Apparently, there's a direct link between the fact of caffeine ingestion by yours truly and the bouts of creativity he goes through. That's the running theory anyway. It doesn't even have to be a _lot_ of caffeine. Just a cup of nutra-sweet cappucino (feel free to cringe, I know I won't) does the trick. Even hours after ingestion.
Ahem, anyway, not much of an update for Miranda. Just a few scenes. I've polished up the bits beforehand, but I'll hold on posting all of them until I have another full segment ready.
-----
IV.
"We're reading incoming Ma'am, four, no, seven warheads! ETA time two-fifty!"
'Damn! They noticed their sudden lack in manpower, it looks like,' shot through Cartwright's mind. She'd hoped that the planet's shadow would be enough to hide that fact from them for another few minutes they could have used to close into a better range. Well, there was noting for it now.
"Run the interception pattern, and respond in kind."
Flares of defensive from the Ja-Jinku and the Whistler cut through the void, spearing towards the missiles coming at the Harpy. The few missiles that weren't destroyed by the flurry of mass-driver rounds and blaster cannon bolts coming from the two gun-vettes were taken care of by the Harpy's own laser clusters.
Then the firing solutions updated by the battle computers aboard the Harpy and its currently shorthanded escort kicked in, aligning weaponry and letting loose in a staggered firing pattern.
Even though the Harpy wasn't really a match for offensive weapons tonnage when it was compared to a single light cruiser, much less two, it _had_ been more than adequately tweaked. The original Farseeker had fielded a pair of ventral and dorsal turrets, each with dual heavy repeating blasters rigged to the defensive CPU, and two pairs of light capship class missile tubes, one fore and one aft. The Harpy had none of those. The piggyback rigs that allowed it to carry its 'passengers' into hyperspace had been installed at the cost of the turrets, and the missile tubes had been torn out because they were mostly too scrapped up to be of any use. That, and they'd been obsolete.
A burst of sensory whitewash erupted from a launcher on the side of the gun-vette carrier, followed by two similar flares from her escorts. It wasn't enough to blind, but it did manage to seriously confuse the two cruisers' fire control. Then, with a swiftness that suggested thrust which ought to have torn a conventional Farseeker apart from structural stress alone, the ship turned to face her assailants.
The synchronized fire control of the gun-vettes and their carrier chose a target for the opening salvo, and issued the firing command as soon as they entered optimal range.
***
"Multiple vector launch detected!"
"What?!" Heai started. His hands reflexively pulled up a double of the sensors officer's console readings. When Rodriguez's ships had been destroyed, the realization that this wasn't some relatively defenseless smuggler came to the fore. When their missile barrage, which should have taken down the ship in question, was intercepted it looked like they simply had an impressive defensive array setup.
Now that he saw the missile launch signatures, and drive ratiation tracks from the warheads themselves, the idea that there was in fact more than one enemy out there was hammered home. At least three, and if what he saw behind them, coming from the shadow of the Fourth planet, wasn't sensor ghost, four or more hostiles.
He winced as he saw the incoming barrage of warheads, though their signatures indicated mostly light with a few medium loadout ones.
"I want a defensive course put in, and a hyperspace vector out of here." he didn't like turning tail, but this wasn't war and he was no enlisted man anymore. There was a time to fight, and a time to cut your losses. And from what he'd seen, they'd had more than enough losses.
***
"Damn! They've got better defensive screening than I'd have thought." Erika Roachburn, captain of the gun-vette Ja-jinku, said as she followed the tactical plot laid out on the main screen of her ship's bridge.
Of the warheads used in space combat, capship class ones were perhaps the most complex ones. Often the size of a smallish fighter craft, their loadout varied from the standard tac-nuke warhead, through miniature fusion bombs and directed one-shot lasers, to multi-warhead carriers.
They weren't exactly cheap, but there was nothing that said 'salvo' quite as well as a barrage of them.
