaps in awe at the majesty of what he saw. “I killed a troll once in those ruins over there. Those ones, right there.” He glanced across at his listener, who was staring impassively into the middle distance. “Speaking of trolls, do you know you have a frost troll problem on this mountain?” The monk raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Well, you did have. Me and the mistress took care of it. Well, it was me mostly.” He tapped the grip of the warhammer strapped to his back. “Me and the old warhammer. You know.” He turned back to the monk, who was not looking at him; indeed, the only sign that he had heard the other man was the slow regular tapping of the forefinger of his left hand against his thick woollen robe.

The man with the warhammer sighed. “You know, it’s funny. For a bunch of monks who bang on about how important the ‘Voice’ is you don’t talk very much.”

The monk turned to him, his blue eyes flat and unyielding. “Come. The trial is about to begin.”

*

Part of the castle was almost completely ruined. Isolated chunks of masonry littered the snow-shrouded ground and a pair of wrought iron gates hung open between two pillars, whatever part of the castle they led into long since consigned to the oblivion of the past. About twenty yards from these gates stood a young woman in a mish-mash of fur and leather armour. An air of… significance hung about her and the bluish tinge of enchantment coated her boots and breastplate like an oily sheen.

From his vantage point on a particularly large block of stone, the man with the warhammer watched intently. The monk stood next to him, his gaze also focused on the woman and the pair of gates which opened slowly on some sort of mechanism operated by another hooded figure stood behind one of the pillars.

Two other monks stood close to the woman and it was from one of these dark-robed figures that the instruction came.

“Now!”

The young woman said something, something alien, something powerful. Suddenly, she was moving. Quickly. The air seemed to blur around her as she sprinted through the gates that clanged shut just behind her.

“Did you see that?” The man with the warhammer turned to the monk, his eyes wide with incredulity. “That was… amazing! Did you see it?”

“Hmmm.”

“No, really. That was… incredible. I mean, she just…” The man with the warhammer paused. “Come on, that was good, surely? I mean…”

The monk stared at him for a long moment, his lined face unmoving, his lips compressed in a thin, hard line.

The other man’s shoulders slumped and he turned away to fumble in his pack for a wineskin. “Tosser,” he muttered.

The monk turned and said something softly. And the man with the warhammer slid off the stone block and into the briar patch on the other side, spilling the contents of his wineskin – a particularly fine Colovian vintage – over his face, breastplate and arms.

One of the three monks now deep in conversation with the young woman glanced up sharply.

“Arngeir!” he cried, sharply. “Stop mucking about!”

“Sorry,” the monk said, not at all convincingly. “Must have been a slip of the tongue.”

Behind him, Sven of Riverwood rose from the briar patch, wiping the wine from his face and wishing, not for the first time, that, when the mysterious stranger had asked him to join her on her quest, he’d told her in no uncertain terms to get lost.

Rumble By The River – Sven’s Journal

 

06-04-2017_23-16-53

The aftermath of battle. A scene of devastating carnage and wanton destruction that… Oh, who am I kidding?

Sundas, 7th of Heartfire

Well, that was a bit rubbish. We’re walking along by the river just to the east of Whiterun – well, I’m walking; Miss Dragonbreath or whatever she’s called gets to ride her oh-so-comfortable horse while yours truly slogs along in that mixture of steel and dwarven armour that’s all the rage in Solitude, apparently. Not that I can be sure of that, of course, as we’ve yet to actually make it to Skyrim’s capital city, preferring instead to potter around Whiterun Hold or, if we’re feeling really adventurous, parts of Eastmarch. When I signed up to be DB’s companion, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

I have helped slay a couple of dragons, admittedly. But not today. Today it was a sabre toothed cat which had been prowling around near one of the farms. We saw it down by the river and, despite the fact that I’ve seen DB pad up to bandits and slit their throats or blend into the shadows and take down a warded up necromancer with a single shot, we charged the bloody thing. Well, I say we. I charged like an idiot and half way to the big – and I mean huge – cat, I become horribly aware of that terrible emptiness by my side that signals that, yes, DB has finally remembered she carries a bow and is quite good at shooting things with it.

