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| Thread: Short story contest - new entries | |
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Lady_Milena
Honorable
Known Hero
Grannie Sweet Cheeks
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posted July 04, 2006 01:33 AM |
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Short story contest - new entries
Yes, I'll Fight
Written by: Lady_Milena
You know, denial is a way of life. That's how people like me love reading Stephen King. We do because of the thrill of beating the horror in his novels, since we know it's somebody else's scary story, not ours. We constantly live in the fond delusion bad things do happen but they just can't happen to us. As a result, we simply don't know how to handle bad news, and should it ever happen, there is one way out: deny, deny, deny.
I first came up with it after my visit at the doctor's office.
"Please take a seat, Mrs. Franklin. There is something we need to discuss."
"I'm already late for work, so let's make it quick."
"I have the results from your annual checkup here. We found a little lump in your right breast."
"What?? I never palpated a thing!" See denial coming up the way already?
"It's small, as big as a chestnut, that's why. It's evident on your mammogram. Here, take a look." I did. Indeed he was pointing to one unnaturally pitch-black spot in the middle.
"What is it?" I asked.
"We do not know yet," my doctor said. "More tests are necessary. We also have to do a biopsy, in other words take a little piece of the tissue to study it. This should take place as soon as possible. Can you come in tomorrow?"
"Can't it wait? I'm working on a major case this week."
He shook his head. "You can wait but can you risk it? It might be lardaceous tissue or a cyst but it may as well be a tumor. We have to wait for the biopsy results to find out."
I made an appointment for the next day early in the morning before work. I did not even tell my husband - why should I? What's the point in making him worry in advance? I endured the procedure, left the hospital by 11 and went back to my office. In the next week I basked in the bliss of ignorance, deliberately shutting off the very idea something may be very wrong with me, as if refusing to let myself think of a problem could erase it with a magic wand.
It would not be. The news my doctor delivered came as a cold shower to me.
"Unfortunately my suspicions were confirmed," he sighed. "The lump is a tumor, a malignant tumor. I am so sorry."
My eyes bulged. My jaw dropped. Blood drained from my face. "Are you sure? Can't we repeat the biopsy? Nobody in my family had cancer."
"I'm afraid it's 100 per cent certain, Mrs Franklin. However, I have good news for you. We discovered it at a very early stage. If we operate it immediately, you stand very high chances of recovery."
So he was saying I had breast cancer. Breast cancer. They say it's an ailment, but in fact it sounds to me like capital punishment. Breast cancer. I was forcing myself to stay focused.
"I have to tell me husband," I whispered.
"You should. You will stay in the hospital only for a day or two but as soon as you're discharged you will have to undergo at least one course of chemotherapy. I wish I could tell you it's going to be easy but I cannot. Side effects of the treatment include hair loss, vomiting, fatigue, even temporary loss of menstruation. Your family has to be prepared for this."
I was so stunned I could not drive. I had to call a cab but instead of going back to work as I was supposed to, I went right home. I poured myself a double of bourbon, added no ice or water, and I sat down on the couch in the living room still trying to soak in the news. How could this happen to me? From all people in the world, why me? God, I'm so young, only 32, I have a little daughter and an entire life ahead of me. Why did it have to happen to me...
This really couldn't be. I would just close my eyes, take a deep breath, count slowly to ten, exhale and when I open them, everything will be back to the way that is was.
A clicking sound in front of me interrupted my reverie.
"You're drinking!" my husband gasped. I could not decide if this exclamation leant towards horror or surprise.
I had not heard him come back home for lunch. My eyes were wide open again but breast cancer wasn't gone. In one go I gulped down the remainder of the bourbon in the glass. I wasn't ready to tell him at all. "I was at the doctor's today," I said in a hoarse voice. "Have a lump in my breast. It's cancer." Then I broke down crying.
"Oh honey," he took my hand in his to give it a light squeeze. "I can't believe it." There, yet another one of us whose primary defense mechanism is denial.
I told him I had to quit my job at least temporary until chemotherapy is over with. I could not spare him any detail of the horrors coming to get me. And as I spoke, it came to my mind this might have been a plot by King with my miserable self as the protagonist.
"Oh, you can't have the lumpectomy on Monday, Chris. It's Jessica's first day at school this year."
I had completely forgotten in my shock but on the other hand the doctor had made it crystal clear I should not waste a day. I shared it with him. "Perhaps it's best if we don't tell her for now. Jessie's so easily hurt."
So, choosing the easy over the honest way, we didn't, as if in time our little girl wasn't going to notice my hair falling like tree leaves in November. When the day came I had to sedate myself to help Jessie get properly dressed, then kiss her cheek for good luck. It ached me to see her quietly pouting at me for not taking her to the school myself, yet this anguish was nothing compared to the anticipation of having my breast chopped, vivisected and sewn back like an ill-cut shirt. It took efforts to lock the empty house, cast a last glance at it before taking off to the hospital. Lying down all by myself on the operating table is probably among the hardest things I've ever done in my life. It's for the best, I whispered to myself when the anaesthetist came. Let's take the bugger out and be done with it.
It was a good line of thought but again it's nothing else but comforting illusions in the times of hardship. I wasn't there to see my daughter's first days in school, neither could I take pictures of her with the camera I had bought on the occasion. Then, when I got back home, it made no difference, as I kept on missing milestones in her life, staying in my bed, weak and nauseous. The greatest irony of all was that as a junior lawyer at our office, I hardly had the time to pay attention to my child; now confined to my room with nothing to do I saw her even less often. I yearned to see Jessie's face, hear her voice, touch her blond locks, yet how could I let my daughter see me in this poor state of mind and body? In the rare moments when I felt stronger and let my family stay with me, all I could see in my little girl's eyes was not delight but silent accusation of having abandoned her when she needed me the most.
So I kept to myself and in betweens the bouts of vomiting, I thought. There had to be some divine reason why this was happening to me. I was losing not only my hair and my job but the affection of my daughter too. What kind of shortcomings did I have to justify my plight? What wrong had I done to deserve this punishment? I was faithful to my husband, paid my taxes, even annually wrote checks to the hospice in town. What else did the Lord ask of me that I didn't give? I thought, I thought and I thought until my mind went black, until it became time for the next meal which invariably I wouldn't keep down.
