Ripples: Chapter 1
30 Dec 2018MMMMMalcolm
(OOC: This log is based off a recent Role Play by yours truly, Cmdr Damian Blaide as 'Lannius DeMarr', Cmdr Cernig-Dix as 'Agent One', and special guest Stryker Aune as 'Vexxus'. Enjoy)Tendrils of shadows crept across the dark floor like the legs of a slowly stalking spider. On the far wall, a desk of deep reds sat positioned in front of a large picture window. The brightly lit skyline of towering skyscrapers twinkled under the night sky littered with scudding clouds obscuring the winking stars that had come out to play. The mood in the office was not jovial. A dark figure in a cloak weaved from heavy fabrics, adorned with geometric shapes along the seems looked up. His, or maybe her face was obscured in a pitch of black rivaled only by black holes. It spoke, the voice synthesized to remove all traces of individuality, or identifying features.
“It would seem our gambit has not played out as we have predicted.”
A lone figure stood framed in the light of a doorway. And though it was closed, the frame itself glowed with a light of its own casting the feminine figure into a relief.
“That, it would seem.” she said.
“I don’t care much for your lip, Vexxus.”
The lone figure stood, silent and still like a living statue. “What do you wish of me?”
“Bring me the kneecaps of that Taurian louse. In a jar. We gave him everything he needed to secure victory, and yet nothing. No actions, No words. It’s time to collect.”
The sentinel gave a quick nod, turned on her heel and approached the door. She had expected it to open, yet it did not.
The shrouded figure at the desk offered a warning, “Need I remind you, that if you fail, you fail the Order. And your replacement will not be as forgiving as I.”
She stood there, stock still. A second had passed and the door opened. Slipping through she made her way to the private hangers.
****
The small office was silent. Only the occasional chirp from a comms unit signalling an arriving report of this or that everyday item broke the gloomy atmosphere. Lannius DeMarr sat on his chair in deep thought.
He was in trouble. Trouble he had made for himself and trouble that was very likely to get him killed in the very near future. He rubbed his forehead with the fingers of his right hand and sighed. It had all seemed so simple – play all the sides, cash in a 100 billion credit chip and slip out of view into comfortable retirement. Maybe even go back to Imperial space. With the kind of money he was due, clearing his name would have been no problem at all.
Rig the Alliance election in favor of one candidate. That was the request of his client. Simple enough, but he had gotten greedy, and with greed comes carelessness. Two candidates had bitten and suddenly there it was – the way out. Retirement. Play all the sides and take the spoils. And it had begun beautifully. Just help set up a few Alliance systems and rig the markets in favor or some key Assembly members and presto – votes, very influential ones. Only thing is, he hadn’t counted on a wild card showing up. Now it was all going to hell. First Awawar, and now Qamadi was falling to some independent mercenary company. And there was no end in sight. The Assembly votes were melting, both candidates were getting irritated and what’s worse, so was his initial client. They were not people one should play around with.
“It’s never simple, is it?” He asked the walls of his office with a weary chuckle.
“Boss?” Giorgy Kronassos – a member of his inner circle – asked, surprised at DeMarr’s sudden breaking of silence. Kronassos had been standing in the shadows, waiting for DeMarr to give him his marching orders.
DeMarr waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. Just musing to myself.”
“I see.” Kronassos cleared his throat. “Do we respond to their inquiries?” He asked nervously.
“We do not,” DeMarr said. “There’s nothing we can say that would please them. It’s time we take a more hands-on approach to see if we can’t salvage the situation to our benefit.” DeMarr rose to his feet, wincing as he placed his weight on his left leg. “Ready my Anaconda. I’ll be monitoring the situation from a mobile base for now. Prep the Fort for hibernation, clear databases, and transfer all necessary equipment and data to the 'Everseeing Eye'. And contact Agent One. I have a mission for him.”
****
“Break the guy out of jail and bring him to us,” they’d said. Sure, and would you like me to stuff a broom up my butt and sweep the space lanes as I go? That simple instruction had concealed the immensity of the undertaking, but he – Agent One – would be equal to it; again.
It had taken a couple of days to arrange the right conduit. One of the guards who had a daughter dying of a genetic condition because she couldn’t accept progenitor cell treatments and the guard’s whole family didn’t make nearly enough for the cybernetic replacements she would need. They’d met in a back alley on Cartwright Orbital in the Awawar system and items had changed hands. A small bag of untraceable low-pressure diamonds, a thermos flask of the kind one might put soup or coffee in, and a hypo-injector of a clear, amber fluid.