The cat looks up, startled for a moment, and then it snarls and bounds towards me. I’m in the middle of praying to Shor, Akatosh and anyone else who might hear me, when it veers away at the last moment and starts pawing at a nearby mudcrab, leaving its flank completely exposed to me. Well, I don’t need a second invitation. I wade in with the old warhammer, DB gets a decent shot in that pierces its side and that’s one less big cat to trouble the turnips, as they say.

Then we have the ritual skinning and tooth-taking and I have to sit on my backside while DB runs around chasing butterflies for half an hour and picking the wings off them when she catches them. I tell you, that girl’s… disturbing.

Still, it’s nice round here at this time of year. The view’s inspiring and the air’s clean and sweet. When it’s not smelling of animal blood. I’ve no idea what we’ll be doing tomorrow, but I expect it’ll involve me running around after a horse because, despite the fact she’s got enough money to buy a house, DB can’t be bothered to buy me a ride. Still, no one said life would be a bed of rhododendrons, did they? Heh. I should write a song about that. Sound’s… catchy.

The Kalaz’an Conspiracy – Prologue (part 5)

Floating…

No direction. Aimless. No certainty.

No time.

A single attenuated moment.

Or.

A cocoon of identical instants, each one throbbing with the same warm humming, the same absence of difference, the same…

Bliss.

Contentment.

Now.

Content…

Now.

Con…

 Now.

A tugging. Urgent. Insistent. The eternal moment shatters into discreet instances of raw, unmediated time. The time is now. A demand is made. Action is required. Action is required now.

“Brother.”

The word floats in as if from a great distance. He turns his back on it. No words. Not ever again. This word is insistent, however.

“Brother. Not-brother.”

What do the words mean?

“Listen, brother.”

He listens. Despite himself, he listens. This is, after all, the first voice he has heard in… he doesn’t remember…

“I am coming, brother.”

The voice has gained timbre, register – a breathy hushed quivering.

“Soon…”

Hunger, desire, slow crooning warmth.

“Soon you will be free.”

*

“Forster?”

Gordon forced his voice to remain even, pushed back against the panic gathering in his gut.

“They… they have made contact…” Forster whispered, her eyes loose, unfocused. She wasn’t plugged in, Gordon noticed. This was raw psi-spill, mediated only by Forster’s language and the hermeneutic power of her imagination. “The child understands… On a very basic level… the child understands…”

“Sir! Incoming!”

Tearing his gaze away from his communications officer, Gordon stared at the holo-tank. The Kalaz’an ship had, at some point in the last few seconds, unfurled perhaps a dozen thin appendages from its aft bulk and now they stretched across the void towards them. The panic was at his chest now. Gordon could feel it reaching for his vocal cords. He swallowed. Like every other officer on the bridge, he knew what these things were and he knew what they meant.

“Gunnery stations,” he ordered, flipping the intercom. “Address those feeding tubes now!”

He was dismayed to recognise the high-pitched taint of alarm in his voice, but his officers either failed to notice or at least had the good grace not to acknowledge it.

A few tense moments passed during which all the bridge crew could do was watch the thin, organic appendages continue their painfully slow journey towards the Valiant.

But then a salvo of beams and plasma erupted from the Valiant’s batteries, obliterating the first few metres of the tubes entirely and, in the case of a few of the more developed tendrils, igniting the foul mix of acids that they contained, gutting their entire length. These tubes would be unmoored from the Kalaz’an ship in the next few minutes and new growths would replace them. The tubes that had already been deployed and survived the bombardment would regrow on their own.

Gordon licked his lips, glanced over at his gunnery officer. “Damage?”

“Four of the tubes destroyed completely, the remainder will grow back in approximately three minutes, sir.”

“Gunnery strength?”

“Recycling now, sir. 15% charge currently.”

“And in three minutes?”

Hunched at his station, Ensign Schofield paused for a second. “Approximately 38%, sir.”

Gordon nodded. That matched the quick calculations he’d made mentally. He turned to Parkinson at the helm.

