The screen flickered for a few seconds before the image resolved itself. When the static cleared, a man blinked sad eyes and wiped a nervous sweat from his balding head. He was dressed from neck to toe in a flexible, formfitting suit, and in the crook of an arm he carried a helmet.
“My son,” he said, smiling mournfully. “If you are receiving this message, then I pray that I am at your side, laughing at how ridiculous I probably look in my neurosuit. If not…”
The man on the viewscreen swallowed, as if forcing a lump down his throat.
“If…I am not there watching this with you, than it likely means that by now…” The man bit his lip. “I often regret the words with which I sent you away, all those years ago, and now I have but a few moments to make up for all that lost time. There is nothing I would like to see more than a peaceful world, but…
“But because I stood against Security Chief Ernesto Nevarre when he betrayed his promises to the people of Mars, I have brought down the wrath of the Empire upon me and my family. I could have just as easily capitulated, but…you know as well as I that it would be betrayal of the oath I swore when I became the Duke of Prius.” The man gave a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes.
“By the time you receive this message, we’ll probably all be dead. Your sisters…your brother…”
The man choked for a moment. “Go, my son. Stay away from Mars. Nothing awaits you here but pain, suffering, and, ultimately, death.”
The man opened his eyes and licked his suddenly dry lips. “Go to your grandfather. He commands a mercenary unit called ‘The Stone Ravens’. Find him, and sign on to a squad. They’ll keep your Herc repaired and in good working order.” The man’s face creased.
“Bear our name proudly. Farewell, my son.”
The image flickered and faded.
A split second later, a wrench pinwheeled through the air and smashed the viewscreen into a million shards, spilling glass out onto the rusted, worn deck. Sparks shot out from the viewscreen panel, and the smell of charred ozone filled the air.
“Christ and Hunter!”
An old man stood in front of the screen, slightly agape. He peered in closer to get a better look at the damage. The wrench itself had fused into what was left of the circuitry and stuck out at a funny angle.
The old man shook a few shards of glass from his black pants leg and glared at the room’s other occupant. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, boy. Do you have idea how expensive CRT panels are? If you want to stay on board—“
“What makes you think I care, Vissariun?” The eyes of the younger one burned with barely-contained rage. Gregory smashed his hand down upon the adjacent panel. “My family has been wiped off the surface of Mars. The ones who killed them deserve the same fate.”
Vissariun peered into the eyes of his grandson. On wrong move and he would turn into Hell with the lid off.
"You forget, Gregory, that they were my family too. I mourn them still, but I learned long ago that rage such as yours leads to nothing but an early death.”
“The Empire has grown far too arrogant and domineering, Vissariun.” Gregory’s steel-grey eyes blinked. “The board has been set. The pieces are ready. I say we—“
Oh, you young fool…
In a blue of motion, Vissariun grabbed his grandson’s hand, slammed it onto the surface of an adjacent panel, and rammed the blade of a dagger between his fingers.
“The board does not matter if the hand is dead!”
The look of rage on Gregory’s face quickly turned to one of shock. The cold feel of the blade still lingered on his hand, even when the blade had been withdrawn. A small dent on the panel remained.
“If you want revenge for the death of your family, your head needs to stay cool. Rage and recklessness will only lead you to their fate as well.” Vissariun looked at the remains of the viewer. “Nerves of steel serve you better than nerves of fire. Understand?”
Gregory hastily bobbed his head in an affirmative.
“Good.”
Vissariun released his grandson’s hand
"Our first mission begins now. We land in twenty minutes. Get suited up.”
In an abandoned warehouse in the Tharsis province of Mars, Rebel operative Tyra Miraborg was cursing her luck…that, and just plain cursing. If words could kill, the warehouse would have been a crater long ago.
For the umpteenth time, her gloved hand smashed into one of the heavily corroded pillars which kept the warehouse aloft. Around her, shelves holding pieces of scattered junk were mute testament to how quickly the former owners had packed up and left.
And if I pack up and leave, there’s a good chance I’m going to die. That sounds like the preferable option right about now…
From a belt she removed a small radio and activated it. She tapped in a twelve-digit encryption code for a particular radio frequency, bit her lip, and began to speak.
“I need a Reb pickup from Tharsis, pronto.”
There was a pause. And then, a male voice, worn from years breathing Martian dust, finally responded.
“Oh, what’s that? You need a pickup? Sure, just like you needed us to abandon one of our pilots out in the dunes. How you forgot to check the caps on the detonators. How you needed us to listen to an Imperial spy! Yeah, you n-“
“Look,” Tyra cut him short. “It’s not my fault that Sax got squikked. If you and all the others want to complain about it, go right ahead. Sax knew what he was getting into when he linked up with us. We all did. What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief.”
“When did you become so cold?” There was a sigh. “Yeah, fine, you’ll get your ride. As a fair warning, though, Billie’s driving, and when you get on board there’s a good chance she’s going to break your jaw.”
“Let her.” Tyra rattled off a set of coordinates, disengaged the link, slumped against a pillar, and sighed. Oh, was it ever going to be a fun ride back to base this time…
1 Comments:
oh thats cool.
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