Time passed and as my weekly chemotherapy sessions became monthly, my hopes were rekindled once again. I was looking forward to seeing my hair grow and hearing the confirmation that danger was gone and I could go back to life. Invigorated and impatient I could hardly wait for the CAT scan results. Even though he had to take a day off, Alexander volunteered to accompany me to the doctor's office so we could go out together and celebrate my victory over cancer.
When I saw my doctor's facial expression I thought he was a very tired man. He probably had hundreds of patients and so little time to spend for himself. My mind denied the possibility his obvious discomfort had anything to do with the folder he was holding in his hands. With a smile on my face, leaning on my husband, I waited for him to speak.
But when he did, I wish he hadn't. His words did not really reach my mind; it was his moving lips, the words he was mouthing that carried the message to my brain. There I was, in the supreme court of life and the judge was not only refusing me parole but hauling me back to the jail of my own body's decay. Lymph nodes affected... growing...only aternative… immediately... mastectomy... reached me before the world spun and I heard no more.
"Chrissy, Chrissy," I heard somebody calling me. Another splash of cold water on my face followed. "Chrissy, I'm here." A familiar voice - who was it? "Chrissy, stay with me..."
When I opened my eyes, I realized I was in my bedroom and the haggard face staring at me belonged to my husband. "I won't let them cut off my breast," I barely managed.
"I can't live without you, Chris. Jessie and I need you."
"I won't..." Then darkness again.
In the next couple of days Alexander and I argued all the time. He begged, bullied, pleaded with me but I was adamant. "How, how would you share your bed with a woman who has only one breast?" I cried.
"I'd rather be holding one breast instead of none!" he talked back. "Don't you understand that if you don't do it, you'll lose your life!"
"I don't have a life any more! I can't go to work or even get out for a walk without making a statement to friends or strangers, my whole appearance screaming, here I am, I have cancer! What kind of life is it to heave my heart up at the mere smell of the food I crave? I die every time I have to tell my little girl she can't get that pretty dress or a new doll or a puppy because mommy is sick and all the money daddy makes goes for mommy's medicine. Do you understand at all how degrading it is to a woman to be in such a helpless state? Mommy is sick of being sick!"
Alexander just gave me a long look before getting up. "Then you will tell Jessie her mother would rather die vain than fight to live." Then he walked out.
I jumped up after him only to see the door slamming under my nose. This really did it for me. All the rage, pain and fear burst out in one as I began screaming and breaking every fragile object in sight. When I was done, panting, in tears, with my hands bloody, all I could do was flop down on the floor and sob like a kid. Cancer wasn't corrupting my body only but my soul as well.
I have to admit that what chemo can't destroy, its offspring idleness does. Staying isolated at home doing nothing but sulking and thinking can seriously challenge anybody's sanity. Add only milk-and-water soaps on TV all afternoon and you'll understand why I was bored out of my mind, almost on the brink of losing touch with reality. To kill time I picked up a random Stephen King book from the dusty shelf in the room. Ever since my promotion three years ago I had no spare time to read. Thinking of dark clouds and silver linings, I retreated to my bed with Skeleton Crew in hands.
I quickly went through The Jaunt and Monkey, skipped The Raft before Survivor Type grabbed my attention. The short story is about a medic whose ambition and avarice dragged him down the nefarious path of a drug smuggler. His fortune betraying him, he found himself marooned in the middle of the Pacific ocean with a load of heroin but no food supplies. My interest peaked when weak from starving he missed a seagull (his planned dinner) and decided on a shocking strategy to survive. With the help of his surgical skills and his heroin as anesthesia, he cut off pieces of his flesh to devour. His self-cannibalism culminated in the last few lines where demented, completely amputated below his waist, he got ready consume his hand next.
I'm sure that the regular reader would have been more impressed with the sick idea of this horrendous practice; however, I realized I was holding my breath for a different reason. Not the cost of staying alive stupefied me but his unyielding will to survive. I even caught myself admiring his undying optimism, his ludicrous hope a ship would come to his rescue. I wonder if it ever crossed his mind what he'd do if he did eventually get out of the tiny isle, what kind of life would he lead without legs, ears, hands, with a drug addiction to top it all? In the story it didn't matter at all. The sole purpose of his existence came down to prolonging said existence. I suppose that's how avarice and ambition can turn from a personality flaw into an advantage.
I asked myself, if I was there, what would I do in his place? Would I eat my own flesh like him or decide to overdose maybe?
Then it came to my mind I was already in his place. He and I, we were the same thing. First I had denied that was happening to me, now I denied the certain fact that I'd die unless I operate. The poor wretch could probably use the very same words to describe his own situation. Unlike me though, miser though I was calling him, he didn't bend, he didn't break. Unlike me, he didn't have a family to lose. He was fighting tooth and nail to survive, unlike me.
As of a sudden I felt very ashamed of myself.
A knock on the door made me jump. Wiping my tears, closing the book, I managed a feeble yes. Jessica tentatively showed herself at the door. I beckoned her to come in.
"Oh what do you have for me?" I asked.
She sat down at the edge of my bed. "I made it for you, Mommy, because you like it."
I carefully lifted the end of the foil to take a look under. As I could already figure given the smell, it turned out to be an apple pie. A little burned on the top and raw on the bottom, it was obviously a product of the joint efforts of Jessie and my husband. I loved apple pie to death, at least I did before, and I couldn't think of a more moving way to bribe me.
"It looks great, Jessie, just great," I said sobbing as I opened my arms for a hug. She readily wrapped hers around me, the poor pie smashed between us in the process.
"I love you, Mommy."
"I love you, Jessie, I love you too."
"Don't go, Mommy, don't leave me alone with Daddy. He'll burn every pie we make."
"I won't leave you. I swear I won't."
When she finally went to do her homework for school, my cheeks were already dry. I was done crying. All this time since I was diagnosed with cancer, I had been pondering over my life's worth. I only saw a ruined career and faded beauty while the answer had always been before me but I had to smell apple pie to realize it.
A distant memory surfaced and I recalled a book I had read for a project while still in college. In On Death and Dying one Elsabeth Kubler-Ross presents her "five stages of receiving catastrophic news": denial, bargaining, anger, despair, then acceptance. I definitely fit the description and I had already went through my periods of smashing, weeping, then praying all was a nightmare. Olivia Newton John, Kylie Minogue, even Anastacia were diagnosed with breast cancer, I already knew. It could happen to them, so it could happen to me too. These women had realized that despite their riches and fame they could get sick. It was time for me to do the same. It was time to turn my back on denial.