Then there were the lighter classes, carried by fighters, smaller combat ships, and even capital ships (as auxiliary weapons). Those were usually split into three groups, depending on burn time for the missile. Short, Medium and Long range. Obviously, LRMs had the longest burn time, but the smallest accel of the bunch. They also carried the biggest warheads, and the most expensive and largest models were almost on par with capship missiles. SRMs on the other hand, were short liver flares that could literally demolish anything at a small enough range. Not particularly powerful, but fast, agile and small enough to be packed in masses, some models could double as interceptor missiles. MRMs then, were the middle ground, and quite common in use here and there due to their versatility.
The GPU 'Firewight' missile was, what some capship captains termed, a poor man's laser warhead. Sensors and re-mass thrusters aside, the warhead itself was a cheap but surprisingly efficient hack of technologies. It took a clump of unstable reaction mass, contained it in a magnetic bubble, and sparked within that bubble a micro-fusion reaction the likes of which were employed in the common re-mass engine. The missile could be armed to several effects, one being a supercharged, short-ranged, one-shot plasmacaster weapon. Another had the magnetic bubble containing the plasma 'pop' releasing the contents, in the way a shaped charge would the blast, in a particular direction. This served better for warhead interception purposes, actually, and did more damage than the first mode in lieu of some effective range.
Gunrunner, not involved in this fire exchange, held eighty such missiles, in four batteries of twenty. Missile armament wasn't its forte though, with the two capship class Grasers and four light railcannons. It had the greatest overall firepower, and heaviest armor.
The Whistler had the same count of missiles, and employed lasers of various description otherwise. Dran wasn't much of a traditionalist, but he felt best with the laser and warhead setup. And besides, that gun-vette had its focus on sensory equipment, and fielded the arguably most efficient anti-warhead system of the three.
Ja-jinku, on the other hand, focused on warhead armaments. It held twice as many missiles, with half of those being LRMs. The remainder consisted of a few MRMs and a Flashfire SRM system scoured up from some less than legal supplier.
Harpy itself was relatively under-armed, with a fair defensive screen of laser clusters, and a mixed loadout of LRMs.
A few of the missiles hit home, ripping chunks of armoring and crippling a turret here and there, but no major damage was inflicted by the salvo.
***
"Something feels wrong here, don't you think Mac?" Stork frowned ... well, came as close as he could to a frown with the hand of the Blessed Lady pushing him into the padding of his seat. It wasn't that they had sub-standard inertia compensators ... it was that they were the best they could have squeezed in without losing either a few vital sensor packets or a missile battery.
Meaning that full thrust from the main drive always meant around point nine to one point one gravities trying to push people's chests in. Depending on the seating arrangement anyway.
Some of that was alleviated by the pressure suits worn in combat situations, helmets included. Still, a strong stomach was something of a job requirement.
"Disproportion, I s'pose." McKinnon replied, eyes glued to his own readouts. "From what I'm seein' here, these guys' equipment is a class or two better than what the tin cans carried. An' their defense systems are lookin' close to milspec, if'n when these readin's are right."
"Give me a time estimate to weapons range," the captain queried his helmsman.
"Ten to five, dependin’ on how it turns, sir." was the reply.
And it was looking like it wasn't turning out all too luckily. The velocity vectors on the cruiser icons flashed, and swept around in a slow arc indicating a full burn turn. A few mental approximations gave Stork a rough idea where they were heading.
"Give a course for the Lower Zenith, helm. They're going to try and bug out, it looks like."
"They've got too much speed on us, sir. We're not going to make a reasonable intercept."
Stork sighed, closing his eyes. The Harpy didn't have enough speed either, and its acceleration was below that of even the old military ships the Red Mist employed. And following them through hyper would be ... tricky ... to say the least.
"It's a hit! Roachburn got one, sir! We're reading a fifty percent accel drop from one of the cruisers, and what looks like plasma emissions from its aft. Looks like whatever they got tagged with voided a reaction chamber!"
***
----
There. The main plot-point convergence is still forthcoming however.
And here's a little something for Act V that I got the kick for after a cup of caff today. Wrote it up recently, so it may have rought spots. I figured, hell, I've already put down the death of my avvie with moderate accuracy. Might as well put down the ressurection. Tell me if it's too kitchy.
