AE fiction

[Thorondor]

We get distracted. Our mind wanders. It just does...

 

It swirls and eddies like the sand in the wind before me, only just above the ground. Brownish yellows, with a touch of faint orange here and there, mingle into the distance. Thoughts in the sun, trailing the far away shades in between the rises and falls that make up for an horizon here.

 

I am a part of it, and I belong. The skin welcomes the brisk sting of the grains, as the light rain in summertimes I have long known. And yet it feels warm, as it forever twists - scattering, shaping, rock and men alike.

 

There is a storm coming gently, almost unwilling to disturb the lay of the land; but its stir is in me already. It thrums in the air, while the ground carries the deceitful whisper of comfort to my chest.

 

I'll soon have to move again.

 

Though the search is mine I move and they 'follow'. I have made mistakes, but fewer. I have nearly died, but lived - many a time by the will of others, some by sickness, sometimes by chance, some, nearly, by my own hand. Thus some may now perish because of me. Such is fate.

 

There is movement not mine.

 

My throat parched; I should know better. 'Sheen' point sweepers.

 

Rigors must be obeyed. I start reciting in my head while I curse the food deprivation symptoms: "Be seen, unseen in effect","Let them detect"..."Breath your last of this air","Breathe your own and bear"..."You fear, alive on this earth"..."Yet meant to die you're given birth"...

 

Their legs tall, spindly, piercing and frail all at once. Halting still below and scurrying fast in turn, their pattern a weave. "The counting game"..."One's the count and all the same"...

 

Several spider-like forms negotiate the incline in inaudible inertia-dampening bearings, couplings, self-adjusting servos and such, with an unnatural gait - sniffing, detecting. I stash my rifle carefully, unobtrusively. The closing is now inevitable, unsettlingly. Mostly they maim, seldom they kill, but they mainly give you away.

 

I lazily fight a tingling numbness on my left arm.

 

There's no one else to decide; no more to tarry, no more to spare. Thusly are my eyes forced away to gaze at the line of slowly growing dots, those of the only living figures among the twin dunes. The slavers' caravan.

 

I take a measure of the sun, adjust the mouthpiece of the breathing apparatus firmly between the teeth, make a check, and depress the button into 'suspension' at the glint of nearby steel.

 

::

 

Armageddon Empires fiction piece I felt inspired to do. Hope you like it. As is my wont there might be no follow up, so pitch in if you feel like it.

 

And regards to Mr. Vic Davis for such a compelling game.

[FullAuto]

You're not alone!

 

Here's one I made earlier.

 

And here's something your post inspired me to write:

 

 

Private Beck stopped, rifle slung across his chest. The sun was how Beck imagined God, everywhere, affecting everything. The desert stretched out before him, flat and shining, the only movement and contour ahead of him heat shimmers snaking up off the ground.

 

The only reason he was still alive was his suit, close and unpleasantly damp around him. Sucking up his sweat, shielding him from radiation, watching his vital signs, it was a soft, clammy second skin.

 

Beck turned, rocking slightly, the unfamiliar sensation of standing still unbalancing him for a moment. Looking back, he saw his footprints, a heat-blurred trail that backed away and disappeared long before the horizon. And on the horizon, black specks.

 

Instinct made him swipe at his forehead. His arm bumped the helmet, pressing the selectively permeable lining firmly against his skin. Then the sheen of sweat was gone as if peeled off, leaving his forehead dry and cool. Beck lowered his arm, cradling the rifle again.

 

Even with the goggles reducing the glare, he couldn't make out any detail. Raising the rifle and looking down the scope meant effort. Unslinging the spotting binocs meant more effort. And besides, the optics couldn't do anything about the heat distortion, chances were he wouldn't be able to tell what they were anyway.

 

And he didn't need to know. Beck turned away from the wavering dark shapes, which were growing into blobs now, growing stubby limbs, and realised his feet hurt more now he had stopped. He put off walking by taking a drink, sucking his own recycled sweat and urine up a tube and into his mouth. The filter was guaranteed not to let any toxins through, and taste was supposed to be totally neutral. But even after months of conditioning, instinct was pushing buttons and screaming "Code Red!" at his conscious mind.

