by Maugan Ra » Fri Jun 10, 2011 2:19 am
Carson ran for his life, sprinting down the palace steps like a man with all the daemons of hell at his back. The small message cylinder with which he had been entrusted was clutched tightly in one hand, his gleaming metal fingers exerting a far firmer hold on it than weak flesh ever could. Up ahead, two members of the palace guard turned at the sound of rapid footsteps on the flagstones, matt black rifles swinging around in instinctive response. Beyond them, the gleaming metal spikes that made up the perimeter fence loomed menacingly. Pneumatic inserts in Carson's legs activated with a quiet hiss and suddenly he was flying....
He hit the ground on the other side of the fence with considerable force, tucking into a roll that conserved momentum and kept the cylinder protected by as much of his body as possible. With practised grace he returned to his feet and kept sprinting, rapidly plotting out the best possible route to his destination. Getting there was all that mattered – survival was a secondary concern.
Up ahead, the crowds of civilians saw him coming and parted like water, some of them crushing their neighbours against the surrounding buildings in their haste. Carson supposed it was the uniform – on Hartok, no one interfered with someone bearing the black armband and the personal crest of the governor. They knew the punishment such an act would entail.
Carson kept running, vaulting over parked vehicles and straight through the middle of busy highways without pause, trusting in his extensive bionics to protect him in the event that one of the drivers reacted too slowly to his sudden appearance. His masters had invested no small amount of resources in him, preparing him for this when this day inevitably arrived, and he was determined not to disappoint them.
He had to reach the General. Nothing else mattered.
888
Seras Winter was eating her dinner when the courier stumbled into her dining hall and thrust the small, innocuous looking message cylinder at him.
“Orders from the Citadel, ma'am General.” he rasped out between great, heaving breaths. She set the cutlery carefully down by the side of her plate and rose to her feet smoothly, catching sight of her staff loitering nervously in the corridor outside. Normally she would have chastised them for not alerting her to an important arrival, but this was a special case.
“I accept these Orders and so relieve you of your burden, Herald.” She said, the formal words coming to mind with an air of comfortable familiarity, taking the message cylinder from his shaking hands. She knew the Heralds were known to make use of powerful stimulants in the pursuit of her duties, and wondered if the trembling was a side-effect. Of course, it might just be fatigue – the man looked to have virtually killed himself with the speed of his journey, and there was a rather nasty looking dent in his left leg that spoke of an unfortunate collision along the way.
She pressed a bare thumb against the small pad on one end of the cylinder, ignoring the faint prick of pain as it extracted a droplet of her blood. After a few moments, the complex logic-circuits in the lock decided that she was indeed the intended recipient, and the cylinder promptly ejected a sheet of fine parchment from its interior. It bore a few simple sentences inscribed in golden ink and was signed with the personal mark of the Lord Governor himself. Winter scanned the message quickly, her hard green eyes flickering back and forth, and felt a vicious smile creep across her features.
“Herald, I entrust you with a sacred task.” She said, not taking her eyes off of the parchment. “Deliver my words to Warden-Commander Trask of the 18th, and Warden-Commander Bastille of the 23rd. Deliver them with haste and accuracy, lest your life be forfeit for failing in your duty.”
The Herald straightened up, controlling his rapid breathing through some trick of focus his kind doubtlessly learned though tradition as much as necessity. “What words shall I bear, Warden-General?”
“Olynthus has been invaded. Muster the legions – the Hartokii are going to war.”
Maugan, your slow descent into madness is starting to look more like a BASE jump...
- Rahvin
The 210th Cadian - Tanks, heavy weapons, and an ongoing hatred of Land Raiders.
W: 41
D: 6
L: 14