Without thinking I broke off a piece of the pie to stuff in my mouth, then another one, until I was as full as a drum. I knew it was a matter of minutes before I had to make my run to the bathroom - I didn't care. It was raw, it was burned, it was the best apple I have ever had.
I'm not saying it's easy to live with a bandage instead of a right breast. I never really meant to be the survivor type but then again, I never meant to be marooned in the midst of the swamp called cancer. Even radical mastectomy doesn't mean the war is over. What gives me strength is that I'm not alone in this heroic battle of life and death. My body may be broken but armed with my willpower to live, shielded by the love of my family, I'm strong, and yes. I'll fight.
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God does not need exist to save us...
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Lady_Milena
Honorable
Known Hero
Grannie Sweet Cheeks
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posted August 03, 2006 01:10 AM |
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Arcana
Written by: Evan (non-member)
Golden tendrils crawled up along the soft blue bed sheets, reaching for the exposed throat like the most seasoned of killers. The sparkling glow cast from the creeping fingers reflected against the pillow and wall, illuminating the room in a soft, warm presence. While it was still rather chilly that early in the morning, the light shining down from between the blinds gave the bedroom a rather comforting atmosphere. That was the main idea with the weather suppression system that city was designed with. Every day looked like it was a nice day out, regardless of what the actual weather was.
As the morning rays slid across Damien's face, the muscles around his eyes tensed as his irises detected increased light. Though his eyes were closed, his body was already in the process of bringing up from deep sleep to a state where he was functional enough to do work, and effectively, get paid. Bodily functions changed gears to accommodate his increased awareness, Damien stretched slowly and yawned, drawing in sensationally crisp air. The apartment was set to an abnormally high level of air conditioning to keep the entire facility in a near clean room state. By medical standards Damien's entire abode, including the bathroom and kitchen, were quite near acceptable to perform operations on.
He turned slowly, and the golden light from outside washed over his face, but provided very little warmth. He winced just a small amount, his facial musculature following suit of his iris' moments before at the reaction to light. The only thing that could have convinced him further that it was time to wake up would have been the pleasant but repetitive voice of his ex-wife.
"Good morning Professor Agalias. Your schedule route has been transmitted. Would you like to review it?"
There it was. It was definitely Monday morning. All the evidence was collected to prove such, and after a moments thought, it was law. Damien never bothered to change the voice signature on his automated messaging system because it hadn't really convinced him that it was his post-significant other. He also was aware that it wasn't her speaking to him, mainly because of her current status of Deceased. For one reason or another, hearing her every weekday didn't dredge up old memories, nor did he wallow in the fact that he hadn't had any kind of remotely intimate contact since Dana Agalias’ death well over a year prior. In truth, a great deal of these important things didn't seem to faze him at all. His colleagues, whom he calls friends, had dropped the topic months ago, writing it off as a very well masked denial.
"Transfer route to carrier, please. Start the primary engines, I'm taking a shower." he stated in a groggy tone. Damien had barely sat up, and his day of business had already trotted on ahead of him. He finally moved to his feet, as ambient lighting surged from the corners of the room, casting a faint blue glow. Pressure plating in the floor detected his weight and provided the proper lighting as he moved from his bedroom to the bathroom. Cold tile greeted his bare feet eagerly, setting off tiny pinpricks of sensation up along his ankles. He stepped into the shower and dragged his finger across the dial built into the wall, turning the power up to somewhere between clean and legally spotless.
The round panel above his head made a low droning sound, similar to that of an old electrical shaving razor, before it glowed bright white. Harmless particles of irradiated matter pelted his skin at hypersonic velocity, scouring off any remnant of dead skin, germs, or anything else remotely not part of his body. Stimulated by chemical reaction, his skin absorbed the microscopic material caused by harmless amounts of energy. Normally most people would use a second cleaner to remove the irradiated material, which would pull the dirt with it. Damien however used a different technique which he found more effective. He raised one hand, and drew a vague symbol in the air. Curiously, smoke trailed after his finger, retaining the symbolic shape he made. A simple but effective Arcane ritual performed, triangle, a circle, a few crudely shaped symbols, and then a circle around it. The smoke immediately ignited into a white flame, and passes through him from front to back and to the other side of the shower, dragging the offending particles with it. Perfectly, flawlessly, immaculately clean. He turned the radio on as he picked out his clothing.
"In the recent merger with ArcanaCorp and WallTrans, many questions were raised in the regard of WallTrans financial stability, as well as their credibility in light of the recent researching scandal. We spoke with several Arcana spokespersons to get more information on this..." The past week was abuzz with rumors and gossip regarding a merger between the largest technology manufacturing and research corporations; Arcana Corporation, and a smaller but lucrative company which serviced Arcanic Recycling devices and facilities. ArcanaCorp was the leading design system behind the original instatement of Arcane Technology. The thing that currently allowed modern cities to live, breath, and thrive.
Arcane Technology became viable less than a century ago. As electricity was becoming a more burdensome resource to rely on, and methods of acquiring, utilizing, and recycling electrical power became less and less efficient. On the brink of technological and social collapse, a group of researchers came forward with, at the time, an unconventional method of power. Arcane energy and power. Arcane energy is produced by all living things. Much like a light bulb generates light; a human being, a dog, a plant, generates a fairly substantial amount of Arcane power. Throughout history it has been a known fact that individuals were able to not only be aware of this energy source, but also utilize it. It wasn't until recently however that it was actually taken under scientific study, and in turn, understood in terms of reality and physics.
In alchemical ages, what is now known as Arcane energy was then viewed as the mystical Fifth Element. Revered as part of the soul or spirit, an untouchable, unknowable substance that could really only be understood and controlled by the most pious of individuals. Later in time, it became understood that through certain processes, that were coincidentally alchemical in design, matter could be broken apart, and the Arcane could be separated from it. Storage and manipulation however, was far beyond the abilities of the people of those times. Most often, it was simply dispersed back into the world and absorbed into everything around it. The Circle of Life was longstanding a crude analogy to this factor.
When it comes down to fact, Arcane power is generated by all living things, and it saturates most everything. Mostly undetectable by pre-modern science, and having very little active, noticeable effect on anything it inhabits, it was a focus of a great deal of research, and still is.