Oh, and I stole Death and Dream from Neil G., as if it wasn't obvious.
ahem ...
------------------------------------
A SHINING SPIRAL ACT V TALE
A walk on the dark side
brought to you by
Demonbane Ltd
Copyright 2004(c) by Griever
------------------------------------
I. 'So wake up sleepy one,
it's time to save your world'
- "Where the wild things are", Metallica
Meadows stretched far, nearly to the horizon. Only a small town sitting near the crest of a hill broke the almost idyllic picture. Of course, that was only the case until you looked over your shoulder at what stood _behind_ you.
The woods were of gnarled trees, branches twisting and turning, crooked, the bark blackened. The underbrush was equally convoluted, with bushes as tall as a man and their twigs bent and broken into a mockery of shape.
He was far from the only one there, though. A score of others stood, brandishing steel and spell, in a line 'fore the woodland. Waiting.
Their waiting was rewarded soon after, though the results were more than a bit unpleasant in the aftermath.
***
Darkness.
Inky black swam in his sight, and a dispassionate feeling was all that remained of emotion. It was hard to feel anything, when you couldn't _feel_ anything. And he could not feel, nor could he see or hear, or smell.
Occasionally, he'd dare to imagine something. Something other than the overwhelming nothingness around, but it would fall apart once his attention wavered in the slightest, returning him to the everlasting emptiness.
There was no anxiety though, and no fear. As there was no joy, no happiness.
Had he actually ever experienced them, or were they too only a dream. A flight of fantasy?
Was this existence in the first place? He was vaguely aware of something like a sense of being, a smallish ember of azure and aqua. Or was that only an illusion as well? And the colors? How could he know them without seeing, without actually remembering much about what this 'color' thing was in the first place?
It was all very confusing when he thought about it, but for some reason he felt that he dared not leave it be to melt into the black. That it was ... important. And so he remained, because he could do naught else.
And again, he dreamed.
The ember flickered.
***
Clack.
What was that? Came from ... below. Below? That's a direction isn't it? Below ... above ... the sides. A space? There was something about it he felt he ought to remember. But he really couldn't no matter how hard he tried ... well, he didn't try all that hard. It was all rather dispassionate an examination, more fancy in it than need or determination.
Clack.
Another one.
There was actually something else. His ... wait ... he was feeling something. Or wasn't he? Or was he merely imagining that he was feeling something?
His ... face ... yes, that was what it was called. He had a face ... a head, arms. He flexed his fingers in wonderment as memory of them came. What was that again? Legs, oh yes.
Again it came from below and his legs felt a sort of incessant ... well, his whole 'body?' was under a bit of it, but it was the heaviest on the bottom of the legs? The feet, they were called, he recalled. It was really quite unusual, a 'pressure' the word came to him out of the blue.
Blue?
That's a color too, right?
What's right? Left? Directions, but also, right as in ... correct? No, there was something else. 'Right'. 'Wrong'. Confusion became more evident as he felt the pressure shift slightly, tilting forward.
What were these things? He couldn't really tell. Just that right was right ... wrong was ... difficult. No. Both were difficult. He was getting a headache and decided to forego that line of inquiry until a further date.
A headache?
Oh yes, came from having a head in the first place. Felt weird, but oddly familiar. It was strange to have a rigidly defined self, he thought.
Clack.
What _was_ that? Wait.
Sound. What's sound? He felt something else happening, as his face opened in the front, and a feeling of being filled and cooled ... air? Air. He was breathing. Breath was something important, came from the recesses of his Self. Or had it been? Didn't matter. He was breathing, and there was air, and air carried sound, which was actually what his brain ... a complex biological ... organic ... not simple, multiple paths ... neurons ... electricity ...
A _sharp_, lancing pain came and crashed through the mind, shaking Self and having him lose a precarious balance. He toppled, flailed instinctively, and came down onto his knees.