 

Everything took effort. He had to make himself keep drinking, or he would stop before it reached his lips, mouth twisted in disgust. He had to focus on breathing. Looking around was only possible through determination. Walking was an act of pure will, mind over the complaining matter of his body.

 

Beck started walking again, knowing pain was inevitable but suffering was optional, and distracted himself, for the nth time, with what he could remember of the briefing before he stepped into this box of hot sand and burning sky.

 

The Walk is three hundred miles long and fifty miles wide. You will carry a full complement of gear. You will be hunted by land and air.

 

Beck went through his mental checklist again. He was sweating, that was good. If he stopped sweating, that meant he was dehydrated. His feet were going numb, which was good because they didn't hurt any more, but bad because it could mean circulatory problems. His heartbeat was regular, but a little fast. He had to let the rifle hang loose to check his vitals, and it bumped and shifted clumsily, hampering his pace. Heartbeat and blood pressure both a little high, according to the bracelet around his left forearm, the display pulsing right over the throbbing veins of his wrist.

 

The area is deep in our territory and regularly swept between Walks but that does not mean it is safe. Muties sometimes get lost and wander thousands of miles, bots and squids like to go dormant. You will be carrying live rounds and you might need them, so keep your weapon loaded.

 

He took hold of the rifle again, not actually lifting it but letting the sling take the weight and merely controlling how the weapon hung, ensuring the barrel did not bump his thighs, the folded tripod didn't nudge his chest. The 8.7mm Rifle (Long Range) was capable of engaging targets out to 3000 metres with standard ammunition, and 5000 metres with guided ammunition. Beck wished it was capable of being really, really light.

 

If you get caught, you fail. If you leave the designated area, you fail. If you dump any gear, you fail. If you do not cover the three hundred miles in the allotted time, you fail. If you die, you fail. Don't fail. Dismissed.

 

In truth, Beck didn't know why he was still walking. Pride in his unit had evaporated somewhere in the first hundred miles. He had never wanted anything more than to be an Imperial Commando, until now. Now he wanted out of the desert. He wanted it so much he could taste it, stronger than the crusted salt residue of his sweat around his mouth, the possibility more refreshing than the water in the suit's bladder.

 

He wanted to quit, and realised he was only walking out of habit. He wanted to fail, without having to give up, or at least without anyone seeing him give up. A year of physical training, weapons instruction, navigation, marching, battlefield trauma management, wasteland survival and communications. A year of impassive instructors who offered neither praise nor criticism, a year of sweat and effort, a year of wondering if you had failed at the end of every day, a year of clenching your teeth so hard as you strained that you tasted chips of enamel with every meal. A year of raw bleeding feet and strained muscles, a year of vomiting mid-run and carrying on with stinking bile burning your throat, a year of exhaustion. A year of pain.

 

Beck ran thought of the motivational slogans he had seen before joining up, blazoned on barrack walls in black text on a yellow background.

 

A Goddess lives here, her name is Victory. Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. Imperium Juge. First in deed, first to lead.

 

None of them motivated him now. The urge to fight for the Empire, rid Earth of the Mutant scum, destroy the Machine and Xenopod invaders, had also been boiled away by the remorseless sun.

 

A breeze, the first breath of wind he could remember since starting the Walk, blew directly into his face. Grains of sand stung his face, brief pinpricks around his face mask. Even the wind was against him. Beck didn't stop, but turned to look over his shoulder. The pursuers were catching up, gaining definition in his view as they closed in. He could see their legs now, which put their range at somewhere less than six hundred metres. He resumed looking forward slowly, tired muscles reluctant in their lethargy.