Damien dressed himself. A crisp white dress shirt, ironed and pressed to the point of appearing almost brittle, frozen. Eggshell colored pants, waisted with an identically toned belt, and cuffed at the bottom to show his black, almost obscenely polished shoes. Once garbed, he walked out into the kitchen as he fussed with his hair. In the end he knew it didn’t matter anyway, as his work suit would destroy any manner of styling anyway. But it was the process, the routine, that he enjoyed, or at least drew some kind of comfort from.
The kitchen was silent, as most Arcane powered devices operated with negligible audio output and ran on a constant stream of energy that required no combustion or mechanical movement. The tap-tap of his shoes on the faux tile floor echoed from one side of the room to the other. He retrieved a pair of nutrition bars from the refrigerator, each wrapped in brightly colored metallic wrapping, proclaiming with enthusiasm just how good he’ll feel after consuming one. Pocketed, he continued on towards the exit of his domain, grabbing both the keys to his vehicle, as well as his identification.
Damien paused just before opening the door, his hand resting on the activation panel. He drew in a slow breath and cleared his thoughts, and opened the door. Each day began with the same process of maintaining mental stability in the workplace. He declined to perform the mandatory exercises set forth by the company, finding them both frivolous and futile. Stating that he believed he was able to perform his duty without the extra time spent on rather inane mental games and trials. He opened the door.
It was a silent morning, as it was just about every morning. He was up before the majority of people were. Besides the prospect of reduced traffic, Arcane energy could only be stored in a temporary container for a limited time. While that time was much more than he needed to complete his pickup route, customers were notified that it was mandatory to have containers available for pickup the night prior. Damien rounded the corner, where his vehicle was waiting.
Twenty eight feet tall, fifty long. The main cab having reinforced plated doors on both sides. The rear containment chamber, the bulk of the vehicle, white as well. Printed on both sides, clearly written was “ArcanaCorp Arcane Recycling Services”. On each side of the truck, in several easily seen locations were the universal sign for Arcane Biological Hazard. The bright orange symbol that represented that the vehicle should not only be avoided, but also given the right-of-way in every single situation. The dual synchronous industrial engine had been started and was ready before he even got inside the cab, and hummed happily awaiting a day of work. Damien climbed up the three ladder rungs and opened the cab and slid into his seat, and closed the door behind him.
In the vacuum sealed confines of the cab of his truck, Damien felt for a moment, almost at home. The soft fake leather seating let him sink back into a comfortable position. The recycled air was clean, brisk, almost refreshing. Each of the display monitors across the top of the cabin showed him pertinent information about his pickup route. His personal data assistant device sat on the seat next to him, blinking anxiously to let him know that he had unanswered messages. He ignored them, and studied the given route for the day. Each residential or commercial block was assigned a drop off container for everyone to put their Arcane Containment Units in. Once inserted into a drop off container, a containment unit could not be removed without a proper removal tool, which all personnel like Damien possessed.
He deactivated the locking mechanism on the vehicle, and felt the truck lift up a foot or two. The truck by default never actually touched the ground. Powered by a powerful ArcanaCorp engine and a direct thrust floatation system, it hovered just a scant few inches from the ground even while off. However while active, the recycling carrier cleared the ground by a good five feet, nearly enough for a person to walk under. Not that it was advisable by any sane person.
Hands set on the controls of the truck, he guided it out from its hangar attached to his apartment and rotated it out onto the street. No other cars around, nobody was awake yet. The sky was still a slightly faded golden color, giving the impression of morning sunlight. Sunlight however, never actually reached anyone. The entire city was covered by a photo-reflective shield, called the Canopy. The Canopy was what governed the city limits, both legally and physically. On the streets, it served as a checkpoint between the city and outside. Above, it acted as a protective barrier against the environmental dangers of the outside world. On any given day, the Canopy represented what time of day it was, as well as a vague representation of the weather outside. The only thing that actually pierced the Canopy, was the tower at the center of the city. The Citadel.
Damien had long learned not to look or stare at the Citadel. Not because it was wrong, but simply because it was a distraction to most people, and he had merely gotten over the feeling. The Citadel stood tall, taller than any other building. On most days, one couldn’t even see the top, where the Great Purity stood. But on particularly clean, clear days, a person could. The bottom of the Citadel, at ground level, was the reprocessing plant for spent, used Arcane containers. Dirty power. At the top, above the Canopy, was the ejection facility called the Great Purity where the used Arcane energy was fired back into the atmosphere to be soaked back up into the planet over time.
Despite being blissfully unaware of the Citadel most of the time, it was nearly impossible to forget it entirely. It’s magnitude gave a heavy feeling, like a giant towering magnet. Most of the residential buildings of the city were on the outer edges, farthest from the Citadel, both because it was visually unappealing to most people, as well as zoning ordinances prevented people from being near the industrial parts of the city. Oddly enough, Damien’s ex-wife found it appealing. She said that it was a bastion of their society, and a reminder of just how well they have discovered the nature of life and how to manage it.
Damien however was, more often than not, unaffected by the Citadel’s imposing features. His social worker whom he saw once every two weeks, as the company mandated, noted that he was one of the few employees who worked inside the Citadel and retained a fairly ‘happy’ demeanor. Perhaps it was the fact that he didn’t spend his entire day there, that attributed to this fact. It was notable, regardless.
As he approached the first drop off point, Damien disengaged the fueling system of the truck and let it settle down in front of a small shop amongst the many apartment complexes. He unlocked the rear chamber door and hopped out of the cabin, into the morning air. Around back, he swung open the door to the back of the truck. As he opened it, a rough floored ramp extended down and around, providing a semi-circle incline to allow easy access. Inside, a metal path ran down the center of the containment chamber. On either side were racks of empty containers ready to be filled with energy transferred from the temporary Arcane Containment Units. At the far end, located just behind the cabin, was numerous testing and diagnostic equipment to monitor the status of the containers that were installed.
Damien opened up a small box connected to the rear door and pulled out a suit. Crafted out of threaded metals and plastics, and rated higher on safety charts than simple biohazard suits, he started to get his work clothing on. While harmless to people installing the units for temporary storage, long term storage for more than a few hours required transferring the Arcane energy into a different storage container. Each long term storage container was built out of meticulously designed folded metals. Able to withstand a near atomic explosion from the inside, and keep all of the monitoring equipment installed on it intact, it was both expensive, and delicate. And heavy.