Wonderful thing, head. It could hurt in so many numerous ways, and now the pain started there and inflamed every single inch ... measurement? ... of his body.
A drip, he could sense moisture coming ... nose, ears, eyes ... coppery tang.
Dimmed sight fell onto a smooth surface as he leaned on his outstretched arms, splatters of red falling abstractly to it.
His mind blanked for the moment, he took in the crimson droplets spread on the ... stone? ... marble? ... gray? ... surface. The pattern was random ... a painting of cherry blossoms that he'd seen once. It had been tacky, everybody thought so, but he'd bought it anyway ...
Bought?
Tacky?
Everybody? Other than Self? Opposite of I? No? Yes?
Another onslaught shook him, and he felt the moisture disappear as most of it did. Though it took time ... time?
What was time?
Short?
Long?
A measure of length ... duration? Life?
A count to death?
Concepts came again, this time only confusing, not much more.
Shaking, and his forehead soaked with what he knew was sweat, he looked up again, to where eight pillars of marble like the one he was kneeling on lanced into the sky. And gradually, as that sky darkened, the pillars did likewise.
Cracking, blackening, warping.
As did the world around them.
***
Scream!
Try to tear the world around you asunder with your voice! Desperately, so desperately strain to be heard in this dark void of non-existence.
Scream! Rage! Fear!
Emotions like a rich, deep burgundy to be savored.
Scream!
The is nothing, nothing here. You aren't here, and nobody else is.
The perfect nothingness, as it wraps its wings around you and holds you in a grip of eternity, everlasting, unchanging _lack_!
No feeling. No senses. No body. No eyes, no arms, no legs, no fingers.
No mouth.
And yet, he still tries to
s/
C.
~r
È
ä
,M
***
"Hey! Okay! Cool down, alright! You're fine! Fine!"
He feels something around him. Somebody nearby. Arms holding him. It's ... odd.
Strangely comforting.
His breath is heavy, hot. Lungs heave and his throat burns from the pain. There's something that seems bruised in there, he thinks. But it's better than ... he frowns, trying to remember why he'd screamed his throat coarse.
Better than ... better than ...
... better than the darkness.
His breath catches, eyes going wide. Then he winces as the sun shines in them, and turns away. The arms from around him are gone now. He looks up.
Odd. Hmm, using that word again and again, no?
But that's one of the first things that comes to his mind when his eyes fall on her.
Slim, pale alabaster skinned, black haired and eyed.
The eyes widen, and he sees a flicker of surprise in them as the world flickers.
***
Step.
Confused, he turns around, nearly fast enough to overbalance and fall. Not a good idea. The streets, cobbled as they are, are a mess of mud, dirt and half melted snow.
Voices come, from all around. A murmur of people going about their business.
He can tell it's a city, or town anyway, and the sky above indicates day. Cloudy, but day nonetheless.
But what in the world is he _doing_ there anyway?
His mind is going in circles as he tries to make heads out of whatever is happening, leaning against the alley's wall.
Frown.
Who?
That's a question. And where? It's utterly unfamiliar to him, this place.
Or ... no ... a few hesitant steps bring him out of the alley. Neon light decorating shopping windows, faint strands of irritating music here and there, a wet feel to the air that comes with the thaw.
From the people walking, his eyes single someone out. Why that figure, he can't really. Nothing really unusual, apart from the fact that the boy is reading as he walks along, nearly oblivious to the world.
A mix of images rushed at his eyes, pages turning, stories being told, people and events from a time long ... ago ... searing past the conscious mind to finally bring him ...
***
Clang!
It's a familiar sound, he knows, as he holds a hand against his aching head. Slowly, carefully, he stands up.
Another city, atop a fenced-in rooftop.
He sits up, leaning against what he can vaguely recognize is an air conditioning unit, and is ignored by the two other people there.
The familiarity grows as he watches, both figures somehow known to him but one infinitely more so. He looks into the man's face, vaguely recognizing the lines to be that of the boy from ... how long ago was that? Does it even matter?
His hand clutches something, an immaterial object, but he can almost feel the grooves in the wood, the comforting weight of the jo stick ...
