He's been left to die on an inhospitable world, surrounded by criminals and enemy forces. Enough is enough, and Walters doesn't care who knows it.
sábado, 5 de noviembre de 2011
SDIV - Chapter Eight Part 1
Flagship Unknown Location
Mechanical interlocking transit ways moved the drop pods along. They snaked their way to the allocated bay, set aside for them. Above each of the reserved slots a rune flashed brightly in a pale green light, until the pod docked. With an escape of steam and a resounding clunk, each individual pod bedded into its receiver, actuating relays which initiated the stasis rods waiting calmly for their charges. Thin sleeves of metal moved smoothly out, mating with the recessed plugs in the outer shell of the pod’s casing. Fluid hissed through the new couplings, filling an inner series of veins and maintaining the pod’s charges at an optimum level.
Seven of the eight pods acted as expected, the eighth waited a moment, gurgling in protest before it too showed green lights across the board. Inside the eighth pod Alana dreamed, her body jerking in feverish activity.
Red eyes glinted from the shadows near to the new arrivals. A wrinkled hand reached out and caressed Alana’s pod, soon it was followed by a hunched figure who withdrew a tool from inside its outer garment. Shrill, warbling sound broke into the monotone repetition of functioning equipment. One more pod moved into place, making the group nine, yet not registering as such on the main console. With a chuckle the tool was replaced and the figure climbed inside his own temporary tomb, calm in the knowledge that he would be accompanying the new arrivals on their next journey. That, or his alarms would be triggered and he would be shunted aside, to waken once more. He had done this many times before.
Kermadec Island Macaulay Disputed Zone
Viker yawned. He changed his mind like the wind, and had decided that it was necessary to stay a little longer. More people had flocked in from outlying regions and he ruthlessly culled them; the young and virile were segregated, mostly, and indoctrinated into his army of followers. Others were used as target practice or to satisfy the burgeoning excesses of chosen officers. Only Johns remained aloof, working hard to mould the new soldiery into an effective fighting force. At times, Viker wondered who he was doing it for, but his old mentor showed nothing but faith and belief in his Lord. More fool him.
Languidly, Viker rose from his makeshift throne, stretching his wings and scratching his crotch. He spat, ignoring where his spittle would land. No-one would raise a voice in protest. A line of stone-faced guards waited for him outside the room, falling in behind as he sauntered in search of some amusement.
“What now, Johns?” he asked.
“We have word of the Beast.”
For a moment, the only beast that Viker could think about was that which curled hidden within him, but then he remembered having coined the name for the possessed Construct.
“What of it?”
“It has halted. Spindle appears to be its destination.”
“Asmode’s Lair? How trite,” said Viker dismissively, “we received information on that location before our failed attempt to destroy it last time. What could it possibly want there?”
“I believe that we need to go and find out,” suggested Johns, awaiting his Lord’s displeasure.
“You go,” said Viker, “take some troops with you and find out what’s going on. I have work still to do here.”
“Yes, My Lord,” said Johns, “at once.”
With a wave of his hands, Viker quickly forgot about Johns; there were some new arrivals from the country and he was sure to find at least one buxom wench to satisfy him.