He hefted the first empty storage unit from the truck and carried it over to the drop off bin. Two slots were available. One for the temporary storage, which the customers kept and reused, one for the long term storage which remained onboard the truck except while transferring from the temporary unit. The unlocking mechanism was not a physical key, but more of a skill. To transfer the power from one container to another a service personnel had to ensure that the energy pressure, synchronization, and capacity limits were all the same. The only way to establish this information is by being able to tap into, and verify manually.
Installed on the drop off bin was a verification console. While possible for others to be able to activate it, it was rare that anyone who wasn’t an ArcanaCorp employee to possess any kind of inherent Arcane ability. For a long time it was a well known conspiracy that ArcanaCorp was conscripting anyone who had innate Arcane ability. These allegations were quickly crushed by ArcanaCorp’s spokespersons with a listing of all the people who had innate ability that weren’t employed. Conspiracy theorists have continued to poke and prod at the legality of the matter, though it was common knowledge that the ability was purely used for business purposes.
It was rare however, that a person would have the potential of Arcane ability to not only bypass the rather lengthy process needed to unlock the containment units, but also have further ability to perform other tasks. Such as performing a material free cleansing ritual in the morning and evening. Damien said just a scant few words to coax the containers to synchronize, summoning a circle of gleaming blue light around his hand for a moment. The focus of Arcane power around his hand linking with both the full and empty containers, and effectively himself as well. His eyes rolled up just a bit, briefly blind to the world around him, he completed the verification process in just a matter of seconds, and severed the arcane link. The temporary container dumped its contents into the reinforced container through a wiring connection, and they both locked shut.
Damien exhaled slowly. The process, while technically painless and extremely quick, was also somewhat disconcerting. Quite similar to losing consciousness, except being entirely aware of it the entire time. Once he had his bearings about him, he removed the long term storage from its slot in the drop off bin and return to his truck, sliding the container home into the first slot. Lights blinked to confirm that the dirty energy was both stable, and contained. He started to undo the suit he had put on moments before, and stuff it into another box on the far side of the truck’s chamber. Then he retracted the ramp, closed the rear door, and walked back over to the cabin of his vehicle. Climbing up to the door and then inside, he sat back and closed his eyes.
The first transfer on Monday mornings was always the worst. The amount of power regulated through the system, and effectively through him, was like a magic shock to his entire nervous system. The majority of the Arcane abilities he performed during the week were of much lower management, and thus were less volatile. Two to three days over the weekend while he didn’t work allowed his body to fall into a state of false security, only to be jolted back into line on Monday. While he could take an easier, slower path with a different Arcane ritual, it wasn’t as effective or efficient, and didn’t bring him nearly as close to understanding the method that the Arcane power worked. It is what separated him from employees and professionals. The shortcomings of his colleagues granted him the larger paycheck, as well as some personal satisfaction.
Damien engaged the engine again on his truck and started it towards the next drop off point. Each following drop off followed a similar process. Swapping containers and moving to the next. Each one became mindlessly easier until the end of the day, where he was almost unaware of performing his job flawlessly. Though his hands tingled in reaction to each completed process, it became something he could be distract himself with. His mind wandered with each one.
Arcane energy fueled the city, and everything in it. Produced by every living thing naturally, and soaked up by generators spread throughout each neighborhood. The energy was then pumped underground or through the wired skyline to the Citadel where it was refined and reprocessed for industrial use. From there, it was wired back out to the city, and into every home and building. The people who were able to exhibit Arcane ability also contributed, as every Arcane reaction performed produced a huge amount of power for the generators. For some time it was pressed for these individuals to perform these rituals as much as possible, however it was deemed unhealthy, and not necessary. The amount of power that a single living thing exudes in a single day is enough to power their entire block. That paired with every plant, animal, and the amount of power stored in dead biological material allowed any city to be entirely power independent. Dead things produced no additional power, but still contained a fair amount that could be broken down and used. Every apple flavored nutrition bar, every bit of dispensed trash, every dead body.
There was a downside to the immense source of energy, though. Arcane energy, in a non-natural, refined form that was used for industrial and technological use, was highly dangerous. Toxic to any living thing if directly exposed. Contact for even a few seconds to an open Arcane source could lead to signs of immune system degradation and failure similar to acute radiation poisoning. Further exposure of any kind was documented as medical oddities, as victims of Arcane Poisoning showed increased and uncontrollable Arcane ability, shortly before losing consciousness, or succumbing to death. There have been accounts of people being able to see or hear with astounding accuracy, despite the fact that their physical body was deteriorating on a cellular scale. All of these accounts, however well documented, are all kept on confidential files for medical or experimental reference.
Damien, despite not being of any medical profession, was privy to this information. Firstly, because he was one of the main operators of the recycling facility. Secondly, because Arcane Poisoning was the cause of his wife’s unexpected demise. Family members are allowed to have access to medical and scientific documentation in the event of an accident, as long as they sign the paperwork promising not to allow the information to extend beyond their personal knowledge. This was also part of the consent form for every ArcanaCorp employee as well. Damien was already well familiar with the process of Arcane Poisoning, and he never actually saw the documentation himself. He knew however, of his wife’s death, because she had informed him shortly before she lost consciousness. Yet another peculiarity in the aftermath of their relationship.
Two years ago, she was head of department for the research team studying Arcane anomalies both natural occurring and synthetic in design. There was an accident in an experiment that was supposed to be discontinued. Due to a ‘miscommunication’ between the actual testing facility and the corporate management, the procedure went through. The project was geared around modifying an active Arcane ritual, one that a person has already started. The result of the interference caused an Arcane reaction, an explosion that leveled three floors of underground facility. While many of the researchers survived the initial blast, the Arcane Poisoning caused from it listed most of them as fatalities within the day. The few who survived suffered from total immune and nervous system collapse, mental instability, as well as a host of other medical atrocities. Damien’s wife, for no immediately apparent reason, survived the longest, and produced the most astounding results. Legally deceased, but still physically alive for over 48 hours, she was used as a temporary test subject for a high output arcane power source. A living superconducting battery.
Damien wasn’t aware of this information at the time, but part of the end result of the project included his test subject spouse contacting him through an untested method of telecommunication. Rare amongst humans, and even rarer under researchable conditions. It wasn’t until she was medically dead that the research facility found out about the information leak. Damien wasn’t sure, but had a good reason to believe that it was one of the main reasons his pay was so decent, and any requests he made were taken into consideration. This was something that remained in the back of his head for some time, and while it didn’t necessarily bother him, it was still there.
