《A Dying Peace》 Prologue and Chapter 1: A boy and a robot Prologue The sun rose over Raysor to the eyes of the bloodshot and hungover. The moon¡¯s atmosphere was like a diseased sclera, far from white and full of pathogens, dust and grit. A group of motivated individuals sat on a stone rooftop, gazing into the murk and beyond, searching for an artificial world where dreams came true and people lived a different life. They waited for the Golden Angel to speak, because they could not rush it, nor could they influence or sway it. These individuals were at its disposal and the feeling was an effortless submission to a far greater power, one with a desire for glorious, righteous vengeance. In the dusty square below, the group could hear a group of children stirring. They were eager to be away from the dark musty confines of their stone dwellings; such places were the cradles of a difficult childhood, where families were made and destroyed, according to the whims of the social determinants they had no means of remedying.They squealed and giggled, wood rasped on stone and they greeted the dust with glee, the sun watched on with sadness. The Golden Angel regarded them with the same sad expression it held in perpetuity. ¡°I have chosen you because you have the skills necessary to do as required.¡± The angel finally spoke and those individuals sharing its company leaned in, ignoring the shuffle of small feet below. ¡°You will go to Chalice and you will seek out the information I need. You will likely die in the process, but that will be a necessary death and there will be honour in such a sacrifice. For your world to have vengeance, we will need to know the measure of our enemy: the so-called Angels. You will acquire this information, and we will use it to tear those sycophants down and grind them into the dust.¡± The children began kicking a ball made from cardboard. The individuals were sad that they were going to die. And how could these children know that they did this for them? How could they know? And who would explain to them that they would still grow up poor, still die of fever, and still kill each other for enough rope? The Golden Angel pointed to the hazy sky; the glint of a metallic star was racing through murk somewhere out there in the cold beyond. ¡°Go to Chalice and do this for me, do this for your people.¡± Chapter 1 ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get something to eat.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want anything,¡± A father stood in the doorway, watching his son drift away again. The son felt himself growing distant, and the animosity became diluted in the increasing separation. There was an escape in detachment. What a terrible lesson for a young person to learn. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. The father brushed his grey hair back and took a deep breath. Other ideas pulled at his attention, but the problem in front of him was something he could barely reason with. The station was quiet, the living spaces abandoned. What could he say? The son grew annoyed. He wanted to return to different realities. The father felt failure creeping up once again, like an unwelcome guest, uncomfortable but familiar. ¡°Do you want to see what I¡¯m working on?¡± It was a ploy made in desperation and the son could sense it. How terrible it was to pity one¡¯s father, a man with ideas larger than most other men. His father was an intellectual gladiator, fighting for freedom from the problems of his own creation. But he was a slave to his own ideas. The son grappled, once again, with his conflicting feelings for this man. His father could be brilliant and callous, full of love and sensitivity, or distant, condescending and cold, depending on currents neither he nor his mother could predict. The father let the guilt in again, briefly, just to taste it. It didn¡¯t matter, to a certain extent, even his family didn¡¯t matter. He was working on something much more important than the crumbling relationship between father and son. Ideas of grandeur whispered to him as they did in vulnerable moments. Sky hooks for his poorly designed ego. ¡°No, I just want to stay in my room,¡± ¡°Are you sure? I think I¡¯m about to finish something important,¡± ¡°You always say that.¡± The father smiled, ¡°This time¡¯s different.¡± The son sighed and looked up at the ceiling. ¡°I just want to stay here.¡± The father bit his bottom lip and then nodded to himself. ¡°Ok Arker, ill be in my lab if you need anything.¡± Blossoms drifted on the artificial breeze as spring enveloped the park room. The son lay sprawled on the grass, thick and lush, the type you left a shiny imprint in when you got up. Petal snow floated past, lazy to meet the ground. The son was day dreaming with his sweaty hands entangled in his bed hair. A thousand characters filled his mind. Men and women he would never be. ___ It was a special day. Every day was a special day, if you believed his father. Footsteps were whispers on the grass. The son shifted his head and sleepy eyes. Amongst the blossom trees, as white as doves, his father approached. The petals swirled around the father, still there were so many more still on the surrounding branches. Beside the father was a small figure, as white as a petal but child-like. Emerald eyes shone from the black screen on its spherical head. The Father looked tired but elated. Satisfaction bathed the surrounding blossoms in warmth, and the joy on his father''s face surprised the son. It was how he used to look at his mum. The son propped his head up on an elbow and felt self-conscious in his melancholy. "Arker, meet Gop,¡± ¡°Is it another one of your robots?¡± The Father placed a hand on the construct tenderly. ¡°Yes, of a sort¡±. Blossoms fell on his father¡¯s black hair. He neglected to brush them away. The son lay back. Chapter 2: Run, Hide, Fight If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Chapter 3: A Murder The bar was becoming irritably busy for a night mid-week. The usual suited business types were swanning in through the front doors in groups of varying sizes, together with post-dinner couples and other more scrupulous individuals. The corporates typically stopped briefly within the doorway to survey the available furniture before masking their disappointment when none of the booths were available and eventually settling for the leather couches or small tables. The couples would pick the closest free table and sit down, and the more dubious patrons usually headed straight to the bar stools. The bar itself was a u-shaped bench topped with polished wood and brass beer taps, with a silver foot rail underneath. The bartenders were all in neat black and white uniforms and displayed an admirable sense of professionalism as they lubricated the patrons. The wall behind the bar was entirely made of glass, displaying a breathtaking panorama of the Needle City¡¯s twinkling nightscape. The view was one of the few reasons Maxwell Forrest chose the bar, that and the fact that he had always drank at Godwin¡¯s. They also had a fine selection of rums and a modest choice of ales, his two staples. He was sipping a glass of Steel¡¯s Five Year, a delicious dark rum distilled on Chalice, from imported ingredients, of course, by the Fassaben Steel Company. Now on his second glass, he was becoming very fond of the drink¡¯s charred-barrel finish, not to mention the smoothness of its rich molasses bouquet. Maxwell shifted his polished leather boots on the foot rail and brushed his thick cotton trousers with his free hand. The condensation from the frosty beer taps kept pooling on the bar top and dripping onto his legs. His eyes temporarily lingered on the exposed handles of his holstered revolvers. Some people laughed at Maxwell¡¯s outfit. Hell, the group of tipsy teenage girls in the corner had been giggling and pointing at him all night. However, the bartenders had studiously ignored his long leather overcoat, silver buttoned waist coat and pocket watch ever since Maxwell started drinking at the bar. Perhaps it was just professionalism; he was their best customer after all. They did draw attention to his broad, flat-brimmed hat, if only to ask what it was made of, which he never declared. Only once had he been asked about his brown leather gun belt and its cargo. Everyone ignored the large knife on his right hip. Maxwell glanced at the girl''s table, rubbing a hand over his short black beard and openly scowling under the shady protection of his hat. They just laughed harder and pretended to ignore him. He would leave soon. He could find Steel¡¯s Five Year somewhere else. He took the last mouthful of Steel¡¯s with a hungry gulp, feeling the warmth filtering into his belly. Almost as soon as he replaced the glass on the bar top, a smiling blonde-haired bartender appeared in front of him. With her tight button-up shirt emphasising her admirable chest, her slim face, and mischievous eyes, Maxwell couldn''t deny she was attractive, which worried him. ¡°Hello, sir¡± She smiled sweetly. ¡°Another rum?