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Destiny
Sister Miriam pointed the gun directly at my chest, smiling benignly and said “Sven, you know I will enjoy doing this”. She fired.
I must admit, I flinched. There was no telling if the scientists’ and engineers’ theoretical formulas and tinkering really worked in practice. Therefore, I had volunteered to be the guinea pig and test out the new armor the believers had developed. They were referring to it as “synthmetal”, and it was a modified Chobham armor.
It was some 250 millimeters thick, developed from a hardened resin produced from local Chiron materials, but primarily mindworm husks. Quite expensive to produce, each body suit was custom built for the unit, which involved the resinous material, while in viscous form, being sprayed over the body of the individual scout. As it was hardening, the seals were made, and a lubricant was applied to the skullhood to keep it flexible.
I, of course, presented a special case, as would any merc. The arms had to be modified to allow instant deployment of my array of forearm encased weaponry, and the armor suit had to be finished at the collar to allow the full functioning of sensory implants.
The projectile struck, knocking me backwards as if someone had pushed me suddenly in the chest. The force knocked the wind out of me, and for a few seconds I had difficulty breathing, but the armor took the kinetic energy of the projectile and spread it throughout the suit’s molecular structure until it grounded, like a small electrical charge, on the chainmetal floor of the barracks room. The residual tingling ran through my body, as my implants picked up the resonance of the force and echoed it with a faint tremoring in my limbs. I fought back the almost automatic urge to release a mild analgesic block to deaden the pain I knew would follow – this test required me to report accurately on what I experienced and how I reacted. I knew I would have a fair sized bruise on my chest, and I knew that several such blasts could render me useless in combat, but I also knew that I could survive to fight on under most circumstances, albeit at reduced efficiency.
This was important, with Zakharov’s troops presumably approaching day by day.
With the test being deemed a success, we outfitted our four garrisons with our new synthmetal armor, and waited for the inevitable.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Gwynneth swung the heavy rig around and began the laborious process of lining up the deep furrow next to the one she had just cut. The Formers were mammoth machines, extremely versatile multi-purpose vehicles. Their capabilities extended to harvesting, mining, planting, roadbuilding and even a modest amount of terraforming. Right now she was traversing the side of a hill plowing deep furrows in the moist sand soil preparatory to planting a forest of fir seedlings from Earth. The scientists had determined that the alumina-rich soil of Chiron would best support the Douglas Fir, especially on the west facing slopes of hillsides where they would be more exposed to the planet’s rainfall.
The huge plowscraper at the front of the former leveled the land somewhat into narrow terraces, and cleared pebbles, fungus spores and the other detritus of Planet to one side. Immediately aft of the plowscraper was the furrower, which gouged its deep scar into the soil. Injectors poured a sludge of nitrates and growth enhancers into the furrow, and at five meter intervals a small seedling was ejected into the furrow. The rear of the former comprised a smaller version of the plowscraper, angled, to sweep the furrow flat after the small trees had been planted. As she looked back, Gwynneth felt a sense of pride; the rows of 60cm tall trees were symmetrical and stretched as far as the eye could see. In time, the forest that grew here would cover some hundreds of square kilometers of Planet’s surface. She felt that she was present at the creation of something that would glorify New Jerusalem.
She turned round, and froze In the valley between the hillside she was working, and the next, she could see the two columns of vehicles approaching. It could only mean one thing. Zakharov’s troops were arriving.
Gwynneth toggled her local comm-link. “Get me Sven”, she rasped, “I think we have company”
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I arrived a few minutes later, my implanted muscle boosters working overtime as I loped the few clicks to the Former. My retinal implants boosted the magnification to the extent that I could make out details of the approaching troops. They looked like armored rovers, with Particle Impactor weapons pods mounted on each. They looked ominous.
Some minutes later I was back in the base, reviewing our defenses with Sister Miriam. I thought the situation hopeless.
“Sister Miriam”, I began, “You must try to make contact with Zakharov, and sue for peace. Our preparations aren’t nearly complete, so we must stall for time.”
“I despise him”, she snarled, her voice full of loathing and contempt. “He and his godless horde of followers should never have been allowed on this mission”.
“But he is here, and with particle impactors”, I said, imploring her to try to raise him on her comm-link.
She flicked the cover off the comm-link, and keyed in the code. “He is getting my signal but is refusing to answer”, she said, snapping the link closed.