 

He needed a place to stop, lie up, hide, rest. Quit. But there was nowhere, no dunes or wadis, no rocks, no caves. Just the desert. He didn't want to fight, not even to defend his family and his friends. Words like pride, honour and duty had burned up long ago. The basic, rhythmic stride taught to all recruits had deserted him. Even the thought of stopping exhausted him, he would have to find a good position, open up the rifle's tripod, get out the spotting binocs, eat something, check the suit's filters, check his position and work out how long he could stop, how long he could sleep, and when he had to resume walking.

 

No, easier to just walk. Easier to give up inside rather than pretend. Easier to shuffle on for a little longer in a comfortable groove than take any kind of new action. Even if he passed the Walk now, this second, he had surrendered. He would never be an Imperial Commando.

 

Beck carried on walking, hopeless.

[Thorondor]

*gimme a sec*

Get it offa'me! I want out of this suit!

 

Very nicely done, FA. You've got unsuspected skills, ranger.

 

There's no denying the game really lends itself to gameplay accounts. I particularly enjoy the fact that you can never get too cocky or their AI will really kick you in the shperes

 

I've had games where it took ages to get a single recon card, others with no labs, no resources nearby and no firebases to expand your supply. There's variety just from that, and then it just works on a great deal many other levels.

 

Then, when you're aggravated enough there are very few things that can make your day as much as a nuke up their collective rear hatch

 

::

 

And thanks for the linkage; there are some entertaining reads over there.

 

I'll try and reciprocate your entry sometime, if I ever manage to drag myself away from the mutie fist-fight I've got ongoing...

[FullAuto]

No pressure, Thor.

 

It's a nice game, right enough. You have to be continually alert for enemies, constantly probing away into completely unknown or enemy territory, patrolling, advancing, assembling armies, etc. Compelling stuff. The slow pace means you can take screenies easily and note down what happened when, and the art lends itself to display very nicely.

 

Case in point, the Imperial Commandos!

 

https://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h109/FullAuto_2006/imperialcommandos.jpg

[Thorondor]

Hiatus; I might as well call it that.

 

And from the calm you dawn, unsure whether indeed awake you did or nurse a dream still. Sort of back and forth, both washed ashore, good tide of mercy, and grateful flotsam.

 

A song carries to you, in the whim of a gust, your world anew. Windswept.

 

I muster strength enough to move, jerkily, forcefully, dislodging sand that had all but engulfed me, to rise again.

 

It's a wind grander than you or me this that fills the emptyness, I've always thought. From crag to crag, mound to mountain, without ever being faint of heart, giving as it takes with as much fairness as one can expect of it. It asks no forgiveness when its wake is destruction or starvation, much as it is no beggar when it seeds the land or unveils buried treasures. It is mighty and proud, and will remain last when we are gone.

 

Often it touches us, buffets us into submission, but even then we pay it fleeting heed. We have petty problems of our own.

 

I munch on my remaining 'cube' pensively, bidding readyness to the limbs as per shaking them loosely, but most of all I now require quickness of wit - for the gale did come before nightfall as I had predicted.

 

The beautiful tinge of remaining daylight casts a beguiling glow in these parts, presently silhouetting without entirely obscuring. I am somewhat encouraged, revived, by the assault of cooler air I brace against as all those toxins wither away. It is a steep price to be payed for to have so low a crawler squirm his due.

 

I travel light. The pressure on my temple abates as I half-walk, half-slide to a less exposed height on the soft slope. I am an old man of my forties, which you wouldn't tell by my features, demeanor or hair. I am weary but unbroken, old alone because I recall, in looking at a fading scar, most my mentors, my betters, my willing brothers have been called already into the aether.

 

It is disconcerting, and worthless I'm sure, to know the reasons of their demise. The causes are wide-ranging, all the way from reckless pleasures in heathen temples, or brash ill-temper in some derelict watering hole, to the fall of wretched coin, or a simple bellyful in the simmer of the desert. Some hanker for it, I suppose.

 

I am a dead man myself, after all, and have been for some hours. My rifle is gone.

 

::

 

My latest effort. Not too dry I hope...