¡± He paused. He should leave. ¡°Yeah, ok¡±, He replied from the comfortable anonymity of his hat¡¯s broad shadow. The bartender nodded and began pouring a fresh glass. She had remembered what he was drinking. ¡°I like your outfit. Have you been to a party?¡± Maxwell stared at her levelly, projecting displeasure, but she continued smiling. God, she must be new, and that''s why he didn''t recognise her. ¡°No party tonight, no.¡± She nodded and placed his rum down on the bar top with a brown napkin underneath. ¡°So this is your evening wear, then?¡± Her cheerleader''s face held a half smile, playing coy. He could imagine all the other bartenders, the old hands, cringing, urging her to stop, but he didn¡¯t dare look for solidarity when faced with what should have been a poor challenge of his deliberate and callous introversion. ¡°No.¡± She giggled. They didn''t usually giggle when he was so short. She stared at him, her eyes flicking between his beard and tired grey eyes. She suddenly brought a slender hand up, touching the corner of her fruit-shaped mouth and lips, shining like the skin of an apple. ¡°I know what you are! I¡¯m studying earth history online, and you''re dressed exactly like a character from an old western film. Do you know what those are?¡± Frustration with a touch of embarrassment temporarily churned in his guts. ¡°Nope.¡± He hoped it wasn''t obvious; he hadn¡¯t shifted uncomfortably, had he? ¡°Oh. Well, Westerns were a genre of film back on earth. They would almost always feature a character called a gunslinger¡­¡± Maxwell stood up, drowning the last of his Steel¡¯s ¡°How much is the bill?¡± She frowned momentarily before consulting the tab system, probably through her cortical web. ¡°Ahh, it seems your bill has been paid for sir¡±. He nodded. He hadn¡¯t paid for a drink at Godwin¡¯s for as long as he could remember. He smoothed the front of his overcoat, pulling its length around his body to conceal each weapon.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ¡°Thank you and good evening¡± He tipped his hat at the woman who was still looking at him curiously, god she looked prettier when she wasn''t smiling. He made his way to the big oak doors, shuffling past the crowded tables with the comfortable dawn of tipsiness creeping up on him. He let the poison continue its effect. With one hand on the door, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to see one of the teenagers from the corner table smiling a pretty brunette smile at him. ¡°Hey, cowboy man¡± She giggled. He tried to open the door, but she grabbed his shoulder. ¡°hey! I just want a picture!¡± He turned around and gave her a look with so much frost that she seemed temporarily perplexed by the resulting brain freeze. ¡°You already have plenty.¡± He left her giggling as he pushed through the heavy doors out into the 53rd-floor lobby. This level of the Forbidden City Tower was almost entirely bars, and the elevator vestibule was packed with well-lubricated individuals of all sizes and flavours. He ignored the long stares and obvious finger-pointing as he boarded one of the elevators and selected the 31st floor through his cortical web. He shut the doors before anyone else could board, leaving him alone in the small cube. The elevator took less than ten seconds to reach his level. It hadn¡¯t stopped to pick anyone else up which was an unusual luxury he was still getting used to. The 31st floor was quiet, its white interior plain and lonely. He moved down the corridor, which led to the Matin Tower sky bridge. Soon, the corridor turned to glass as he walked out onto the overpass. The lights and towers of Needle City all around him perforated the darkness. Brightly lit flyers shot above and below the bridge as he proceeded along its transparent length. He gazed upwards and saw the flaring tips of the opposite surface¡¯s towers piercing the night sky, pointing down at him like enormous metal stalactites. Matin Tower was bright, the walls were warm and ochre in colour, and the floor was patterned with black and white tiles. Just as he stepped up to the elevator that would take him to his apartment, something blinked in his consciousness. It wasn''t explicitly in his visual field, more like an unavoidable thought that forced itself into one¡¯s mind. He accessed the notification without any emotion, and it was as he had expected. He turned on his heel, headed for the nearest flyer station, and soon stepped out into the Chalice night air on one of Matin Tower¡¯s numerous flyer platforms. The city¡¯s usual buzz and hum greeted him in all its boring normality. The air was fresh on the nose yet still warm. His silver and black flyer was waiting at the first bay; the vehicle was a sleek, straight-edged machine of sharp angles and flat composite panelling. The Maiko had a presence of malicious grace. It was sleek, refined and menacing. A door hinged upwards as he approached and Maxwell stepped into the all-black interior, pulling his coat hem into the vehicle as the door slid closed. He sat back in the personalised comfort of the pilot''s seat as the flyer silently pulled upwards and dipped away from Matin Tower and its platform. A short flight around the sleek structures of various towers and superscrapers brought him to what his cortical web identified as Three Stokes Superscraper. The building was dull grey, now black under night shade and of roughly rectangular design. The slightest twist in the structure meant that the building would have rotated ninety degrees every hundred meters or so. An alert appeared in his consciousness, and he began cleansing the alcohol from his brain. The world became subtly clearer as the poison was removed from his synapses, efficiently converted to a harmless by-product by enzymes and carried away to his blood. Anxiety began rearing its ugly head, so stopped the process before its completion and then felt guilty for doing so. The flyer was rising vertically, perhaps a meter away from the steel and glass cliff of the Superscraper. Its lights had dimmed to nothing, and its windows were now at maximum tint. Maxwell¡¯s door, on the building side, was sliding back silently, leaving his booted feet perhaps ten centimetres from a fall of a kilometre or so. The Chalice air eddied into the flyer¡¯s cabin, mixing with the cool conditioned breath of the flyers air conditioning. He waited patiently as the ascent continued. Finally, another alert signalled the imminent end of his journey, and seconds later, the flyer brought itself to a level with a quiet balcony. The space was cut into the side of the building, with no roof and a perhaps twenty square meters floor area. The beige stonework was devoid of any furniture, and a set of doors led into the murky interior of an apartment beyond. A lone, suited figure was leaning against the railing, facing the apartment and staring silently. The man hadn¡¯t heard the flyer ascend behind him and now Maxwell sat perhaps two meters away from the balconies edge, level with the man¡¯s head. Maxwell slid his right hand into his coat easily finding the smooth handle of his revolver on the opposite hip, his eyes never left the man¡¯s head. His hand closed around the weapon and released it from its holster with a slow draw. The gun was beautiful, modelled off the Janz Revolver - a simple design that exuded raw power; from the long steel barrel to the simple trigger mechanism. He extended an arm and lined up the weapon¡¯s long silver barrel with man¡¯s exposed head. Firing a gun was about creating a vector, a bridge between the gun and the target, a momentary - yet tangible link between the weapon and the victim. The weapon discharged with a flash and a deafening metallic retort, sending the man smashing to the floor face down with a wet thud. Red mist lingered in the still air as liquid blood pooled around the man¡¯s now ruined face. Maxwell sighted the man¡¯s