I winced. We were in for deep trouble.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
We cowered in the Base as the projectiles rained overhead. Occasionally one of the scout posts would take a direct hit, that scattered flying shards of plastisteel and synthmetal through the air, causing severe collateral damage to the four battalions. I myself took some damage when a piece of a metal girder from the exploding barracks building scythed through my arm, severing muscle and tendon, but more importantly, rendering inoperative my weaponry for that arm.
Nor was there any rest. The relentless pounding continued day and night, making it impossible for our beleaguered scout battalions to get treatment.
Our entire economy was on a war footing. Every resource the base had was devoted to training and arming our citizenry for the battle. The technicians were producing supplies of the synthmetal as fast as they could, as were the armaments manufacturers. Raw recruits were hastily run through the barest of training programs before being rushed over to get their weapons training and being fitted for the body armor.
Even Gwynneth was under fire. She reported that a University armored unit was sitting on the hill above her repeatedly catching her former in its crossights and unleashing a barrage that was repeatedly hitting her.
I advised her to try to gain the altitude advantage, but she reported that she was blocked by the Rover, and couldn’t move. Dear sweet Gwynneth. I feared for her life.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
That evening the war council met, with Sister Miriam chairing. We were discussing tactics when suddenly her comm-link chimed. She activated the unit, and a beatific smile slowly spread across her face. “Yes, yes, I’ll be there” she said, and snapped the unit off.
We all turned expectantly. “Zakharov?” I enquired.
“No”, she responded. “Deirdre. She has convened a Planetary Council meeting, holographically, for later tonight. You are all welcome to attend, although it will be only me that they will see at their end.”
We filed into Miriam’s offices, and took our places at the end of the table. At the deadline exactly, the holograph sprang to view. Seated round the conference table were the seven faction leaders, with the evil Zakharov smirking at one end. To the amusement of the others in the Believers room I stood up, and out of view of our projectors, walked round and put my fist through the face of the antichrist. That even brought a sly smirk to Sister Miriam’s face, and elicited a wink from her to me.
Lady Deirdre was voted Planetary Governor, and arrangements were made for all the faction leaders to talk privately afterwards, with the exception of Zakharov, who still refused pointblank to speak to Miriam.
We signed a Pact with the Spartans, and friendship agreements with the others, except for the godless University, who were pounding our base mercilessly even as the Council meeting was underway. However, signing friendship treaties and getting tangible expressions of friendship are two different things. We had no credits to buy any advanced technology, and none of our own to trade. No one was willing to bestow any upon us, not even Santiago.
Eventually the other faction leaders stopped receiving Sister Miriam’s comm-link calls. Our situation was becoming desperate. Each round of bombardment was taking its toll on all of us, from the grizzled veterans to the rawest recruits, but the hardest part was being unable to effect repairs.
Sister Miriam eventually called me in to her offices. “Sven”, she began, “I want you to go and try and locate another of these monoliths that were so helpful in restoring your health. The way to the one that you found is blocked by the professor’s forces so you will have to go south.”
I left with a heavy heart.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I stayed in touch by comm-link, vowing vengeance as I heard the last goodbye of Gwynneth as the artillery pounded her former into a pile of smoldering metal.
I rejoiced with the others when I heard that Lady Deirdre had loaned Miriam enough credits to commission two new battalions of garrison troops. I groaned when advised of yet another veteran scout who had succumbed.
Then I found the monolith. Its arcane technology worked exactly as it had done before, and I spoke exultantly to Miriam. “It’s about 15 clicks south”, I said. “Stagger the units’ leaving so that there will always be at least four in the base for defensive purposes”
“It’s too late, was Miriam’s sad response. “We have only four units left, and not enough minerals to equip another garrison unit. Even Deirdre has tired of my calls”.
My spirits sagged. I loped back in ground covering strides, knowing that my presence was needed as never before.
My comm-link beeped. It was Miriam.
“Sven”, she said, “It’s over. Even now Zakharov’s units are entering the base, and I am to be taken for torturing at his fiendish hands.”
My heart bled for her.
“You have been a good friend to us”, she said, “even if not one of us at heart. I release you from your vow of service. Go find Santiago and sign up with her. And will you do something for me?”
“Of course”, I replied, “name it”.
“Make it your mission, Sven, to find Zakharov, and assassinate him for me”.
[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited June 07, 1999).]
