FROM THE ASHES A FIRE SHALL BE WOKEN
25 Dec 2018Corrigendum
< Warning - Long Entry - PG13 violence >
The long shadow of a silhouetted figure flowed into a dark room. It fell on a disheveled beard and a face hastily covered by a grimy hand. Piercing, blue, actinic light revealed the ragged remains of a soot-smeared jumpsuit. The hand slowly moved aside, revealing a gaunt, dispirited countenance. A plume of breath fleetingly puffed into the air.
"Up, whelp!" The silhouette barked. "The Furnace needs fed."
In answer, a pair of bare, blackened feet swung over the edge of the concrete ledge that passed for a bed. With a grimace and another short-lived cloud of breath, the filthy figure stood and stretched a stiff spine.
As the confinee shambled through the doorway, the silhouette transformed into a baton-toting guard in an immaculate black uniform. The guard gave way, but not quickly enough. A sooty smear was left along the sleeve of one arm.
The soiled sleeve was avenged immediately. Electricity cracked from the baton as it was thrust into the ribs of the barefoot shambler. Socially unacceptable language harmonized with tooth-grating groans of agony.
"On your way, filth!" The ill-tempered guard ordered with another prod of the baton. He was obeyed.
Once proud son of the Empire, Cornelius Gendymion, was now known only as "whelp", "filth", "maggot", and "2460-CG-A1", among other less polite aliases. He plodded along the corridor, eyes lowered, until he found another set of sooty soles. He followed them unthinkingly. They were all going the same direction. The Furnace.
Perhaps the closest thing to a physical manifestation of Hell, the Furnace was a complex of considerable size. It was a matrix of dozens of smaller coal-stoked furnaces, tended unceasingly by hundreds of slaves. The fuel and the labor were cheap, and maximized profit on the tons of duralium produced there each day. Environmental cooling was inadequate at best, and allowed temperatures to soar beyond 50° centigrade in the center of the Furnace complex. It was not uncommon for laborers to faint, or even expire, with shovel in hand. The guards, who doubled as taskmasters, only ventured into the inhospitable workplace to strike "shirkers", rouse the unconscious, and drag away the dead. And here, on the fringe of inhabited space — anarchic, independent space — the death of a slave was merely the cost of doing business.
The climate outside the duralium production center was similarly inhospitable, yet in stark counterpoint to the interior. The facility was nestled in a valley plain between two glacial mountain ranges. The icy world had a rarefied, yet oxygen-rich atmosphere, with gravity perhaps a quarter the strength of Capitol. The lofty glacial mountains were comprised primarily of rock and ice at lower elevations, with dry ice at upper elevations. In daylight they could be seen through the barred windows of the outer corridors. The workers' barracks and isolation cells that branched off these corridors were inadequately insulated and intolerably chilled. The happy medium between Hell and Hell-frozen-over existed primarily in areas not frequented by the slaves.
A low rumble caused Cornelius to raise his gaze to the barred windows. He watched as a lumbering Type-7 hovered into place above an illuminated landing pad. It was dark, save for the glare of thrusters and floodlights. The pad sank, then swallowed and enclosed the ship.
Squinting, Cornelius strained to identify what at first appeared to be a misshapen shadow on the pad beyond the Type-7. He blinked, and the form gained dimension. From his slightly elevated view, he could discern a sleek outline, reminiscent of an ancient double-bitted battleaxe. He craned his neck to keep it in view as he plodded along past the window. He watched as it too began to sink into a subterranean hangar bay.
Cornelius' head snapped around with the yawp of the man in front of him. The man was singled out by a surly-looking guardsman with a motivating electrical prod. The desired effect was achieved, and the pace of the herd of men quickened as they funneled around a corner toward the Furnace.
After a few more twists and turns, the ambient temperature rose noticeably. The Furnace doors yawned wide to welcome the next shift.
The laborers fanned out through a loose formation of guards armed with stun-batons. They took turns jabbing their weapons into the sides of random slaves, and laughed at the ensuing reactions. Just as Cornelius passed another victim shrieked, followed by a peal of cruel laughter. Every instance of this manner of abuse was intended to cow the slaves, and beat any last vestiges of defiance from the drones.
