All Brag could do was run. With each step he could hear the rumble of the massive mine transport closing the gap. He glanced to either side, but remembered that each of these alleys lead to dead ends. He would just have to trust that this narrow street would provide some means of escape. The burning in his leg muscles was joined by the waves of heat from the front grate of the ironclad wolf at his heels.
“You can’t run forever.” He faintly heard. His mind was too jarred to be sure if it came from around him or from inside his own head. He tried to put an extra kick of speed into his attempt, what other choice do I have?
The mine cart was speeding up. He could hear his sweat dripping off and sizzling on the open grate. His own terror drove him to glance back at the approaching doom. The great face of the beast was red and burning like the open maw of hell. His already drumming pulse managed to double, the massive vehicle was still ebbing closer despite all his efforts. He turned back to the path and saw the wide brick wall. There were many more of the armed gang waiting for him, they were armed with long plasma rifles. The gun smugglers, why didn’t anyone warn me!
One had already lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Brag’s eyes did a quick sweep over the street end, but there was nothing for him now. The gun fired. It was a surprisingly soft sound, like the hiss from a spray bottle, but the sound still filled Brag’s head and spurred him to movement. His body hit the pavement, he gave a sharp gasp as he felt the heat of the grate travel over him, and then everything stopped.
If he hadn’t been able to hear the low spit and growl of the massive engine above him he might have thought it had all just been paused at that split second. He trembled underneath the belly of the mining vehicle, wondering how he had gotten there without dying. He strained his neck to look around and realized he was laying in the gap between the two caterpillar struts. It was by some divine providence that he hadn’t had his arms torn up under the teethed belts that flanked his body. He faintly heard the door of the metal beast grate against the close walls of the narrow street. He heard the driver shout. “Don’t shoot at the Beetles, the ammo in those can burn right through conventional metal.”
Brag lay panting and sweating as several sets of dusty boots swarmed the vehicle type affectionately called ‘Beetles’. He felt himself quiver involuntarily when he noticed the thin barrels of the plasma rifles.
“Did you hit him?” He heard a voice close above him ask, they were answered by others slowly circling the Beetle.
“Not with the gun, he didn’t.”
“What about the Beetle? No one could survive those trets.”
“That’s if he was under the trets.”
Brag shifted to look at the gap behind him, but there were more men waiting there too. He was surrounded and feeling himself slowly roast in the coffin sized space under the hot engine. His whole body was still raging with the chemical panic that had been eating through him since the mission had begun. He looked forward towards the closest means of escape. He would need a distraction. He tried to reach the side pockets along his close-fitted uniform. He was fumbling with a fat pill when his elbow strayed to close to the engine; in just the split second that it made contact, the burning hot metal had seared through his uniform and burned flesh. It took all his self control to not shriek aloud, but the sharp gasp of pain was enough.
One of the more curious gun smugglers jumped back from the square opening. “I heard him, he’s alive!” Brag clutched his elbow, trembling anew and biting his lip. In his other hand he held the only tool he could grab in time.
“Let’s end this,” a harsh voice growled, Brag recognized it immediately. It sent an involuntary sting of pain through the still healing gashes along his right eye, and made the pounding against his ribs intensify until his heart was fluttering like a little bird. Why does it always have to be him? “Back up the Beetle, and you bits aim for the opening. If he’s alive, then gut him.”
This was his only chance, he held the silver pill tightly, preparing to throw it. The engine rumbled above with a growl like rolling thunder. As it pulled back he caught a glimpse of the rifle tips aimed at the shadow of the Beetle. He buried his face in his arm and tossed the metal pill. It made a little pop like a flash bulb and all the men gave some shout of surprise or pain. Brag pulled himself out from under the vehicle and scooped up the little pill, feeling the first twinge of relief all morning. The tiny flash grenade had worked beautifully.
He rounded on the Beetle, the driver was trying to climb out of the door, still blinded. “Don’t shoot! You might hit – ” Brag slammed the door on his head to get past the tiny gap in the wall. Soon he was off running again. Many of the men behind the Beetle hadn’t been affected by the blinding flash and raised their rifles at him as he darted out from the side of the vehicle, but he still had the upper hand. He swung around the corner and had the barrel of the first rifle in his grip before the smuggler could react. Brag’s foot darted out and slammed another man into his companions. The rifle he was holding was pulled out of the owner’s grip and then came back at his face with a sharp jab. Brag fired a spray of plasma over the three rifles that lay in the hands of the struggling men, each trying to stand. One began to scream as the viciously corrosive solution made his skin bubble like melted wax.
It had all happened in just a few seconds, and then he was running again. They had managed to chase him a long ways from his quarry; he would have to retrace his steps until he had reached their headquarters again. He could already hear the engine revving to go, apparently the cheap blow had only angered the driver, and had done nothing to stop him directing the mine vehicle back the way it had come. Brag shouldered the rifle still in hand -it had already proved useful- now he just needed to get out of the path of that fire-breathing monster. He glanced around at the windowless, ash-streaked buildings around him and the same alleys from before. He wasn’t going to escape into the buildings, but what about over them? He looked up and remembered the stretches of electric wires and strings of naked bulbs that crossed back and forth over the street. If he could find a way to get up to them, then he could get onto the roof, and then nothing would be able to hold him back. He didn’t feel any twinge of relief or excitement at the realization; it seemed too easy to hope for. He darted down one of the alleys to search for a way up, out of the beaten track of the Beetle.