Back in the present again, he was informed that his route was complete. Forty eight canisters of volatile power later, it was time to take the hazardous payload back to the recycling center. Damien guided the truck down the main eastern roadway that led straight towards the Citadel. There were four main entrances to the facility itself, North, East, South, and West. Each leading to a catacomb traffic system that allowed anyone to reach their destination with little assistance. Everything was marked and easily labeled. The recycling facility was built into the ground floor level, and accessible by the large transport carriers. As Damien approached the Citadel, and the towering monolith facility above, he kept his eyes on the roadway, following the brightly colored arrows directing him. He knew the way, but they were a good distraction to keep his attention on. The Citadel, and the Great Purity cast a shadow over the eastern roadway, eventually blotting out the majority of the light cast from the Canopy. As he approached the first check point at the Citadel, the roadway became roofed, and synthetic lighting took over.
While still ground level, the entrance to the Citadel had the illusion of being underground. Cement or metal paneling on all sides, and gentle blue lights illuminating the directional arrows. The low hum of his truck the only sound around him. The drop off was still nearly a mile ahead, but during the entire time he didn’t see another vehicle or person around him. Many employees lived on-site at the Citadel itself, as it supported living facilities. Those that didn’t weren’t schedule for some time anyway. He had the roadway to himself, but paid little attention to the numerous wall mounted advertisements about modern advances in ArcanaCorp devices.
Before long, Damien was bringing the truck to a halt at the drop off facility. The vehicle lowered down to its default height and he climbed out of the cab. To the left was a large crane which removed the entire chamber section of his truck and deposited it onto a moving railway system. This rail would take the chamber off and up the length of the Citadel, up to the Great Purity. There, in about a half hour’s time, the canisters would be loaded into the ejection array and the energy would be discharged into the atmosphere, safely above the Canopy.
Damien in the meantime went off to the other side, where the check-in equipment was. A security guard on duty smiled and nodded to him, giving a friendly “Good morning Professor Agalias.” Though it wasn’t his wife’s voice, it was the exact thing she had said to him earlier in the day. Testament that it wasn’t actually her voice, but merely a reproduced phrase with her voice pattern wrapped around it. Damien merely smiled faintly in return, and continued inside. He verified his time with the computer console just inside and continued down the hallway. The hall opened up into a research lab, where numerous men and women were silently studying information that constantly poured in from the Great Purity. Recent statistics, modifications needing to be made, useless numbers.
As Damien proceeded, several attendees came to him asking questions or pushing papers towards him for approval. None of them actually tried to stop him from his course though. A few documents he actually bothered to glance down at. Some he signed, some he didn’t. The majority of them were quite trivial. He paused briefly at the next door, which read “Confirmation” on it. This door lead to the room that was actively verifying each Arcane Containment Unit from his truck as it made its way up towards the Great Purity. Most people didn’t bother to check or verify any of the information presented there, as the process was moderately seamless, and mistakes were rarely made. Rarely.
Damien took some little bit of comfort knowing that the toxic payload about to be ejected into the atmosphere was at least stable enough not to cause some horrific fallout scenario that is always presented during training. Such a thing never happened, but nothing is impossible. He checked over the records. Forty eight canisters, each filled to the brim. As he looked over the statistics of each canister, they were checked green for confirmation. Forty five. Forty six. Forty seven. Forty seven confirmed stable. One was not.
Damien frowned some. Unsure of how he had missed transferring power from one container to another without error, he double checked. Confirmed, one canister was leaking. Barely, but it was. Which also meant that he was contaminated too. He glanced over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was present. Nobody. He drew in a slow breath and stood back from the console. The act of summoning forward Arcane energy from a person was similar to the ancient martial arts in many ways. Energy bound within the human body, soul, was coaxed forth under a massive amount of self control, spiritual control. And then brought material.
He first formed a circle with one hand in front of him. Blue light, similar to those before, followed his hand. Inside the circle, he could see the chamber, like a wizard’s scrying orb. He could see the canister too. A red light blinked on it, signaling a problem. They were not synchronized, as he previously thought. He knew that there was no technical way to synchronize a containment unit after the power has already been transferred. He also knew that this wasn’t the first time it had occurred.
Damien reached forward through the Arcane circle, and effectively through space, and placed his hand on the containment unit. Brow furrowed briefly as he concentrated. Arcane link established, he felt the power inside the container as well as himself surge briefly, then settle. He exhaled, and the light turned green. They were aligned. He withdrew his hand, and the circle fizzled and disappeared, closing the rift in space. The computer console also confirmed that all was well. Damien smiled briefly, and then smirked. Sole owner of a little secret, his heroics of preventing a disaster that he may have ignited known to nobody.
For over a year now he possessed a skill that few, if any others had. The sole ability to link with other Arcane sources of power without serious repercussion. While he didn’t totally understand it, he did understand what it meant. His wife was for a long time a closet Arcanist, a well versed practitioner of Arcane ability. The government had long denied the existence of such people, as they were so rare as to be myth, but Damien knew the truth in it, and had no reason to tell the world. His little secret. Shortly before her death, she contacted him, told him what had happened. She also told him how she felt, and what he meant to her. But she also did something else that he hadn’t realized for quite some time. She had changed him too, in ways he was still discovering.
In the midst of his thoughts, a red light on the ceiling lit up. A contamination was detected within the facility. While normally this would cause a great deal of panic, Damien knew what the cause of it was. He knew that decontamination crews were already being deployed to each department of the facility, and would soon be where he was. Through two glass doors, he could see a group of men geared up in hazardous material suits waving detection equipment over every person there, searching for the source. If anyone was found contaminated, they were usually terminated immediately. Such is the danger of Arcane Poisoning.
Damien flexed his fingers slowly and closed his eyes. He thought of his wife for a moment, more of an afterthought than anything. The men were coming down the corridor now, shouting for his cooperation. He ignored them, and focused on himself.
The source of Arcane power, in the end, is the soul of a thing. In retrospect, the entire city was powered by little bits of people’s spirit. Memories, dreams, ideals, in insignificant amounts. If a person could truly understand these things, and truly be at peace with themselves and the world, then they could in theory be able to control it thusly. Damien was at peace with the world, or at least himself. He willed the alien Arcane power that contaminated him to synchronize, just as he had done with the container. For a brief moment there was a flash of memories, sights, sounds, and then they were gone. He exhaled again and opened his eyes, just as the contamination crew reached him.