Now Agent One – he’d deliberately had his real name wiped from his memory long ago, in the deep-simulation sessions that Harris Security had used to turn him from a normal person into one of the galaxy’s best covert operations specialists – walked through the silent halls of the AWE’s high-security prison on the ice ball moon of Awawar 4b. Silent as death, these halls, because the nerve gas which had been introduced into the environmental unit had killed every single living inhabitant of the facility except one in a particularly gruesome way. Yes, the guard had died to save his daughter. How noble of him. Still, he’d done the other half of his job right too. Agent One could hear the target yelling from inside his cell.
“Hello, is anyone there? Answer me, someone!”
Agent One told the subject to step to the back of his cell and triggered the plasma cutter on the left arm of his combat armor. Within minutes, the heavy steel door sagged off its hinges and he used the suit’s augmented strength to lift it aside to reveal the blubbering, snot-covered and very frightened figure of Ron Lara, ex-leader of the deposed Uniting Qamadi faction. On the floor, the hypo that had contained the antidote to the nerve gas lay empty. Good, the guard had done well.
“You’re coming with me.” Agent One told him, his voice unrecognizable through the suit’s electronic voice-box. He’d neither see his rescuer nor hear his true voice at all. He’d be locked in his Chieftain’s hold in cryo-sleep the entire trip.
“Where are you taking me?” the former Progenitor asked quivering, wiping his nose and smearing snot all over the sleeve of his prison jumpsuit.
A whim took the Agent. He’d had those more and more often in the two years since he’d broken Harris’ obedience conditioning by ingesting copious amounts of psychedelics and striking out on his own.
“To where the worshipers of he who flew too close to the sun once congregated, to where a German explorer conquered the Northern Territory centuries ago on Old Earth,” He told his target.
Sometimes Agent One thought he’d become quite mad.
****
The fist came hard and fast, almost too fast. Malcolm slid to his right as he put his left hand between the fist and his face. Normally he would have countered with a left kick to the ribs since his weight was carrying him to his right but he wanted to try something different this time. He quickly brought his left elbow up and thrust it toward the attacker’s face, generating power from his right leg. He was rewarded with the sound of an orbital fracture as arm connected with face just below the right eye. Unrelenting, he balanced his shifting weight onto the ball of his left foot, spun backwards, and with his right elbow brought as much force as he could muster through the face of his stunned and damaged opponent. He heard a loud “CRACK...CRACK” as his victim stiffened and fell backwards to the floor.
“Reaction time improvement by point zero five percent. Counter attack probability of success, fifty four percent. Damage caused; broken right orbital bone, broken nasal septum, broken rear cranial bone. Attacker survival probability, fifteen percent. Defender survival probability, sixty percent…”
“SB One, end report,” he commanded. He was improving, but he wasn’t satisfied with how much. Any attack on his life needed to have a less than five percent chance of success. Fifteen percent was too high. A near fifty fifty chance on his attacks wasn’t great either. He was about to give the reset command when he heard heels clicking and hands clapping behind him.
“Not bad,” Kay said as she entered the gym.
“Not that good either,” Malcolm replied turning to face her. She wore a burgundy button down shirt and a matching pair of burgundy high heeled boots. Each disappeared below the tight waist and legs of black slim fit jeans. “Unless I put the droid in practice mode, it will adapt and have ten different counters ready to embarrass me with.” He stared as he watched her saunter to within a foot of the mat and place her hands on her hips.
“Place it in shutdown mode. You promised to spend the day with me, remember. Or are you telling me you would rather be with the doll?” He smiled and strode toward her, arms spread for a hug. Instead she placed her right index finger dead center of his sweaty chest. “Oh no you don’t. Hit the showers buddy.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but all he heard were alarm sirens. Kay pulled out her data-slate hidden somewhere in her outfit and hurriedly contacted Quentin Ramsey.
“What’s the matter?” she asked the Security Chief. “Someone forget their stove was on?”
“I wish that’s all it was,” he replied. Horror, anger, and frustration all transmitted through the holo-communication. “The penal section of Vandermeer has been breached. Everyone is dead.” Malcolm and Kay gasped in stereo but the faction leader quickly recovered.
“What do you mean everyone’s dead?”
“I mean everyone; guards, inmates, even the cleaning staff. They’re all dead! Except for one person; Ron Lara.”
Malcolm’s jaw and fists tightened as the revelation settled in his mind. Progenitor Ron Lara was the ex-leader of Uniting Qamadi. After Armed Wanderers Enterprises defeated them and assumed control of Awawar, he was arrested and left to rot in Vandermeer Hub’s prison. Now he’s not only escaped but left a pile of bodies in his wake.
“I’m downloading the security footage as we speak. I’ll begin analyzing it once you arrive.” Malcolm strode toward the exit; Kay falling in step beside him.
“Don’t wait,” he growled. “When we arrive, all I want to hear are the names and coordinates of the ones responsible.”