Temperatures pushed past 40° centigrade as Cornelius made his way to his assigned post at Furnace 6B. It was being fed by two slaves taking shovels full of coal from a nearby conveyor. He approached the nearest of the two, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The man startled, and turned in Cornelius' direction.
Cornelius grasped the shovel's handle, and attempted to take it. The man's hands were claw-like, and did not yield. The man's eyes seemed focused on something well behind Cornelius. His mouth hung open slightly, with a passive expression in his face. It was a look shared by many in that company; a look Cornelius had seen in too many eyes during the Pegasi campaign, and... other settings.
Dried remains of bloody spittle trailed from the man's cracked, parched lips into his silver-black beard. Coal-mottled garments hung loosely from thin shoulders.
The dull noise of heavy footfalls that approached from behind raised the hair on the back of Cornelius' neck. He was shoved aside roughly, but instinctively clung to the shovel to break his fall. He caught himself with one knee. The shovel's original holder was pulled off balance. He regained stable footing only momentarily before he was struck across the back with the vicious blow of a baton. The claw-like hands loosed the shovel and the man fell to the ground.
"Get up, old rat! It's time for you to go lie in the stink-holes. Let this maggot take over," the savage taskmaster ordered. The "old rat" didn't stir from his place on the floor. This earned a disgusted snarl, and the guard raised the baton, crackling with electric current, for another blow.
Before the downward stroke could be made, the guard's larynx was crushed by the butt of a deftly-thrust shovel handle. The baton clattered to the floor as the guard sputtered and struggled for air. The assailant followed up instantly, pivoting to deliver a second blow, this time to the temple. The guard dropped in silence.
Cornelius blinked, still holding the extended shovel handle. He looked around. All movement in the area ceased, save the dancing shadows born of licking flames. Slaves around him stared first at the fallen guardsman, then at Cornelius, then at the baton-toting guardsmen rushing to the scene of the disturbance.
"You there! Stay where you are! Do not move!"
Cornelius had no intention of taking another order from these thugs. He dropped his makeshift weapon in favor of the stun-baton at his feet. He instinctively dropped to a practiced ready stance. Adrenaline surged, sharpening his senses. He knew his form would not be as refined as it had been in years past. Poor rest, malnourishment, exercise regimen founded on bending, lifting and twisting...
The guards surrounded him and circled just out of baton range. They spat obscenities and threats, promising to end him by various cruel means.
And then, the first blow fell. Then another, and another.
Three guardsmen fell, struck from behind by slaves with a renewed fire in their eyes. The remaining guards, recognizing their new peril, broke ranks and attempted to force their way through the angry mob. Each were forced down in their turn by fists, elbows, knees and shovels.
The commotion earned the attention of slaves on both the incoming and outgoing shifts. Cheers echoed through the Furnace and up the corridors. Then the stampede began. The klaxon wailed.
Thousands of feet charged the doors. Bewildered guards dropped their weapons and fled, only to be pulled down and trampled. The weak fell behind or fell to the ground and were trod upon by their fellows.
Cornelius was fortunate to have been somewhat near the doors when he assaulted the first guard. He was among the first that burst into the halls, and struggled to keep ahead of the tide of human bodies. He searched for the path that led down to the docking bays, eyes darting here and there. He recognized a familiar turn from a cargo offloading detail he was assigned to months ago, and he took it. He was followed closely by an unknown number of thundering feet.
They met no real resistance until they burst into the first hangar. Within, a Keelback was being loaded by a contingent of slaves, supervised by the ship's crew and a squad of local guards. These men all carried ranged weapons; both traditional firearms and energy-based guns. They opened fire immediately on the unruly crowd that poured into the bay. Their defense was short-lived, as they were swiftly overpowered by sheer numbers, and surrounded by slaves already in the hangar and the ship itself.
Some slaves remained in this bay, hopeful to make their escape on the vessel they had just claimed. Others, including Cornelius, pressed on to the next bay, which they found empty. Some slaves hesitated, looking back to the previous bay, weighing their options.
"There's a Type-7 in the next bay. There's more than enough room in there for everyone." Cornelius urged, pointing to the next door with the baton he still held. This convinced the doubters to press on.