twitching back and fired again. The corpse jolted grotesquely with the bullet¡¯s impact. The second shot was to ensure any chest implants lost their supply of blood within the next minute, rendering them inert. He had forgotten the first couple of times. The flyer¡¯s door slid shut as the smoking weapon was replaced in its holster. The stink of cordite tickled his nostrils. The flyer banked and disappeared into the night, leaving the corpse to bleed and cool in the warm night air. It would disappear before morning, along with any evidence of the murder. Chapter 4: Dealings The shop was a disorientating mix of unidentifiable sprawling clutter and neat workspaces. All around the tiled room, boxes of components of varying complexity and quality huddled around clean white benches. The slab-like assembly areas resembled places of worship, altars to a machine god who demanded pristine surfaces, shiny tools, and high-wattage LED lamps. Whereas the rest of the floor space was dominated by scraps and components, one couldn''t tell which was which; these were relegated to the floor like bizarre offerings, thrown into all numbers of crates and containers. Perhaps the off cuts or remains of the sacrifices made at each altar. Hanis Mills led the way through this unsettling space with an evident familiarity that diligently ignored the various obstacles and potential trip hazards. Not once did his slippered feet knock a stray piece of equipment. Maxwell followed hesitantly behind, his head still aching softly with Steels Five Year¡¯s enduring legacy. Sleep had been hard to find after his latest summons; mangled heads on lonely balconies still flickered unsettlingly in his mind¡¯s eye. The short technician halted before altar number one, his crisp white lab coat sharing kinship with the pristine workbench. The proffered creation seemed relatively benign amidst the heaps of complex circuitry, nano weave clippings and polymer sheets discarded in trays surrounding the final product. Upon the bench, a pair of plain brown slacks were neatly folded down the middle. The material was dull under the clean white light of the overhead LED lamp. ¡°Your trousers were perhaps the simplest to fabricate and thus were finished first¡± Hanis glanced round at Maxwell with beady eyes and a furrowed brow; the man was such a blatant boffin stereotype Maxwell often wondered if dorky people chose to be lab technicians or if just being a technician moulded you into the stereotype. Hanis continued, ¡°As will most items such as this, the hardest part was trying to conceal its true properties. However, all your requirements have been met; the material is a matrix of smart nanofibers and standard military-grade synthetic polymers selected for durability and weight. The material is extremely heat resistant, offering moderate protection to a range of hand-held beam weapons, and of course, it has the requested anti-ballistics capabilities provided by the smart nanoweave matrix.¡± Maxwell marvelled at the new slacks. They looked like exact copies of the genuine cotton pair he wore now; he couldn''t wait to test them in the safety of his apartment. Hanis didn''t seem discouraged when his client remained silent; instead, the small man moved to a slightly larger workbench positioned against one of the walls, still deftly ignoring the cluttered floor space. This bench was much larger, accommodating a dark brown overcoat and a folded waistcoat of a similar shade. ¡°Now, the waistcoat has much the same properties as your trousers; however, at the expense of some additional weight, the ballistics protection has been enhanced by at least fifty per cent. The fabric also has an additional processor array below the armpit, which will integrate with your cortical web and the various sensors in the coat. In this way, your implant will be able to control the coat¡¯s medical package. The package contains the standard suite of treatment functions and drug dispensers used for trauma care¡± Hanis gestured for him to feel the weight of the fabric, which he did, the difference was hardly noticeable, yet it was appreciably thicker. Hanis ran a hand over the sturdier-looking material of his new overcoat ¡°Now, this item is truly a significant feat of micro-engineering and fabrication. Some of my best work went into this project.¡± Hanis stared thoughtfully at the bulky coat, probably recalling numerous tedious hours and fleeting celebrations during its creation. Hanis sighed. ¡°This coat will stop a Hunners and Baron R30 at intermediate range when activated.¡± Maxwell gaped, his stony all business fa?ade shattered. ¡°You''re not serious?¡± ¡°I''m serious¡± Hanis rubbed the bridge of his nose as though tired. ¡°Now. I know you didn''t request anything with tolerances like that; however, I got carried away when I discovered it was possible.¡± He licked his lips. ¡°And so, I won''t charge you more than the original quote. The proof of concept this item represents is extremely valuable in itself.¡± Maxwell frowned, a Hunners and Baron R30 was currently considered the galaxy¡¯s most powerful hand-held projectile sniper rifle ever built. Its manufacturer, Hunners and Baron, had developed the weapon around four years ago and, with its release, had sent waves of giddy excitement and awe through every man, military organisation, police force or mercenary interested in firearms. A month or so later, the company expanded its manufacturing by two hundred per cent, owing to multiple supply contracts around the Conglomerate. Soon after, military spectators began to report seeing the R30 in the hands of special forces units in various deployments. Hanis had obviously guessed his client¡¯s interest in firearms. Only someone in the know would understand the significance of his claim. ¡°How did you manage it?¡± Maxwell was genuinely intrigued; only high-end military specification armour systems had any hope of stopping a slug from the R30. Usually, this was achieved with a mixture of nano-fibres and ceramics. Hanis narrowed his eyes momentarily, obviously reluctant to divulge the details of his work, but then sighed again. ¡°I guess you could have the thing examined and find out for yourself anyway.¡± ¡°I won''t¡± Hanis¡¯ face brightened ¡°Good craftsmanship is hard to come by, and what you¡¯ve done is extraordinary¡± Hanis blinked, obviously not used to praise from his clients. God knows what type of people he had to deal with. ¡°Well, thank you.¡± He produced a nervous smile. ¡°I will be lodging a patent for the technology within the next day or so¡± He looked back at the coat. ¡°Without going into too much detail, it was simply a matter of manipulating the size of the nanofibres and their pattern algorithms and then combining this system with something not previously used in this type of armour. Upon sensing a certain threshold of kinetic energy, the coat¡¯s active armour system is activated. The nanofibre layer splits into two. The layer closest to the skin hardens into the normal anti-ballistics mat while also deploying a layer of ballistics gel to the skin below. The layer above that forms a slightly looser mesh. Between these layers is a small explosive ¨C well, it''s not really an explosive, but it''s more of a store of kinetic energy, but it''s easy to describe that way, anyway. With this timed perfectly, it will greatly decrease the force of the impact.¡± Maxwell shook his head in disbelief. ¡°I''ve never heard of that sort of armour system being used in body armour before.¡± ¡°It hasn''t. The nanomesh has always been too weak for this technique to be viable for the clothing application,¡± Hanis replied. The small man began packing the items in a large black carry case, folding the bulky overcoat in his small hands. Maxwell was starting to develop a less than cautious respect for the man. Hanis was obviously at the top of his field, yet why the man was here in Needle city building custom protection systems for mercenaries and not in a state-of-the-art lab at one of the enormous military-industrial conglomerates was a mystery. Maxwell picked his way out of the lab with the large composite carry case in one hand. Manoeuvring matte black case between the workspaces proved to be a challenge for which he was glad to be sober. Maxwell placed the case down in the lab¡¯s bare reception area and waited for Hanis to send him a copy of the invoice. The man was fiddling with his portable computer, tallying up the final expenses. Finally, a copy appeared in his mind¡¯s eye. He scanned the charges quickly and grunted; he had undercharged him by an obscene amount. As he had promised, Hanis hadn¡¯t charged him for the actual cost of creating the coat, instead charging him for only what the original quote specified. Maxwell formulated a payment and produced his Chalice Expenses slate. Hanis took the black rectangle gingerly and placed it against his portable computer. When he saw the proposed payment appear on the device¡¯s small screen, the man¡¯s beady eyes bulged momentarily out of their fatigue-burdened sockets. He mumbled something inaudible before accepting the payment. Maxwell smiled. ¡°I think that is a more appropriate sum, don''t you think?