This alley seemed to have presented one, in the form of a mountain of garbage and scrapped machinery that seemed to slope up the wall almost to the rooftops. He didn’t slow his pace as he approached, instead running at it and then leaping up. He heard shouts behind him as he half ran - half climbed the mound of refuse.
“There he is!”
“Shoot him down! What else are those guns good for?”
“Don’t let him get to the roof or we’ll never catch him!”
There were some men already climbing as Brag had reached about mid way. The rise had become steep and everything kept trying to shift out from under him. He had reached the top of the pile when he heard the blast. He was enveloped with smoke and everything went silent save for a constant humming in his ear. He felt around through his delirium, scattering pieces of brick and plaster that had come off the building, then he fell through darkness.
After a moment long enough to realize he had become weightless, he felt his body land heavily onto what must have been a concrete floor. The blast, whatever it was, had left a gaping hole in the building and he had managed to fall right through. As his head started to clear, he remembered he needed to get away. He struggled up onto his trembling arms, starting to feel the throbbing in the side of his head, and the fierce sting of what must have been shrapnel in his arm and shoulder. He crawled into the dark space that was still too blurred by his pain to see.
“There you are.” He heard the husky growl. His terror returned, no, not him, anyone but him! Suddenly Brag felt something hard collide with his side. He struggled to get up off the ground, but as he tried he was struck a second time. It hit him again and again until his first shout of panic had been contorted to choked gasps. He swore he heard his ribs breaking.
“What are you doing? Stand up and fight!” He heard the faint voice again, it was coming from the back of his head. Then he heard a low, barking laugh come blearily through his stuffed up ears. He was rolled onto his back. He could see a figure outlined against the white light of the hole in the wall above. “What made you think you would do any better this time, boy?” The voice growled. Brag blearily tried to reach for the rifle still hanging off his back, but his hand was pinned effortlessly down by the figure’s heavy boot.
“Nice try,” Brag saw the figure lift the blade up against the circle of light. He gave a weak whimper as he felt the grip at his neck.
“What are you waiting for? Finish him!” The hidden conscience shouted angrily. He was being lifted off the ground by the throat. Now suspended limply like a dead rabbit, he heard his enemy growl close to his face.
“But this time I’m going to finish what we started –”
“NOW!”
“- you bastard assassin.”
He could do nothing. He could barely lift his own arms to try and pull at the fingers around his throat, let alone fight, as the voice had demanded. Brag gave out a choked sob as he saw the blade come down to sink into his eye-socket.
Brag felt his stomach dragged down through his navel and then the rest of his body follow as it remembered what real gravity felt like. He was meant to land standing, but his physical weakness left him to crumple helplessly in the bottom of the Simulation Sphere. The sharp edges lining the inside of the training simulator stabbed his arms through the sensory suit. He was reminded that for all the advancements of the cutting edge simulator, it still couldn’t match real pain. Brag was thankful for it.
He reached up and touched the smooth helmet face. He closed his unharmed eyes with a tense sigh; he was still intact, he was still alive. He rubbed his sides where he could still feel the ghost pains from being kicked by the knife wielding gang leader. The ache in his legs from the running was real, but the sting of shrapnel, the beatings, and the burning had all been simulated. Still, they left him pale and sweaty. The fear had been real.
“What was that?” He heard the voice clearly now that it wasn’t being piped into his brain through the needles in his spinal cord. “That was the worst yet this morning!”
Brag pressed his face into the back of his hands, curling up to form a kow-tow on the floor of the tiny chamber. If I had time to rest . . . he thought. He wouldn’t dare say it aloud should the instructor hear. The man seemed angry enough at his performance as it was; any response –what the instructor, Grendel, automatically dubbed ‘back-talk’- would only lead Brag into more trouble.
“I’m sorry, sir.” He said softly trying meekness as a way to hopefully pacify this man. The last thing Brag wanted was for Grendel to make him do another mission, he didn’t think he could handle another just then, or for the rest of the day. His attempts seemed to have no effect on the strict instructor.
“Get up, stop your groaning!” He heard the voice snap through the intercom. Brag winced, he wasn’t sure he could stand, and the thought of trying made his leg’s ache intensify. Slowly he rose up and placed his feet on the yellow marked places in the base of the sphere. He tried to keep steady but his head had started to swim.
“That was pitiful. You’ve been trained better than this.” Brag closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his empty stomach was knotting up inside of him. He didn’t need to hear a briefing on what he had done wrong, he was the one who had died from it after all. “That was the sort of performance I expected from some first tier trainees, not an assassin about to perform his Confirmation Mission. If I was the one directing Commissionings I wouldn’t let you past novice level with that kind of performance.” Brag was hardly listening; he stared blankly at the inside of his helmet wondering if there was enough in his stomach to vomit with, or if he would only gag a few times and that would be it. “I fully expect you to come in here every morning until you’ve gotten over this phobia. You can’t freeze up in panic every time you have to deal with one of the gun smugglers or that ‘Jack the Knife’. It’s an insult to your post.” Brag bowed his head, so that’s what this is all about. It suddenly made sense why he had kept running into him in the simulator like some recurring nightmare. He could stand steadily now, but the pains in his stomach had only gotten worse. He was wondering if it were better to puke on the simulator and risk damaging it, or just do it in his helmet and risk having to smell it for every mission until they updated to a new suit. Neither sounded very pleasant.
No comments:
Post a Comment