Sister Miriam pointed the gun directly at my chest, smiling benignly and said “Sven, you know I will enjoy doing this”. She fired.
I must admit, I flinched. There was no telling if the scientists’ and engineers’ theoretical formulas and tinkering really worked in practice. Therefore, I had volunteered to be the guinea pig and test out the new armor the believers had developed. They were referring to it as “synthmetal”, and it was a modified Chobham armor.
It was some 250 millimeters thick, developed from a hardened resin produced from local Chiron materials, but primarily mindworm husks. Quite expensive to produce, each body suit was custom built for the unit, which involved the resinous material, while in viscous form, being sprayed over the body of the individual scout. As it was hardening, the seals were made, and a lubricant was applied to the skullhood to keep it flexible.
I, of course, presented a special case, as would any merc. The arms had to be modified to allow instant deployment of my array of forearm encased weaponry, and the armor suit had to be finished at the collar to allow the full functioning of sensory implants.
The projectile struck, knocking me backwards as if someone had pushed me suddenly in the chest. The force knocked the wind out of me, and for a few seconds I had difficulty breathing, but the armor took the kinetic energy of the projectile and spread it throughout the suit’s molecular structure until it grounded, like a small electrical charge, on the chainmetal floor of the barracks room. The residual tingling ran through my body, as my implants picked up the resonance of the force and echoed it with a faint tremoring in my limbs. I fought back the almost automatic urge to release a mild analgesic block to deaden the pain I knew would follow – this test required me to report accurately on what I experienced and how I reacted. I knew I would have a fair sized bruise on my chest, and I knew that several such blasts could render me useless in combat, but I also knew that I could survive to fight on under most circumstances, albeit at reduced efficiency.
This was important, with Zakharov’s troops presumably approaching day by day.
With the test being deemed a success, we outfitted our four garrisons with our new synthmetal armor, and waited for the inevitable.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Gwynneth swung the heavy rig around and began the laborious process of lining up the deep furrow next to the one she had just cut. The Formers were mammoth machines, extremely versatile multi-purpose vehicles. Their capabilities extended to harvesting, mining, planting, roadbuilding and even a modest amount of terraforming. Right now she was traversing the side of a hill plowing deep furrows in the moist sand soil preparatory to planting a forest of fir seedlings from Earth. The scientists had determined that the alumina-rich soil of Chiron would best support the Douglas Fir, especially on the west facing slopes of hillsides where they would be more exposed to the planet’s rainfall.
The huge plowscraper at the front of the former leveled the land somewhat into narrow terraces, and cleared pebbles, fungus spores and the other detritus of Planet to one side. Immediately aft of the plowscraper was the furrower, which gouged its deep scar into the soil. Injectors poured a sludge of nitrates and growth enhancers into the furrow, and at five meter intervals a small seedling was ejected into the furrow. The rear of the former comprised a smaller version of the plowscraper, angled, to sweep the furrow flat after the small trees had been planted. As she looked back, Gwynneth felt a sense of pride; the rows of 60cm tall trees were symmetrical and stretched as far as the eye could see. In time, the forest that grew here would cover some hundreds of square kilometers of Planet’s surface. She felt that she was present at the creation of something that would glorify New Jerusalem.
She turned round, and froze In the valley between the hillside she was working, and the next, she could see the two columns of vehicles approaching. It could only mean one thing. Zakharov’s troops were arriving.
Gwynneth toggled her local comm-link. “Get me Sven”, she rasped, “I think we have company”
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I arrived a few minutes later, my implanted muscle boosters working overtime as I loped the few clicks to the Former. My retinal implants boosted the magnification to the extent that I could make out details of the approaching troops. They looked like armored rovers, with Particle Impactor weapons pods mounted on each. They looked ominous.
Some minutes later I was back in the base, reviewing our defenses with Sister Miriam. I thought the situation hopeless.
“Sister Miriam”, I began, “You must try to make contact with Zakharov, and sue for peace. Our preparations aren’t nearly complete, so we must stall for time.”
“I despise him”, she snarled, her voice full of loathing and contempt. “He and his godless horde of followers should never have been allowed on this mission”.
“But he is here, and with particle impactors”, I said, imploring her to try to raise him on her comm-link.
She flicked the cover off the comm-link, and keyed in the code. “He is getting my signal but is refusing to answer”, she said, snapping the link closed.