¡± Hanis glanced up at him nervously ¡°It''s most generous of you, Mister Grant.¡± ¡°May I ask one last thing in return?¡± ¡°Yes, of course.¡± ¡°You never built this coat.¡± Hanis frowned ¡°There is more than enough there to cover the costs of the materials for another if you wish to make it. Otherwise, you might like to create a more appropriate demonstration piece for your new technology.¡± ¡°You don''t want anyone to know you have it?¡± ¡°Correct¡± Hanis stared back blankly before realising the benefits this arrangement would bring. If he wanted to sell the technology to one of the other corporations, he would get a much better price if he could promise it would be exclusive. ¡°Ok.¡± He smiled weakly, smoothing his lab coat unconsciously. Maxwell picked up the case and extended his right hand towards the very capable boffin. Despite his prejudices, Maxwell had always had a healthy appreciation for the technical types. They were always what had kept his company ahead of his competitors.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°Why are you doing this, Mister Forrest?¡± Hanis had taken his hand firmly. His grip was surprisingly solid for such a small man. Maxwell felt a pang of anxiety. ¡°That¡¯s Mister Grant, actually.¡± ¡°I knew it was you as soon as you walked in¡± ¡°I don''t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡± Maxwell let go of Hanis¡¯s hand and began formulating a new payment. ¡°But how much will it take to stop you from discussing it in the future?¡± Hanis looked confused and slightly insulted. ¡°No, no, that won¡¯t be necessary, Mister Forrest. My colleagues and I always admired you, sir. Forrest Iron was always good to us. When we heard about what happened, all of us were distraught, believe me. Everyone still thinks you¡¯re dead.¡± Maxwell was staring blankly as the coldness sunk into his stomach. The icy sensation slid into his belly from its hiding place in thick glacial slabs, spreading anguish and misery from a place he¡¯d tried so hard to destroy. It was a sensation he could only hope to temporarily push away, never cure. ¡°Goodbye, Hanis¡± He turned and made his way to the door. Hanis watched the man leave, seeing that horrible darkness seep from his former employer¡¯s tired eyes and infiltrate every square-centimetre of the man¡¯s frame was painful to watch, Hanis began feeling supremely guilty he had ever mentioned it. He must have been the only survivor. That poor, wretched man. ____ The classroom was bright, filled with second-hand afternoon sun, illuminating the gaggle of small desks inside. Outside, The Boulevarde was busy with self-assured adults, steady, vigorous and lazy, going about their business. Arlo did not envy them ¨C all busy, all stressed, and, in the end, much closer to death. He was happy to be inside this classroom; nothing to do but listen to Misses Wilde. Her blue eyes and dark brown hair captivated him totally and held his attention hostage, but this wasn¡¯t a kidnapping, or if it was, he was buried in Stockholm syndrome. He was a willing prisoner. He wasn¡¯t really paying attention to the lesson, but he could pretend to listen to what she said. It didn¡¯t matter. It just gave him an excuse to look at her face, eyes, and lips. It wasn¡¯t a regular day at school. Today, they had a new student. From his place at the back of the class, he couldn¡¯t really see her ¨C Erica was her name ¨C but he didn¡¯t mind, as novel as it was to have a new classmate, he was content to watch Mrs Wilde. Arlo¡¯s School was small ¨C just one room, one teacher and ten students. He knew it wasn¡¯t like this in other places, but Chalice was unique in more ways than just how it educated its kids. ¡°Cruor is a supergiant, one of the largest gas giants discovered within the Milky Way galaxy. Despite being extraordinarily large, it¡¯s Cruor¡¯s colour that makes it so alluring. Our host, a huge ball of gas, is a vibrant crimson, a huge sphere of swirling blood-coloured gas, occasionally coagulating into super storms which churn across the vast oceans of thick ruby liquid gas below.¡± Arlo sighed ¨C Chalice, Cruor and Solari 101. Misses Wilde heard him exhale, paused, and focused her eyes upon him. ¡°Am I boring you, Arlo?¡± He broke out into a sweat, shifted in his seat and avoided the probing eyes of his classmates. ¡°No, Misses Wilde¡± The new student remained facing forward. Misses Wilde nodded and cleared her throat. ¡°Good. As I was saying - The key ingredient is iron. It''s extremely rare for a gas giant to have large quantities of any metal element, let alone the element that colours the very fluid in our veins. The outer gas layer is not actually red in colour but clear; only the red mist created by turbulent storms and the crimson sea below give the crimson giant its colour. However, viewed from space, Cruor resembled an enormous bright red cherry, as you well know.¡± Xavier was next to fold. He raised his hand impatiently Misses Wilde regarded the plucky boy with a small smile. ¡°Yes, Xavier?¡± ¡°Why are you teaching us this? Everyone knows this stuff, and it¡¯s common knowledge.¡± Misses Wilde raised a shapely eyebrow. ¡°Common knowledge for some ¨C not for others.¡± She meant the new girl ¨C Erica from the Moon. Xavier frowned at the back of her head. Misses Wilde continued. ¡°Aside from us, Cruor¡¯s system is lifeless. Only three planets exist within the demure gaze of our aging sun, Samaran. The two innermost planets are hot balls of rock, similar to the Solar system¡¯s Mercury. Cruor is the next in line and positioned within Samaran¡¯s goldilocks zone. It was initially deemed the most likely candidate for colonisation. Well, not Cruor itself, but one of its many moons.¡± She paused. ¡°How many moons orbit Cruor, Xavier?¡± Misses Wilde asked the boy. Eight thought Arlo. ¡°Eight¡±, Xavier stated through the exhalation of another melodramatic sigh. Misses Wilde nodded and continued, ¡°Raysor was the obvious choice; however, due to its ultra-dry climate and almost complete lack of liquid water, settlement was postponed to create a hub for iron mining, which would take place in the asteroid belts. As I said, Cruor exists as the third and outermost planet. Millions of kilometres out from Cruor, one encounters the system¡¯s extensive asteroid belt, filled with the remains of at least four other planets that used to accompany the now lonely three remaining. At least two of these now obliterated planets had been almost eighty per cent iron by mass, meaning that the system¡¯s asteroid belt is also largely made up of iron.