After a moment of questions and scanning him over for problems, the results showed up clean, and they moved on to the next room to continue their search. Damien smiled slightly and glanced at his hands for a moment, looking them over. He then looked around him and couldn’t help but chuckle. “Thanks, Dana.” He said, and made himself comfortable in the confirmation lab until the Citadel lockdown was complete, and no contamination was found.
On the monitor on the far side of the room, a camera was focused on the Great Purity from just above the Canopy. The Great Purity was fashioned as a massive energy projection system that fired the dirty Arcane energy out into the world. After some time of waiting, Damien checked the time. His payload was most likely ready to be fired. He took the time to relax some and rekindle some thoughts of his wife Dana. It was rare that he got the time to do so, but he decided he had a few minutes to spare to watch the red, blue, and purple light show of the Great Purity fire off the morning package of Arcane power. Hopes and dreams, insignificant, thrown about the world at a million miles an hour.
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God does not need exist to save us...
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Lady_Milena
Honorable
Known Hero
Grannie Sweet Cheeks
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posted August 03, 2006 01:13 AM |
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Command
Written by: Evan - non-member
Art stared out the window of his cabin into space. The enveloping blackness was seductive and called to him. He placed one hand on the window that separated his air conditioned cabin from the frozen wasteland of the void. Fingers flexed, but he grasped nothing but air. A slow smirk curled across his lips and he shook his head. His crew made fun of him while off duty when he reminisced about older times, when space travel was much more exciting, and much less mundane than most took it now.
He stood and departed his cabin, closing the metal door behind him and pacing down the hallway that would eventually lead to the command center of the ship. His boots made an empty clanking on the grated floor as he went, reminding him of the stale, unbreathing aspect of the vessel he nearly lived on. Once to the command head, he demanded a report.
One of his officers looked up. He was new, not just to the ship, but to the navy. A bright-eyed bushy-tailed kid, barely the age to be considered a man. Legally he was, and legally eligible to enroll. “Approaching destination. ETA is eight minutes. I have vessels confirmed, but no further information yet.” Art nodded in confirmation and took his place at the command chair. Hard metal with only the scant comfort of a few pieces of padding in only the most ergonomic of places. It didn’t bother him, however. He was used to much less luxurious of situations.
The last vessel that Arturo Romnavi commanded was the infamous Illuminati Horizon. A sleek covert operations frigate that conscripted only the most idiotic of missions. Most of them were written off as lost causes or waste of resources. Each mission he returned, alive and with stories to tell. Not all of them were successful, but some of them were. But he came back alive, and that is what counted the most.
The Illuminati Horizon met an untimely dismantlement during the implementation phase of new shielding hardware. Current shielding systems were based off the design of focused plasma. Computer systems detected incoming projectiles or energy, and focused high energy particles in a particular pattern to intercept whatever was coming. Energy gets dispersed, matter is reflected. The new system however was based off of a gravity generator at the center of the vessel. The theory was that a gravity field could intercept incoming projectiles and reflect them, or destroy them. Miscalculations in the design of the hardware however, caused the gravity generator to malfunction, and tear the ship nearly in half.
While unfortunate, it was insured. Arturo decided it was best to let the memory keep its fame and move on. Now he was captain of a new vessel, with a new crew. While they trusted him implicitly, as was expected of a captain and it’s crew, he had not earned their trust from experience just yet. It was an empty devotion. He would have to overlook these shortcomings, because his life depended on their effectiveness.
“ETA two minutes captain. Disengaging slipgate.” The officer announced. For a moment Art almost responded, but reminded himself that they were new. His old crew rarely informed him of routine events, as everyone was aware of these things happening. It was pointless to inform him of things he already knew. It was, however, proper and by the books to inform the captain of the situation. He simply sighed and rubbed his temple for a moment.
“One minute.” Again with the notification. Art glanced around at his present crew and pursed his lips in thought. They were capable, but not nearly as experienced as his old friends, whom had all gone their separate ways after the destruction of the Illuminati. He turned back to the navigational console and the boy sitting there. “Drop slipgate, bring main guns online, activate tracking modules and target painters.” Momentarily the ship would be changing from its high speed method of travel known as Slipgate, to its normal mode of travel where maneuvering was possible. Slipgate was only used when traversing long distances that didn’t require any actual navigational interaction.
This would be the crew’s first test at actual combat that wasn’t a simulation to his knowledge. While it wasn’t a particularly daunting task, it was noticeable that the crew was a bit on edge. Not nervous, but not casual and relaxed either. Everything was double checked, everyone looked to their captain for confirmation on any kind of action taken. A brief wave of nausea swept over Art as the vessel dropped out of Slipgate into normal space and speed.
He opened the intercom with the entire ship to inform everyone of their situation. “Our orders are to terminate any pirate threat in the area. We have confirmed that there are at least three cruisers in the area, as well as a fleet of fighters. Please act with extreme prejudice. Crimes accounted to these people include attempted genocide of two colonies, as well as more counts of manufacturing sabotage than most of you can count.” The crew he could see in the command center regarded him for a moment then turned to their consoles to begin monitoring incoming data.
The ship appeared in normal space moments later. It’s hull gleaming on the port side from the local star. Bright green with candy apple red stripes signaling it’s navy affiliation. The Divine Serpent; a heavy combat cruiser with a modified armored hull. One of the newest in the navy that was given to Arturo in recompense for the accident to his beloved vessel. Sensors pinged the space around them, searching for targets and other objects to navigate about. Nine gimbaled guns shifted from their stationary position and were brought to bear, preparing for action.
“Captain, incoming reports. Three, five cruisers on intercept. Seven fighters. They’re running hot.” Hot was navy slang for ready for combat. When guns, sensors, and other combat modules are brought online, they transmitted an omni directional signal for the purpose of warning other ships. This prevented unwarranted or accidental firings on other ships before responses can be made. It also made for easy tactical decisions. While heavily outnumbered, the pirate vessels were much older and appeared to be somewhat damaged from previous battles.
Arturo rubbed his chin for a moment and glanced to his tactical console, then the other officers, seeing if they would act on their own. After a good ten seconds, he finally called out commands. “Port cruiser. It’s engines are flaring. Target the aft and jam its targeting signal. After that, the big gun in the middle. The cruiser with the cruise missile launcher that looks like it’s picking up a lock.” The crew jumped into action as if the hands pulling their strings had suddenly woken up.