I winced. We were in for deep trouble.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
We cowered in the Base as the projectiles rained overhead. Occasionally one of the scout posts would take a direct hit, that scattered flying shards of plastisteel and synthmetal through the air, causing severe collateral damage to the four battalions. I myself took some damage when a piece of a metal girder from the exploding barracks building scythed through my arm, severing muscle and tendon, but more importantly, rendering inoperative my weaponry for that arm.
Nor was there any rest. The relentless pounding continued day and night, making it impossible for our beleaguered scout battalions to get treatment.
Our entire economy was on a war footing. Every resource the base had was devoted to training and arming our citizenry for the battle. The technicians were producing supplies of the synthmetal as fast as they could, as were the armaments manufacturers. Raw recruits were hastily run through the barest of training programs before being rushed over to get their weapons training and being fitted for the body armor.
Even Gwynneth was under fire. She reported that a University armored unit was sitting on the hill above her repeatedly catching her former in its crossights and unleashing a barrage that was repeatedly hitting her.
I advised her to try to gain the altitude advantage, but she reported that she was blocked by the Rover, and couldn’t move. Dear sweet Gwynneth. I feared for her life.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
That evening the war council met, with Sister Miriam chairing. We were discussing tactics when suddenly her comm-link chimed. She activated the unit, and a beatific smile slowly spread across her face. “Yes, yes, I’ll be there” she said, and snapped the unit off.
We all turned expectantly. “Zakharov?” I enquired.
“No”, she responded. “Deirdre. She has convened a Planetary Council meeting, holographically, for later tonight. You are all welcome to attend, although it will be only me that they will see at their end.”
We filed into Miriam’s offices, and took our places at the end of the table. At the deadline exactly, the holograph sprang to view. Seated round the conference table were the seven faction leaders, with the evil Zakharov smirking at one end. To the amusement of the others in the Believers room I stood up, and out of view of our projectors, walked round and put my fist through the face of the antichrist. That even brought a sly smirk to Sister Miriam’s face, and elicited a wink from her to me.
Lady Deirdre was voted Planetary Governor, and arrangements were made for all the faction leaders to talk privately afterwards, with the exception of Zakharov, who still refused pointblank to speak to Miriam.
We signed a Pact with the Spartans, and friendship agreements with the others, except for the godless University, who were pounding our base mercilessly even as the Council meeting was underway. However, signing friendship treaties and getting tangible expressions of friendship are two different things. We had no credits to buy any advanced technology, and none of our own to trade. No one was willing to bestow any upon us, not even Santiago.
Eventually the other faction leaders stopped receiving Sister Miriam’s comm-link calls. Our situation was becoming desperate. Each round of bombardment was taking its toll on all of us, from the grizzled veterans to the rawest recruits, but the hardest part was being unable to effect repairs.
Sister Miriam eventually called me in to her offices. “Sven”, she began, “I want you to go and try and locate another of these monoliths that were so helpful in restoring your health. The way to the one that you found is blocked by the professor’s forces so you will have to go south.”
I left with a heavy heart.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I stayed in touch by comm-link, vowing vengeance as I heard the last goodbye of Gwynneth as the artillery pounded her former into a pile of smoldering metal.
I rejoiced with the others when I heard that Lady Deirdre had loaned Miriam enough credits to commission two new battalions of garrison troops. I groaned when advised of yet another veteran scout who had succumbed.
Then I found the monolith. Its arcane technology worked exactly as it had done before, and I spoke exultantly to Miriam. “It’s about 15 clicks south”, I said. “Stagger the units’ leaving so that there will always be at least four in the base for defensive purposes”
“It’s too late, was Miriam’s sad response. “We have only four units left, and not enough minerals to equip another garrison unit. Even Deirdre has tired of my calls”.
My spirits sagged. I loped back in ground covering strides, knowing that my presence was needed as never before.
My comm-link beeped. It was Miriam.
“Sven”, she said, “It’s over. Even now Zakharov’s units are entering the base, and I am to be taken for torturing at his fiendish hands.”
My heart bled for her.
“You have been a good friend to us”, she said, “even if not one of us at heart. I release you from your vow of service. Go find Santiago and sign up with her. And will you do something for me?”
“Of course”, I replied, “name it”.
“Make it your mission, Sven, to find Zakharov, and assassinate him for me”.
[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited June 07, 1999).]