As promised, the newly arrived Type-7 was settled in the next bay. With no security team present in this hangar bay, only the ship's crew stood between the slaves and their ticket out of this forsaken place. Cornelius surged forward with the crowd at first, intending to take the helm himself. His pace faltered as he reconsidered, and remembered the shape on the landing pad beyond the Type-7.
He broke from the rest of the crowd and headed for the far wall. No one followed. Cornelius turned when he reached the door to the next bay, and saw haggard, yet determined former slaves charging up the Lakon vessel's access ramp. He almost doubled back to join them, but the impulse vanished when he peered into the fourth hangar bay.
A jet-black shape loomed in front of him. He was transfixed for a moment, studying the vessel. It was a thing of beauty, completely foreign to the dirty, industrial setting. The engines gave away its Zorgon Peterson roots. Heat distortion was still visible in the air surrounding the ship's vents.
Cornelius cast his eyes about and determined he was indeed alone in the bay. He strode toward a set of lockers, hoping to find weapons or other useful gear. He found only personal paraphernalia in the first. The next locker was the same, filled with pictures and assorted junk. He was pleased to find a pilot's jumpsuit and a pair of boots in the third. Cornelius disrobed and shivered as he tried the suit on. The suit was a size or two too big, but the boots fit. In a smaller locker he found a standard-issue Remlok helmet. He stuffed his filthy clothing into one of the now empty lockers and rifled through the handful of lockers that remained, but found nothing more of use.
He secured the Remlok to his head, and turned his attention back to the strange ship. What was it doing here? It was no freighter. It's cockpit was relatively small. Sleek lines, oversized engines... a fighter? A racer? Zorgon Peterson was capable of both. He thought he saw hardpoint mount covers. It looked as though it could be heavily armed. A pleasurecraft wouldn't make sense in a place like this. It had to be an interceptor. Perhaps a hired gun? Space-muscle to keep the station secure from raiders?
He approached the ship cautiously, from the rear quarter, careful to avoid maneuvering thruster ports, just in case. His grip on the stun-baton tightened as Cornelius approached the undercarriage.
Just then, a door opposite from where he entered slid open. Through it ran two dozen guards in riot gear. Some carried rifles, others riot shields and sidearms. Cornelius crouched near a landing strut and attempted to conceal himself.
"Do you think they'll get the freighters airborne?" Cornelius heard one man shout as he ran.
"Not if I have anything to say about it!" Called another. "But even if they do, they won't make it past the Vipers. They'll force them down if they do manage to get airborne."
"Naa, that Mamba there will blow them out of the sky before the Vipers get close," remarked a third voice.
"Would they really authorize punching the tickets of every one of those slaves? That's gonna get expensive."
"You don't think these are rubber bullets, do you? Besides, it can't be helped. After a revolt like this, they'll have to kill or sell the whole lot, otherwise they'll try it over and over."
Another riot squad entered through the same door, followed closely by a figure dressed in the garb of a pilot. The suit was identical to the one Cornelius had appropriated. The pilot jogged toward the ship.
Cornelius' heart sank. He was about to lose his ride.
The pilot reached the top of the boarding ramp well before the guards passed through to the third hangar. By the time the hangar was clear, Cornelius could hear the thrum of systems warming up. The vessel was preparing to take off.
He heard the overhead doors open, pressure swiftly equalized with the outside atmosphere. Temperature dropped well below zero in moments. The landing pad began to rise.
Cornelius ran. His lungs struggled to fill with thin, frozen air, and he coughed. He engaged the Remlok oxygen supply and breathed more easily. He caught hold of the front landing gear, swung around, and charged up the stairs. Muscles ached, but he ignored them. To his surprise, the ship doors admitted him. Just to the left, he caught the yellow handle of a ladder, and scaled the rungs with the baton tucked under one arm. At the top he saw stars above him. He was in the cockpit, just behind and to the right of the pilot. Hands were on the controls. The pad had reached the surface.
Cornelius struck out with the baton, fracturing the outstretched arm grasping the control stick. A scream of pain and surprise was soon silenced by the end of an electrically charged baton shoved into the side of pilot's neck. The pilot's body tightened with spasms shooting through every limb. Cornelius maintained the pressure until the sputtering groans stopped.