“Take us three points to starboard and a further seven points yaw down. One-tenth iss[1]. Gunnery stations, concentrate fire on the enemy’s aft section. Tachyon burst only. On my mark.”

Schofield looked up sharply. “We’re about to deploy the maintenance drones, sir.”

Gordon scowled briefly. “How are we looking in the affected areas?”

“Hull integrity in 12-D is down to 51%. The observation blister on 13 has been space-sealed. It’ll be open in approximately four and a half minutes.”

His fingers stabbing at the controls set in the small touchscreen in front of him, Gordon called up the relevant schematics file and noted with satisfaction that evacuation of the area had been completed a full two minutes ago.

“Fine,” he said. “Complete the manoeuvre and then release the drones. We won’t be moving for a while anyway. It will take the Kalaz’an a while to plot alternative vectors.” He refrained from adding the phrase ‘I hope’ to his final statement.

Dismissing the schematics with a flick of his finger, he returned to the tactical display in the holo-tank, watching ShipMind plot the course he had just given to Schofield and feeling the gentle lurch as the ship began to move with almost comical serenity to its appointed position. By the time the Valiant had completed the manoeuvre, it would have moved closer to the Kalaz’an ship and achieved a position that would make it much more difficult for the Kalaz’an feeding tubes to reach them while still giving the batteries a clear shot at the alien vessel. For its part, the Kalaz’an ship was reduced to extremely limited manoeuvrability. As arcane and terrifying as their weapons and defences were, the strange squid-like creatures did not engage in the kind of space combat favoured by races like the Qissenti and The Crimson Shadow, preferring instead to anchor a large portion of the physical mass of their battleships in the non-Euclidean space that remained a maddening mystery to Earth Fleet scientists and from which the Kalaz’an derived much of their strange technology. Their phase shield technology rendered them virtually invulnerable. Or at least invulnerable enough for the time needed for their offensive weapons to do their work.

Receiving acknowledgements from both the firing deck and the helm, Gordon watched the holo-tank alertly, straining to see any movement from the Kalaz’an ship as the Valiant slowly changed position.

And, not for the first time, he wondered how his captain was faring eight decks below.

[1] Iss: in-system standard speed

The Kalaz’an Conspiracy – Prologue (part 4)

Like the rest of the ship, the Genetics Research Suite was bathed in red emergency lighting. Here too, archipelagos of dirty white chemical foam stood out from the dark flooring. Streaks of the stuff glistened on nearby workbenches and analysis stations.

Marris and her men scanned the area. Wherever the Kalaz’an missile had struck it wasn’t here. This was the GRS’ hub, a large atrium, in which the research team had met, shared data and findings, and monitored the remote experiments taking place in other parts of the suite. There was no sign of impact nor of any of the dozen personnel that had been stationed here.

Marris felt a twisting in her gut. The notion that the Kalaz’an had known not only exactly what they were looking for, but also exactly where it was, was beginning to become an ugly and disturbing certainty in her mind. Had she been set up? Were she and every crew member on this ship merely pawns in a wider game? She prayed not, but had to concede at least the possibility. Only she and the research team had known the full implications of what was hidden down here. Even Gordon and Garrison hadn’t been told everything.

Marris glanced across at the tall, stoop-shouldered science officer and felt a pang of envy. How pleasant to be ignorant…

“No sign of impact…” Garrison’s helmeted head swung her way, the flashlights embedded either side of the faceplate blinding her for a split second before the reactive plastiglass of her own helm darkened. “Hang on.”

But, Marris’ infofeed, displayed to one side of the helm’s visor, had already alerted her.

“Phased particles,” she snapped. “Over there. Just enough to form a trace.” There were five doors leading out of the atrium, including the one through which they’d just entered. The Kalaz’an missile had phased through the atrium wall just a few centimetres away from one of the security doors leading into the inner recesses of the suite. Marris was unsurprised to see that that particular door opened on a corridor that would eventually lead to a laboratory that did not officially exist. A laboratory which housed a project on which the hopes of an empire rested.

“Hendrickson, Gomez…” Marris nodded to two nearby security officers. “Through there.”