Six of the nine guns were capable of picking targets, and target lock was soon acquired. The captain gave the go-ahead, and the cannons opened fire. Each gun, based off simple rail gun technology, flung 250mm radioactive tipped metal slugs at their target. The first few bounced off of a failing shielding system, but the next ones struck home across the aft of the vessel, crushing the armor plating and piecing the hull. The navigational stability of the ship started to degrade almost immediately, and it tipped to one side, the engines unable to compensate for the sudden change in mass. The ship was effectively disabled.
In the meantime, the other pirate gunboats were approaching fast. The next target in the middle had already launched a pair of cruise missiles that were heading straight for them. Lasers from some of the other vessels bounced harmlessly off the reinforced shielding system of the Divine Serpent. Two other gunboats floated helplessly towards them, their targeting system scrambled beyond recognition by electronic countermeasures.
One of the crew chuckled briefly, amused at the fact that one navy vessel could outgun more than he could count on both hands. Arturo provided him with the evil eye, and the officer quickly went back to paying attention to his console. Another turned to him, informing him of the information already present on his own command panel. “Shields are at seventy five percent. Recalibrating for electromagnetic boosting.” Art nodded faintly and leaned back, watching his crew perform. He confirmed each action given, and then watched it pan out as planned.
The missiles collided with their shields and exploded in a thermal blast. The second volley shocked the shields with an electromagnetic shockwave. They were smart enough to change up the type of damage done so that his crew would recalibrate the shields, but the crew knew that too. The guns from the Divine Serpent obliterated the cruiser firing the salvos next, cutting through its shields, armor, and fragile carapace in a matter of moments. Everything was going according to the book.
The closest cruiser finally broke the jamming signal as it reached nearly point-blank range of the Serpent, looking as if it were going to attempt at ramming. High energy signals hailed that heavy blaster cannons were activating, and moments later dumped half a ton of antimatter straight onto an unprotected section of Art’s brand new ship. The shields barely compensated for the blast, and some of the explosive material bled through and scraped against the vessel’s armor before dissipating.
Arturo frowned. It was a ballsy gesture, but stupid in the end. Getting that close to a navy cruiser of any kind was a death wish, quite literally. The captain tapped at his console and commanded the cruiser’s main gun online. A newly modified mega pulse laser, designed by athe same lucrative agency that funded the Illuminati’s department prior to dismantling. The offending vessel picked up on the activation of the weapon and tried to maneuver away, but it was too late. The sky lit up with a fiery red beam that cut straight through the bow of the ship, severing the command center from the rest of the beast, and compromising it’s internal atmosphere. Lights went out, and the damaged sections collapsed from the pressure of the void.
The two remaining cruisers started to retreat, and Arturo ordered their engines to be dismantled, and the remaining fighters to be cleaned up. He gave them credit for piercing the Serpent’s shields, but did little other than extend the waiting period for their judgment. The fighters we’re destroyed in a matter of minutes and the crippled cruisers subsequently vanquished. Arturo rubbed his temples again and said in a lower tone. “Scan for survivors and target.”
He waited a few moments and peered out across the front windows. Twelve dead ships. Some still firing power off from their failing power cores, rekindling a moment of stability before finally blinking out. The final death throes of the defeated. Their judgment was passed before he had arrived at that place, but the deed wasn’t complete until he gave the order.
“Survivors sir. Two atmospheric containers. It looks like slaves.” The officer informed Art, giving an odd look. Atmospheric containers were primarily used for shipping biological goods like plants and animals. Cargo containers without any facilities beyond breathable air and gravity. Occasionally it was used by pirates who didn’t want to risk bringing people on board the ship. Cruel, but not unheard of. Slaves, however, regardless of their home, were considered contraband. Illegal. Nobody could prove where they came from, and if detected on the ship roster at a jump gate, would cause a lot of legal problems.
“Acquire target and fire at will.” Art said, in a flat tone. He studied the officer who gave him a look like he had two heads. “But, captain. They’re.. alive.” He said in a careful tone. While he wasn’t disobeying orders, it isn’t wrong to question a captain’s ethics. “Would you rather they be left out there, starving, cold, alone, for another week or two before they finally died, or have a quick and painless death?” The officer swallows and put some thought into it, as Art narrowed his eyes a bit. “Confirmed. Target acquired.”
They trusted him implicitly, regardless of his orders. While it was considered murder in the books of man, in the law it was simply following the rules. Euthanasia was usually designed to end unnecessary pain. The captain sighed and rolled his shoulders, watching the tactical display. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back to his glory days aboard the Illuminati. Half of the missions he was given were rescue missions.
“Fire an irradiated round to the port, four degrees. Fire a probe afterwards to make sure they’re all dead.” He added to his orders. The officer peered at his console for a moment before glancing back to his now crazy captain. “But, sir. That’s one of the wrecks. They won’t be…” the captain raised one finger to silence him, and then pointed forward. He continued providing orders. “Confirm that one round was spent destroying a slave colony.” The officer blinked a few times, and nodded hesitantly. They questioned his orders even though he didn’t intend to kill the innocent slaves as he said they would. It was a trust he hadn’t expected, but at the same time, he did.
A single gun came around to face the colony, and fired a single flaming irradiated slug. It sailed kilometers out and struck one of the wrecked fighters hard, causing a huge explosion and subsequent shockwave, knocking everything nearby away. The colony of slaves included, though it remained intact. The officer repeated the confirmation. “Colony destroyed, sir. Probe deployed. No survivors.” He repeated. “No survivors.”
Arturo nodded faintly and steeped his fingers. He smiled briefly and stood up slowly. The other officers smiled in return. They had not only proven themselves, but also been part of a salvation exercise, intended or not. The probe would signal to the nearby policing agency about the location of the colony, and they could deal with it as they wished. While the slaves may not enjoy any luxury of life, they will at least have the chance at life itself, wherever it may lead them.
Art ordered the ship to be brought about and to re-enter Slipgate. Their report would show that all vessels were destroyed and that all survivors were terminated. The secret of their heroic rescue would remain with the crew, and begin the bond that space cannot separate. The fame of the Illuminati Horizon began to write a new chapter.
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God does not need exist to save us...
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