He hauled the limp body from the pilot's chair and tossed it over the ledge, then slid down the ladder. The access door whooshed open. Cornelius nearly lost his balance as he heaved the body out the door. Even in the lower gravity, the effort of the task felt great. He retrieved the baton, and tossed it with hatred out the doorway. Cornelius stepped back, sealed the door and locked it, then took his place in the pilot's seat.
The controls felt strangely foreign after so long... He surveyed the displays, with special attention to ship system status and load-out. To his left, he saw the hull of the Type-7 rising from its berth. A little beyond, he saw the Keelback lift off awkwardly.
Comms crackled with an angry voice, "Attention slave scum! If you think you're getting off this rock alive, think again. Stay on the ground, go back to your barracks, or you'll be destroyed."
A pair of Vipers flew low, weapons deployed. They banked around the landing pads in front of the freighters in a show of force. The Keelback pilot clearly hesitated as he hovered a few tens of meters off the pad.
Training and years of muscle memory finally won out. Cornelius lifted off, applied thrust, stowed his landing gear, and deployed hardpoints without conscious effort. Bright, hot engine flux burned a luminous trail in front of the freighters as he bent his course to follow the Vipers. The Vipers paid him no heed, likely seeing him as an ally.
Cornelius considered his options as he maneuvered. The ship was fitted with a small fuel scoop. He was free.
"This is your last chance, worms! Put the ship down!"
Cornelius opened fire on the trailing Viper. Large beam lasers lanced out, stripping shields from the Viper at an alarming rate. The Viper pilots cursed demanding to know what the **** he thought he was doing. They broke in opposite directions. Cornelius ignored the lead Viper. He knew it would attempt to take up position behind him, but he judged the Mamba capable of taking the punishment while he finished his original target. Beam lasers lanced out again, and he watched them begin to burn holes in the Viper's armor, then he fired the multi-cannons. Hot slugs burrowed through the engine cowling of the main starboard thruster. It burst into flame and exploded, tearing away much of the ship's outer hull. It limped through the air, crippled.
The Mamba's rear shields illuminated as they took fire from the other Viper. Cornelius diverted power to shields and opened fire again. Searing rounds tore into the wounded Viper's unarmored interior bulkheads. The viper's thusters flamed out, and he watched as it spun out of control and slammed into a shallow hillside.
"You'll pay for that!" The remaining Viper swore.
A hail of weapons fire danced across the Mamba's shields. Cornelius slammed the throttle forward and pitched up. The ship's performance matched its appearance. It was swift. He had to be careful not to let the Viper fall too far behind. He banked and turned, then spotted the Furnace complex. The Keelback was moving off now, lumbering through the sky. The Type-7 had just lifted off.
The ship computer warned of multiple missile launches. The impetuous Viper pilot... Cornelius fired the ECM, and a halo of energy washed over the inbound warheads. The missile tracking systems were scrambled, and the missiles lost their target. A hail of bullets and laser fire struck the Mamba's shields again.
Cornelius broke left, rolled, throttled back, and watched the Viper attempt to follow but overshoot. Cornelius banked to the right, intersecting the Viper's course. He twisted again as the Viper attempted to adjust course, then opened fire on the Viper's rear. The Mamba's lasers bit through the Viper's defenses. Shields buckled and winked out. A hail of bullets followed the distressed vessel until it too succumbed to the same fate as its companion.
Cheers crackled over the local commlink. The Keelback and Type-7 made good their escape. Cornelius followed until they escaped the atmosphere, then called up the galaxy map and plotted a course.
"Just under ten jumps," he said to himself. The ship calculated that he would need to refill the fuel tanks at every other system. Before he reached more civilized space, he would need to modify the transponder...
* * *
"Mamba Reminiscor, you are not broadcasting a pilot ID. Identify yourself, or you will be fired upon."
Cornelius smiled. He had entered Loren's Legion controlled territory at last. "This is Mamba Reminiscor. I need a private audience with Ambassador Delaney. Please keep this low-key. I am transmitting clearance codes now."
A few moments passed before the patrol responded, "Your codes check out, and I've been ordered to escort you to the Ambassador. Who the devil are you?"
"To you, I'm just another man in a Remlok mask. I accept your escort"
(Continue Reading - A LIGHT FROM THE SHADOWS SHALL SPRING)