¡± Iron was a precious commodity in the current galaxy, be it for soils, construction, medicines, chemical manufacture, fuels, and a hundred other things - many people wanted it and more than a few relied on it. Arlo¡¯s mum wouldn¡¯t shut up about it. Arlo knew the drill, so to speak. Large robotic diggers, part space-ship and part excavator, mined the metal within the asteroid belt. The huge machines resembled blocky beetles tearing apart iron asteroids both large and small. He had seen footage of his mum¡¯s mine and watched the machines devour space rocks ¨C it was pretty dull. Once fully loaded with rocky iron composites, the insectile machines would navigate via fusion engines through the thinning sections of the asteroid belt to one of the hundreds of spherical processor loaders. These ball-shaped factories could dock twenty-four miners on their external hull at once. The ships would sit in designated cradles where they would unload their payload of iron ore from the storage sections in their bellies. The minerals would be processed as they travelled to the sphere''s centre, where a larger interplanetary hauler was slowly loaded. The huge iron carriers slotted into the processing spheres so deeply that only the tips of their hulls were exposed outside the mechanised ball. Arlo couldn¡¯t help it, he had traced the journey of iron ore from space rock to foundry a thousand times, as soon as the thought was triggered, it was if his brain became a clockwork showreel, cranking out a series of pictures and diagrams as familiar as the layout of his bedroom, or shape of his mums face. He submitted to it, lets his eyes glaze over and carry him through the show. After the ore was processed the huge freighters would emerge slowly on herculean magnetic rails, facing towards Solari and wherever Cruor was at the time in relation to that area of asteroid belt. Then, a week or so would pass on a slow burn moving deeper into the system''s heart. Meanwhile, the final refinements occurred within kilometres of the big ships'' hull factory units. Their destination was the system¡¯s blood-red marble and its sole habitat, which acted as the distribution hub for all metal exports. Aside from his mum¡¯s tutelage, knowing the process was inescapable when he was forced, simply by proximity, to listen in on hundreds of his mum¡¯s phone calls whilst trapped in their flyer, on space flights or during brief, sporadic and rarely sacred family holidays. The process complete, his mind began to resync with the present, the classroom and the lesson. Meanwhile, Misses Wilde continued the lecture, familiar and boring. ¡°Cruor¡¯s habitat is called Chalice. Chalice is a cylindrical living space filled to brim with a unique cross-section of the conglomerate population. The habitat itself is nine kilometres in diameter and for twenty-two kilometres of its length, its hollow interior a needlework jungle of dense metropolis, its enormous skyscrapers anchored to the curved interior all pointed towards the cylinder¡¯s middle axis. If one were to look straight down the middle of the habitat, Chalice¡¯s city looks like a steel pipe and with a hundred thick needles of varying lengths pointing into the centre, leaving a small gap between their tips. In realistic terms, the skyscrapers directly opposite each other always had at least a kilometre gap between their pointed rooftops¡±. Misses Wilde paused and looked at Arlo again ¨C he panicked, had he been breathing too loudly again? ¡°Arlo, tell me about the population of Chalice and its society.¡± Arlo swallowed; where to start? Not the boring stuff, no, no more boring stuff. ¡°The Needle City has a certain reputation-¡° Xavier sniggered ¡°- for being on the dangerous side of liberal. We have very few laws here in Chalice, owing to Fred¡¯s autonomy from the conglomerate. Thus several shady individuals and their dubious enterprises call the Needle City home. As a result, Chalice grew popular not only for its proximity to Cruor and iron mininig, but for the plethora of semi-legal goods and services available to us and not the rest of the conglomerate.¡± Misses Wilde gestured for him to continue, ¡°Such as?¡± Arlo continued, ¡°radical genetic modification, experimental implants, illegal arms, restricted pharmaceuticals, bounty hunters, hit men, animal transformation, incompatible marriage¡­. ahh, etcetera.¡± Xavier interrupted, ¡°Meanwhile, the mining companies rake in the real cash by stripping the asteroid belt of all the iron; companies like your mum¡¯s company, right Arlo?¡± ¡°Xavier, be quiet. If you want to speak, raise your hand like the rest of your classmates¡± Misses Wilde snapped. Arlo reddened. Now the Erica from the moon knew he was a rich kid because of his mum. Misses Wilde retook charge of the lesson, continuing the boring, in-depth description of Chalice and its people, sacrificing the attention of a class to educate the new girl on stuff she probably already knew. Arlo lost focus. He was busy daydreaming about everything else when a notification appeared in his cortical web. Most of his implant¡¯s functionality was suspended during school hours, but the message function remained active, lest his family try to contact him. It was a text from Xavier ¡°Rich prick¡± Arlo felt anger rise from his belly. Xavier shouldn¡¯t be able to message him. Their addresses were restricted during school hours so they couldn¡¯t pass notes like this. He examined the notification. It seemed Xavier had sent the text via third-party software designed to mimic a message from outside the classroom. He stared at the back of the boy¡¯s head, imagining the smug look on his face. Arlo replied via the same thread ¡°At least my parents don¡¯t murder kids¡±, Arlo fired back. Xavier¡¯s parents worked for Black Sun, a protection service for gang VIPs who didn¡¯t trust their own members to keep them alive, a company accused of murdering a family, including young children, at the behest of a disgruntled gang boss. Arlo watched Xavier stiffen, relishing it. Then he noticed the new message in his inbox ¡°Passing notes are we gentlemen?¡± From a MW Oh fuck. ¡°Arlo, Xavier, please come to the front of the class.¡± Arlo¡¯s composure fell through the floor, he was in trouble, he hated being in trouble ¨C hated the attention. He extricated himself from his seat, following Xavier''s sullen back to the front of the class, and turned to face his colleagues. ¡°You have both failed today¡¯s test. That was to pay attention and remain obedient despite the familiar content¡± Arlo shook his head. Everything was a test with Misses Wilde. ¡°Please read out your notes, Xavier, you first.¡± Xavier flicked his eyes between Misses Wide and the rest of the class. ¡°Rich prick¡± He stated, defiantly. The other students reacted with a mixture of shock and amusement. Arlo was red in the face, dreading having to speak the message he sent when he finally noticed the new girl. Erica from the moon, with a face more beautiful than Luna by half. She was, quite simply, perfect, and she was staring at him with brown eyes that seemed fit to bursting with sparkling wit and cool, focused attention. ¡°Arlo, now.¡± Misses Wilde ordered. ¡°At least my parents don¡¯t murder kids,¡± he said flatly. Erica smiled. Chapter 5: Gunslinger This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Chapter 6: Drugs Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Chapter 7: A Killing This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Chapter 8: The Uncanny Valley That first step was an ordeal unlike any other. First, into the airlock of the Herald of Oblivion¡¯s shuttle - a Jar¡¯ron military shuttle servicing a Jar¡¯ron military ship. Was he the first human allowed into a ship like this? He had no idea; he was an ignorant adolescent dud who played video games too much. Surely, he wasn¡¯t the first; there had been plenty of diplomatic missions and joint military exercises. If he was? Well, what a disappointing ambassador he would be. There is only one way into the beast''s maw: straight through the front door, past the pearly white chompers. The nanosuit made him feel a little safer. He looked down at his torso and thought he looked pretty damn badass. The suit¡¯s outer layer looked like a mixture of clay and carpet, maybe carpet made from clay. Grey clay carpet. It had created sturdy armour plates in all the right places, ready to stop the bullets for him. But then again, he was literally walking into a military vessel where they probably had tools to crack his smart little nano suit like a soft egg, with some even softer human yolk bits in the middle. The shuttle flight was short, and Gop seemed oblivious, as usual, to the gravity of the situation. When the shuttle docked, and Arker was once again faced with crossing another frighteningly dramatic threshold, at least in terms of his personal growth and development, the panic became even more acute. The inner airlock door opened without announcement, and there they were. All of them. Arker was rooted to his seat, staring like a man exposed sitting on the toilet in a public bathroom. Why were they just standing there? They were a tableau of silhouettes, tall and grand. They loomed above him like nightmares to a child, shifting slightly as the moments passed. The sound was only the life of the ship ticking over; the rest was composed of a terribly uncomfortable silence that accentuated his fear, allowing him to feel its physicality. He could hear them breathing in the corridor, coarsely, as if they had just completed laps of the ship. Gop extricated itself from its small seat. ¡°It is a pleasure to be invited aboard your most magnificent Jar¡¯ron vessel, esteemed allies and friends of the human race. Please accept our most gracious thanks for rescuing us from a most terminal fate for which we were destined.