She, Garrison and the other four guardsmen watched as Hendrickson overrode the security code with his keywand and the heavy metal door began to slide upwards. The space behind the door was shrouded in shadow. There was no emergency lighting active in that part of the suite, no lighting of any kind.

Crouching low, Gomez took a step forward, her phase rifle parallel with the floor. Hendrickson was a couple of steps behind her, standing taller, so that his plasma gun had an unobstructed field of fire over her shoulder. Their helmet beams criss-crossed each other, dispersing the shadows, illuminating an empty corridor, its identification markings picked out in bland, official blue and red script.

Centimetre by centimetre they made their way down the corridor.

“Looks clear,” came Gomez’ voice. “Hold on. There’s something…”

Both the audio feed and the two security officers’ helmet lights cut out at the same time. The darkness returned with a vengeance. To Marris and the others, it appeared that the two officers had simply been swallowed by the shadows.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

“Gomez?” Marris said, taking a tentative step forward towards the shadowed entrance.

With a fizzing hiss, the audio feed snapped back on. And then the screaming started.

The Kalaz’an Conspiracy – Prologue part 3

The bridge of the Valiant was dominated by a holographic tank that bulged out of the wall directly in front of the Captain’s chair, currently occupied by Lieutenant-Commander Sam Gordon. Updated constantly by an unending stream of data from sensors on the hull and within the superstructure of the vessel, the tank was currently displaying the state of combat between the Valiant and the Kalaz’an ship. The Valiant was pummelling its enemy with a tachyon broadside from its starboard batteries, while the Kalaz’an battle cruiser hung in space silently absorbing the impacts with – in the holographic recreation at least if not in reality – pink, orange and, occasionally, red flares of light blossoming on its screens, a representation of the likelihood of phase shield overload. Gordon found the enemy ship’s calm inscrutability profoundly unsettling. This was not the first time he had served on a vessel engaged by a Kalaz’an ship, but being part of the thirty-strong liberation fleet in the Battle of Von Bek’s World or running anti-incursion patrols on the edge of Earth Fleet space were completely different propositions to what he was experiencing now.

Gordon shifted in the command seat, biting down on the urge to ask Schofield for a situation report; the situation was blindingly obvious to anyone willing to cast even a cursory glance at the holo-tank.

He turned to Forster. The comms officer’s shaven head gleamed in the blood-red lighting and shadows pooled in her sunken cheeks. Her eyes were open but unseeing. Her lips moved subtly – pursing, twisting, relaxing. Mantras, catechisms, psycho-mnemonics that he couldn’t hear and wouldn’t be able to understand in any case animated them.

“Forster…” Gordon stopped himself. Interrupting a comms officer in communion was not an inherently dangerous thing to do, but it still felt… sacrilegious. “Forster!” Sharper this time. More authoritative. More like Marris. “Any breakthrough?”

Forster’s eyes remained closed, but her voice was clear and steady. “We remain outside beacon range. I have asked ShipMind to broadcast distress signal eight-alpha as a broadband transmission. It will take some time for response and even longer for the arrival of in-system reinforcements. I will continue to attempt to establish an independent beacon. It will take time.”

Gordon’s scowl deepened. “How much time?”

“Unknown.” Her voice softened a little. “I would suggest you leave me to it, sir. I will inform you if breakthrough is made.”

Resisting the urge to swear, Gordon turned his attention back to the holo-display. He zoomed in on the area of the hull currently shielding deck 13. A patch of discoloured, mottled polyferrocrete was visible, perhaps six or seven metres across. It didn’t look like much, just laser or plasma damage. But the analysis that was being currently updated alongside the holographic image told him that it was slowly but surely weakening the integrity of the hull in that area of the ship.

His finger stabbed down at the intercom.

“Damage control. How are we doing with those drones?”

The voice of Delacourt, one of the engineers responsible for shipboard maintenance, drifted faintly from the small speaker in the command chair, as if it were being transmitted from some distant facility in-system rather than from a mere three decks below him. Gordon frowned.

“… first batch ready in… minutes…”

“Repeat. I say again, repeat.”

“… say again… ten… in… we’re… breaking…”

The speaker hissed and popped for a moment and then went dead.