"... oh shit, not again," his mouth forms the word before he can think about it, and another bout of vertigo throws him back, images assailing his mind and gluing pieces back where they used to belong.
He watches the march of years, the events unfolding, always from a perspective to the side of the main flow. Doesn't want to get too involved. Eyes flit past the veil of time, running along a crooked, cracked path of the man's life ...
... up to the point when he finally does get involved, a slip in the creek of events that subtly alters the stream ... and is gone ...
And knows why the face looked so damn familiar, and at the same time out of place.
The one you're used to seeing in the mirror always does.
***
The darkness ... and the shard ... again ...
It gives him a point of focus, a point of reference. He has eyes. He can see the shard. His fingers run across the surface, perfectly smooth, but returning pressure. It's cool to the touch.
Black around him, he doesn't really notice. He reaches, with his free hand, to his face. Touches it. Learns it again.
The shard pulses with light, an instant only but noticeable. Pupils contract.
Instinct moves him, as he jerks back his hand ... and an arc of azure follows it, from his hand's palm to the shard.
Panic.
Briefly, yes. But he realizes, he can feel the shard too ... it's still there, cool, pulsing with that odd force that draws him to it again ...
He frowns. Focuses.
Then he shudders for a moment and actually closes his eyes.
Fear comes almost at once, and nearly drives him back from the approach, but he somehow manages to stand fast and _feel_ ... the force to and from his hand, the beat of the crystal ...
The frown deepens.
Focus sharpens.
It's not real, he comes to the startled conclusion. He can feel it, but it isn't _there_.
Confusion.
He could ... but what of ... no. No. Hesitation is abandoned for a moment, as he realizes that whatever is happening he _has_ nothing to lose.
He plunges forward, first hand, then arm, shoulder, head, torso, finally legs ... all melting into the shard.
It feels like riding lightning, he gasps in elation, as the thrumming, incessant beat of pure, unabated _being_ courses into his Self. Eyes snap open, to see a blur of blues, shooting past and through him as his soul takes flight into the depths of the shard.
But ... that wasn't true ... was it?
Again, realization comes like a cold knife plunged into heated depths, sobering instantly and brining an altogether different kind of acceptance.
Because there never was a shard ... other than the one of memory he'd made within himself.
And with a final, shuddering breath, he feels the ice on his body filling him like an empty glass.
***
"That took less than I'd have expected," the woman says to her brother, as they stand before a flickering image of an empty void hanging in the air before them. He nods.
"Actually, I didn't figure it would take long at all. You did recognize that energy, didn't you?"
"Yes," the woman gives a small sneer like she's just eaten something rotten. "Who'd ever thought I'd help one of _them_."
"There's a first time for everything," Dream replies, shrugging his black clad shoulders.
Death shakes her head. "Well, looking at it this way, if he's out of _there_ he's likely to actually fall into my realm sooner or later, despite what he is."
"Perhaps. I wonder if he'll ever know what he gave up."
"True immortality, for a chance of life. Irony isn't as dead as she'd like us to think, no?" she actually smiles a bit at this. "Still, it would have taken longer for him to do the same without our intervention, you know."
"There's still a place for him there," Dream gives another shrug.
"Getting sentimental in your old age, big brother?"
"Hardly. And who are you to talk? With me it was just visions that helped him along. If you'd care to note, _I_ wasn't the one to actually give him a _hug_."
"Well, he's interesting to watch, anyway."
"Even if he is one of _them_?"
Death gives a sigh of exasperation, and fades into the background. The image of the void flickers out. After which Dream turns around and walks away.
***
---
Now I can actually get some studying done, since I've gotten this off my chest.
C'mon people, it feels lonely to be the only one to post a story fragment in a while. Gimme a little incentive here. Nothing quite spurrs you on as well as other people writing up stuff faster than you do.
Or a sugar/caffeine high. The former is healthier though, or so I figure.
--
-Griever
'deadlines hate me. the feeling, in this case, is entirely mutual.'
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