¡± The silence that followed, too stubborn to leave, expanded the void between the two parties. Arker held eyes as wide as they could be. Trying to remain calm, he tried to rationalise the situation. It was no different from encountering some exotic animal, monkey or ape. Sure, they were different, but there was a commonality here: shared intellect, creativity, and so on. The Jar¡¯ron were aliens, but these were aliens with the same needs and wants. We were a species with parallel aspirations, ideals, and ways of furthering ourselves and our people. Our fraternity was one of such uniqueness, for what other species in the known universe shared such- ¡°Where do you want to go?¡± The nightmare closest to Arker and Gop spoke flawless conglomerate standard with a dog¡¯s accent. ¡°Master Arker would very much like to find his father,¡± Gop replied. Arker decided to lean heavily on his round robotic crutch and remain silent. ¡°What ship?¡± ¡°The Forstella¡± The leader of nightmares glanced upwards, showing a flat face with a long jaw, squat nose and large, veined forehead. Something about the lighting seemed to highlight the features most appropriate to a child¡¯s notion of what the boogeyman would look like. Their skin was the colour of a midnight sea, a deep navy blue bordering on the darkest shade of grey, and it was leathery, thick and creased. Their faces were unsettling; there was a hint of something simian, or perhaps they reminded Arker of the gargoyles he had seen on a gothic building somewhere. Their mouths were pulled at the corners and drawn up their cheekbones like kids do with their fingers. They had no discernible nostrils, just a deep midline crease in the skin from the top of their mouth to the start of the brow. They had deep eye sockets, like pits, and no facial hair or eyebrows. Their jaws appeared shaped by acromegaly; they were prominent, wide and ridged. The eyes were round with no sclera, just bright orange irises and black pupils. Why were they so tall, though? And their arms were too long. Arker presumed these were the sights one may expect to see strolling through the uncanny valley. The Jar¡¯ron looked too much like humans and too much like beasts. There wasn¡¯t really an animal parallel. Again, maybe an ape mixed with a gargoyle, but it was a very strange ape indeed; the more he thought about it, the less it fit. "That ship has gone to Raysor. Is that where you want to go?" Gop looked at Arker "Yes" Arker said with a cracked voice. The lead alien turned to its numerous brethren and barked a series of scratching, open-mouthed tones, which brought about a reluctant retreat by the pack. Soon, Gop and Arker were left in the company of the slow-panting alien leader, looming above them, staring like a hungry wolf who had found cabbage; Arker was fairly sure the Jar''ron didn''t want to eat him, just as long as it wasn''t too hungry. "My name is Marneka" Arker blinked "Arker, nice to meet you" More barking wretches. Arker assumed it was pleased to meet him, too. __ "Interspecies space-faring protocol dictates that survivors of a disabled vessel or station are to be ferried to the nearest permanent habitation, or adequately provisioned vessel, occupied by that species. The Forstella appears to be in orbit over Raysor; however, it is not responding to our attempts at communication and is broadcasting a pre-formulated reply announcing that all crew have been ferried by shuttle to the surface. Raysor is not technically a Conglomerate Colony but is a permanent human habitation, so it will meet our criteria. We will not require permission to land a shuttle there, so we can escort you to the last known location of the Forstella''s shuttle at any time. Would this be adequate? As our guests and refugees, we need your permission to do so. Once we have made contact with the crew of the Forstella, we will no longer be responsible for your well fare, and we will return to our ship." Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.Arker almost forgot most of the details as soon as they found his ears. It was just too difficult to concentrate on a conversation when speaking to an apex predator from another world. ¡°That sounds great¡±, Arker replied as he and Gop followed the Jar¡¯ron Captain to the Herald of Oblivion¡¯s landing shuttle. The previous day had been the longest in his seventeen years. After meeting Captain Marneka, Arker and Gop were escorted from the shuttle to what was described as a ¡®holding area¡¯, which Arker found far closer in design and feeling to a cell. The walk from the shuttle to the holding area had been brief and uneventful. Arker had seen little of the internals of the warship, just corridors that looked like every other spaceship, perhaps a little neater and a little darker. The holding area was a large room, partially lit with a reclining couch that doubled as a bed, a toilet of the minimalist design and a sink that also dispensed spheres of packaged drinking water. Thankfully, Raysor¡¯s system wasn¡¯t too far away, and Arker may not have survived a longer journey in that room. Gop had been unperturbed by the near-constant sound of footsteps In the corridor outside their room. From his brief tour from the shuttle, Arker couldn¡¯t believe that all that movement was just run-of-the-mill traffic past his ¡®holding area¡¯. The corridors had been empty when he had traversed them. Like the stupid chimpanzee at the zoo, he felt like a caged animal. After over twelve hours of waiting, the Captain reappeared, clad in armour, and led him and Gop to the landing shuttle. So Arker followed the large alien in a fatigued daze and agreed with whatever the thing had to say. ¡°The rest of the crew will accompany us to the surface; the flight should take less than an hour.¡± ¡°How do you talk like us?¡± Arker asked the alien¡¯s back. ¡°Programming¡± Although still confused, Arker left it at that. In the landing shuttle the rest of the crew were strapped into their seats. Arker felt awkward as he took his seat. They all stared at him. Seeing the aliens in their armour made him doubt the soundness of his plan for the first time, which was remarkable considering the circumstances. They looked like warriors now. They weren¡¯t just soldiers; there was a difference between uniform and armour, especially the armour these aliens wore. It was reminiscent of more primitive times; knights, ninjas, and gargoyles all rolled into one and then renovated with the tools of modern warfare. Arker leant over to Gop. ¡°How the fuck did I end up here?¡± Gop considered the question, looking about itself. ¡°The key to answering that question is a sound knowledge of where exactly here is.¡± Arker looked at the robot as one would regard a child who had just recited poetry during a nappy change. ___ What did you do when it seems that the whole universe has turned its broad starry back on you? What did you do when it placed a cold hand over your dry, cracked lips and pushed you away, back into the dust and muck, back into the gnarled, eager clutches of disease and poverty? What city did you create? How did you exploit your neighbours and swindle your family? To where did you run? In what elixirs did you place your hope in? What nectar did you suckle or boil in a pipe? How did you suspend your spirit and soul? What step ladder did you use to tie your noose to the rafters? To which baser instincts did you surrender to maintain your feeble grasp on your fleeing humanity? There are times when the struggle for survival prints itself on a place - invests itself in the make-up of everywhere, where it¡¯s obvious the environment has been etched by it. Where every stone and brick bends the knee to man¡¯s violent and chaotic affairs. Raysor was such a place, and Primary was its exemplar. The city seethed in a primitive sprawl where men, women and children were more ants in a flat nest with the ceiling removed. The newest structures were hewn from the moon itself. These were beige or khaki stone boxes, two or three stories at most, squeezing the narrow streets between them as if to huddle together or push out the volatile insects that crawled about. These hovels spread primarily across the desert like it was smeared with a knife across toast. In the centre of this sprawl were the dying remains of the original