Gordon’s frown deepened.

Behind him, Forster broke her connection with the Valiant’s ShipMind with an anguished, drawn-out sob. Gordon whirled round to stare at her.

“The child…” she gasped, her eyes struggling to focus on him, her scalp gleaming with perspiration. “The child… is… awake.”

The Kalaz’an Conspiracy – Prologue (cont)

The gangways of Deck Fourteen were ankle deep in fire retardant foam, the ship’s automatic emergency procedures having evidently activated in the moments following the Kalaz’an torpedo’s impact. The Valiant was not adequately prepared for phase-shift technology. None of the old Vanguard-class cruisers were. Shiftshields and harmonic scramblers were for the newer ships of the line in the Galactic Defence Fleet, those that had been designed and constructed years after that first and disastrous contact with the Kalaz’an at Tau Ceti.

As she sloshed her way through the dirty residue of chemical slush, Marris scowled. Even in the uncertain light cast by the recessed emergency beacons, it was clear that there was very little evidence of fire damage; the ship’s response to the foreign object lodged in its bowels had, as had been the case at every stage of this encounter with the Kalaz’an battle cruiser, been almost laughably ineffective.

“They’ve made a mess of the hydroponic floors.” Even muffled in her ear, Garrison’s voice exuded bitterness. “It’s going to take weeks to sort them out.”

Do you think we’re going to have weeks?

Marris refrained from expressing the thought. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder. Six security officers followed her in a loose formation, keeping close to the walls, plasma and phase rifles at the ready, the weak lighting turning their polished black armour the colour of old blood.

“Reconnaissance pattern five,” she said, her voice sounding hollow in the confines of her helmet. “Slow and methodical.”

She didn’t feel slow and methodical. As she watched the guardsmen move past her, it took an immense amount of effort not to sprint past them, towards The Incubation Suite, the lab within a lab, the heart of the ship. Its very raison d’etre.

A series of shudders shook the ship and she almost slipped on the slick flooring. This was not the ghostly unreal touch of an out of phase missile bypassing the Valiant’s shielding. This was something else.

“Report.” The guardsmen ahead of her had halted their advance towards the Genetics lab, their leader turning to look at her. She urged them forward with a sharp jerk of her head. And then promptly forgot about them as Gordon’s voice crackled in her helm.

“Not entirely sure, but it would seem that the Kalaz’an had launched some sort of bio-munition prior to the phase torpedo strike. They’re small. Perhaps two or three millimetres across. Our shields have been calibrated to keep all matter out, but a few of them must have passed through in the torpedo’s wake. Not impossible if the phase field was extended widely enough.” Gordon paused. “When they came into contact with our polyferrocrete hull, they started expanding, apparently. Quite dramatically.” She could hear chatter in the background. Schofield perhaps. Or van der Vyne. “Er… apparently, it’s also highly reactive.” She could hear Gordon swallow. “It’s a metal-eater. Outer hull integrity is already down to 73% in the affected areas. Decks 11 and 12, rear to mid sections. What we felt just now was ShipMind trying to shield the affected area from further attack. And failing.”

Marris absorbed the new information for a moment. She had fought the Kalaz’an before, but this was new. She felt a horrible, desperate uncertainty twist in her gut.

“All right,” she said finally. “Damage control to the affected hull. Use the ceramic-plated drones…”

“They’ll need to be repurposed. They’re currently set up for…”

“I know. Just make it happen. Quickly. In the meantime, keep the affected areas clear of personnel. Have we started firing?”

“Affirmative. Their shields are holding, but the tachyon cannon is disrupting their offensive capabilities. We’re still in this.”

Marris bit her lip. Whether they were ‘still in this’ or not depended on a number of things of which Gordon was not fully aware. She watched as, ahead of her, the first of the guardsmen ducked into the laboratory complex. She spoke as she briskly walked towards them, Garrison behind her.

“I want our laser and plasma batteries primed for instant salvo if and when their phase shields fail.”

“They’re out of effective plasma range and…”

“I don’t care at this point, Sam. Do it anyway.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Clicking off the intercom, she followed her guardsmen into the Genetics Lab.