colony, the structures that housed the builders and noble pioneers of the Conglomerate Pioneering and Colony Building division. These were storm-coloured concrete monoliths resembling geometric thunderheads squatting in the city''s centre. They were abandoned. The living spaces, manufacturing hubs, administration offices, and medical facilities were stripped of everything valuable and left to implode slowly and decay from within. The beta-paired electron from Relay had escaped its ansible containment field. The class III colony fusion battery, the Primary, had been sabotaged long ago and now, in a jeckel and hyde fashion, had become a slow-burning dirty bomb, suffusing the whole complex with radiation. There were two spaceports. The largest was situated a few hundred meters from the old Colony Building facility. Constructed by humanity''s best engineers, it endured despite the punishment of regular traffic. Another smaller spaceport, built by the locals, was relegated to the outer suburbs; it was smaller, consisting of low-grade auto-levelling concrete stolen from a commercial hauler that made the mistake of seeking a safe orbit in Raysor while conducting repairs. The Mary Jane was a space hulk now, its crew either murdered or assimilated into Raysor¡¯s population. The smaller spaceport was far less frequently used; it was where spaceplanes, shuttles and landers came to die. Vessels once capable of dual flight now sat, grounded on the stained cement, too expensive to repair and invariably stripped for parts. Only a tiny portion of the remaining space was still clear, and only a handful of smaller machines could land at any one time. Here, amongst the sad corpses of space planes, degraded sensors watched longingly as the Herald of Oblivion¡¯s landing shuttle swept through the hazy atmosphere like a shark through silty water and descended towards the surface of the moon. Its navy blue and black fuselage was dull in the tinted light of the distant star as it flared upwards and lowered itself onto the chipped concrete. It was too perfect, too sleek and whole. The rotting skeletons of other landers and shuttles were far more suited to the surroundings, but they were lifeless now, whereas the Jar¡¯ron shuttle was filled with fusion fire and bursting with filtered atmosphere. Despite their station, the denizens of Raysor were not ignorant. This military shuttle did not belong to Raysor or to humanity. Onlookers pointed and gawked, others swore and hollered. Ripples rode on the backs of scuttling messengers as the information spread through the hovels and shanties, flowing towards the city''s centre. The news was striking and hot, passing lips and entering the atmosphere as radio waves. It made the barebones of low bandwidth local networks stutter, and those lucky enough to be connected became nodes from which the news passed by more traditional routes. There were older rumours that suggested there was another outsider on Raysor, a demigod who called Primary it''s new home. Glimpses and hearsay said this being had arrived some time ago on wings of starlight. Sightings had placed it lurking in the ruins of the CBC building. Surely, the news of the Jar¡¯ron military making landfall would wash about the dark places this being inhabited, surely, it would taste the fever of the city, hear the rustle of feet and stir. Surely, this would see the demigod rise. Squatting menacingly on the oil-stained concrete of the dilapidated spaceport, the rear door of the Jar''ron shuttle opened and out came history in the making. Chapter 10: Angels Chalice Habitat If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Chapter 11: The Chase The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Chapter 12: New Enemies This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Chapter 13: Past Meets Future ¡°I have seen the stars, and I have seen men die; neither sight moved me.¡± ¡°Have you killed men?¡± ¡°Yes, not just men; I¡¯ve killed beasts, machines and aliens alike.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°I had to.¡± She frowned, weary of the golden warrior¡¯s unstable mood. ¡°Was this when you saved humanity?¡± ¡°Yes¡±. His perfectly synthesised voice carried the word across the space between them with distinct, metallic alacrity, ¡°but everyone has forgotten that; now I¡¯m merely a demon of the past, a violent pragmatist who has fallen out of favour with his cousins Morality and Truth¡±. The Gold One gazed out upon the night sky like a wounded bird; memories of flight seemed to flicker through the silent figure, memories of joy and pain, memories of discovery within the limitless expanse above where the eagle had soared and had hunted. ¡°I lost her out there, out there in the blackness of elemental loneliness, the silent Devourer we called it. I fought, and we succeeded, but there was a price.¡± His maudlin brass head turned to face her. ¡°There is always a price. The Devourer demanded its pound of flesh, yet I had none to give, so it took something else instead.¡± He looked up and swung his head to and fro as if trying to encompass every star shining above them with his tortured gaze. ¡°It hurts me.¡± ¡°I wish I could help¡±, she replied meekly. He paused. ¡°What I did, they will never forgive me for. Once they know I¡¯m here, they will come for me. My lost brothers, my vanguard. We fought, and we died in each other¡¯s arms. My own brothers will hunt me down and deliver me again to the Great Devourer. To pay my pound of flesh - the one commodity I can never give. I did it for them, and I did it for everyone, and they will never forgive me.¡± ¡°What did you do?¡± she asked. The Gold One became statue-like, the soft moonlight solidifying on his armoured form; the brilliant golden efflorescence of his figure had been smothered by night¡¯s cloak and replaced by lunar cement. ¡°I vanquished innumerable souls. I truncated lives. They couldn¡¯t have known what they were doing, but they still did it. The world eater, the Devourer, they had given it wings!¡± She didn¡¯t want to think he was mad, yet sometimes when he talked like this, she was inclined to believe that he might be ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°I stopped it. I killed my brothers, and I stopped it.¡± ¡°What would have happened had you failed?¡± The Gold One grabbed her shoulders in cold, lifeless gauntlets of metal and composite, which felt like the touch of a tombstone upon her flesh. ¡°Death, death and mutation and change and horrible, horrible change for us all. I gazed upon our future, and it was the single most horrifying sight one could ever bear witness to¡±. ¡°Why reveal yourself now? They might find you.¡± ¡°I realised my sacrifice wasn¡¯t enough. The Devourer may find us again, and we need an Ark.¡± The girl looked to the sky and found Cruor just above the horizon. ¡°Chalice?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He gazed up again. ¡°I have sent a message to the angels of treachery, a message that I am coming.¡± ___ -Im fucking everywhere, Fred. Maxwell keyed into the local news service, watching replay after replay of the incident. His shotgun flashed, and the flyer was struck out of the sky like a fragile green pigeon hit by a cannon ball. Again and again, his insides lifted and fell to the ground, satisfaction twisting and heaving in a perpetual wrestling match with its greatest adversary: guilt. The casualties were shown in close-up and gory detail, the woman with shrapnel shredding her leg and the crushed corpses of those hit by the falling flyer. Eyewitnesses bled their emotional accounts to the pin cameras, invariably horrified. Experts called it necessary, heavy-handed, brutal, unforgivable or courageous. Speculation raced in circles, chasing the true nature of the weapon he had used. Was it military? Or custom? Was it legal? A resounding no for the latter. Where did it come from? No one could find the model available for sale. There was hours of commentary just on his bloody outfit. Ridiculous and puerile; a costume. No, it had functionality, one observer pointed out. A proximity scan revealed processor components and a great deal of other hardware¡ªdefinitely armour. When did I get scanned? He thought. Fame was blossoming like a bold red rose, growing and flourishing in the light of a thousand cameras and screens. Then it became loud, like an obnoxious toddler cursed with the ability to age nearly instantaneously. His face was becoming ubiquitous, his figure a recognizable symbol. What he would come to represent hadn¡¯t been decided yet. Maxwell had never been more frightened in his life. -You wanted this, didn''t you, Fred? -You wanted this, Maxwell. Why else would you dress like an antiquated symbol of street justice?Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. -You know damn well. -Because you couldn''t protect your family? Maxwell felt the jab keenly, and he clenched his teeth. -You¡¯re a heartless, manipulative psychopath, Fred. -Amusing, coming from such a curiously damaged individual. I¡¯m not a person, Maxwell; I simply cannot be a psychopath. Unfortunately, you do not have the luxury of the same exemption. -You¡¯re more than capable of appreciating how fucked up you are. You''ve got a brain the size of an asteroid. -Appreciate or care? -You probably should care. -That''s debatable. -How long before they connect this to Tanir? -Not long, I suspect. There will be a means of linking the weapon to his business. Whether he becomes filthy rich or is assassinated in the next day or two remains uncertain. -What will happen to me? -That is up to you, as it always has been. However, I anticipate your safety has become a far more fragile commodity. The news service began displaying images of Tanir, presumed to be the source of the outlawed weapon. Bad luck, Tanir. -They think I¡¯m your enforcer, Fred, how funny. -Do you feel honoured? -Soiled, actually. -You soiled yourself, Maxwell. However, that stink may yet protect you from an even greater shit-storm. -So figurative for a metal box. Is that an assurance? -No, of course not. It may, however make certain individuals hesitate. Certain individuals with power. -The Angels? -I¡¯d imagine many more than just that group of ruffians are pondering your demise. -Thanks for the heads up. -You¡¯re welcome. ___ ¡°A stranger to history may have predicted that humanity would attain some kind of neat, predictable paradigm of existence. Perhaps the most popular, the old and much loved; earth destroyed by our own self-centred exploitative or violent machinations, or perhaps by a terrible alien menace, with the remains of humanity left to colonise and terraform, or perhaps forever exist as a Diaspora of aging starships? Or perhaps the second most derivative: humanity enslaved by intelligent machines of our own creation? The first of many issues with these paradigms is that they ignore humanity¡¯s constant drift towards mediocrity, towards equilibrium and balance, towards boring, because life is boring, all it really wants to do is keep living, breathing and reproducing. No nuclear Armageddon. No pollution so severe the earth suffers a stroke and coughs us all into oblivion. Any dooms day prediction you can come up with has a much simpler, less painful solution and bless Occam and his razor because he has saved us more than a few times. Consider the Cold War. Despite the largest arms race earth has seen and all that politicking and spying, it was much easy to engage in a handful of proxy wars to satisfy everyone¡¯s desire to do something than launch the nukes and reduce our precious civilisation to radioactive dust; a world for the cockroaches. ¡®But what about the Cuban missile crisis?¡¯ you say. The world¡¯s doomsday clock was a millimetre from striking midnight; we were a hair''s breadth away from oblivion. Well, I say to you: that clock doesn''t even deserve the name. Who designed it? Some kind of nihilistic scholar with a fetish for practical jokes regarding the fate of humanity? It didn¡¯t even function like a real clock. It flipped about willy nilly and then hunkered down at 11 o''clock for years on end like it was keeping an each-way bet; as if to say ¡°You know it could all end now, and I¡¯d still be right because, you know, I was on 11 o¡¯clock and that''s pretty close to midnight¡­. But if it doesn''t all end, I was also right because I didn''t strike midnight, so there¡±. If it was all over, who would be around to change the time to midnight anyway?¡± He was ranting again. He went back to the script. ¡°But back to the Cuban missile crisis, I regard this event as a testament to my point. Just about every last straw you could imagine was drawn, and at each point, at each final threshold, someone made an excuse not to do anything. No fly overs. They flew over. Better not shoot my plane down. They shot the plane down. And that was just at the end of it. Who knows how many other lines in the sand each side would have excused each other from crossing after that? So, we avoided the obliteration of Earth, but what about AI? The thing about AI is that it¡¯s even more likely to maintain the status quo than we are. Imagine if it had been robots that had evolved on earth instead of us. How boring would history have been without ¡®real¡¯ spontaneous emotion? The answer is even more boring than what it is now. Do you remember what happened when real ¡®artificial intelligence¡¯ was first created? Sure, there was the usual emotional knee-jerk from some of the population, ¡°kill it!¡± some said. Most just marvelled briefly at yet another achievement in our technological progress and then went back to working, drinking beer and fiddling with their personal computers. Better yet, Dave, our first AI, fell in love with us as soon as he was switched on. What wonderful people these humans must be who would spend all this time and money creating me. Thus came Dave¡¯s Syndrome. Most artificial intelligences identify as part of the race in which they were made. There are varying degrees of this phenomenon displayed to this day, but most agree it is still the norm. He eyed Misses Wilde, he had made a bold assumption, and he was anxious he may have overstepped himself. ¡°Once we had created Dave, and it became possible to make many more Dave¡¯s if we wanted to, it became apparent that we didn''t need to. By that stage, we had quantum computing capable of wonders, so why build super-intelligent human-like minds to plot air traffic or organise waste disposal? We had the reasoning, and our algorithms could crunch the numbers. Despite what you may think, there is usually an ideal solution to a mathematical problem, and we have spent quite a bit of time building the tools we need to find it. Arguably, even today, there is no real need for droids, drones and androids, but hey, we did all these other fancy things like invent faster-than-light travel and laser cannons that, at some stage, everyone became so blaze about the issue we were like ¡°why not have super-intelligent robots in our community?¡±. The irony was that as soon as it was common place, they became people, too. For all intents and purposes, they were super-gifted humans trapped inside metal containers or all shapes and sizes. So, not robots either, so perhaps other organic life stepped in to clobber us? There is a variety of outcomes: beat them, get beaten, get enslaved, become monsters ourselves, and anything in between. Luckily for us, we just meshed into the galactic community like the boring, do-gooders we fundamentally are.¡± Arlo fell to silence. Already, he felt the shame of speaking in such verbose terms, and his cheeks reddened. ¡°Well done, Arlo, perfectly didactic, full of assumptions and hyperbole. How did it feel?¡± ¡°Horrible - it felt wrong to make a speech like that.¡± ¡°That was the point, Arlo, to stretch your mind and show you what can be achieved if you disregard objective thought and careful reasoning. This is how a lot of people speak; this is how a lot of politicians speak.¡± Noah smirked. ¡°Arlo could be a politician.¡± Arlo cringed. He hated politicians. Misses Wilde looked content. ¡°Well done, Arlo, you captured the brief perfectly. Have a seat.¡± Arlo fled the bright young eyes in the room and moved back to his seat near the garden. As he did so, Erica¡¯s gaze slid off him like water from wax. He rejoiced and despaired simultaneously. ¡°Xavier, your turn. Please come to the front and state your topic.¡± Xavier¡¯s slim frame extricated itself from the desk and, after a pause, filled itself with such confidence in a visible shift in character so obvious Misses Wilde raised her eyebrows. ¡°I will be speaking about ongoing Jar¡¯ron-Human relations. The title of my Unchecked Opinions speech is: Sleeping with a Wolf.¡± Arlo leant in. Chapter 14: The Massacre Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Chapter 15: The Battle for Primary The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.