<Second Draft> A sharp crack echoed through the basement of the Civic Center. I fought the urge to get down as my encoded instincts screamed for me to hit the deck. I remained standing with an effort of will; falling down every time someone dropped a pallet wasn't going to make unloading these boxes any easier. The Imp working the pallet with me glanced up as I faltered in our rhythm. His eyes were twitchy, afraid, but he stood there trying to look unconcerned. Not a soldier then, a civilian. No Imperial soldier would stand within easy reach of a Jekotian fighting back the urge to run... or to kill. The Imps had won the war, and Jekotians were second class citizens now. To the Imps our speed and strength and endurance only meant that we could do more work in less time, and my status as a Former Enemy Combatant meant they could pay me less for it. I bent back to my work, focusing on the mindless routine of lift, turn, set down, turn back. The pain of our defeat burned deep in my soul. It had been that way since the end of My War. I say "My War" because brave Jekotians still struggled against the Imperial dogs in the northern territories, at the heart of ancient Jekotia. There were heavily censored reports of terrorist activities to the north, so I knew we were still hurting them. The Imps had gone so far as to call us the "Northern Faction", as if changing our name could make us less than what we were, the true sons of Jekotia, the rightful rulers of the great and noble empire that brought civilization to the savages. While the Brenodi had taken to technology and the trappings of power, at heart they were still the cruel barbarians we had tried to civilize all those centuries ago. It tore at my soul, that I was no longer an active soldier. At the same time, I was still a citizen and soldier of Jekotia, and unlike the Imps with their cybernetic implants, I couldn't turn off who and what I was. I am Jekotian right down to my DNA, literally born and bred for war, a fully functional combat system engineered to be the ultimate multi-purpose killing machine. A killing machine who spent all day shifting boxes from one pallet to another. The long rows of pallets filling the basement were coming to an end when the world exploded. Blazing white light filled my mind, a low rumbling roar echoed in my ears, trailing off into a painful quasi-electronic scream as the light faded away. I just had time to realize that I'd been hit with an Imp security stunner when the floor rushed up and smacked me in the face. I fell between the pallets into the aisle leading to the wide double doors out of the basement. Beams of blue-white light stabbed down from the darkness behind the overhead lights as the Imp security system tried to knock me out. I rolled to my feet and dashed for the door, twisting and strafing to avoid the enemy fire. Confused Imp civilians stared and shouted questions as I raced past them. A few of the Imps were silent, standing bolt upright as their implants churned through POST and initialization procedures. Soldiers in the Brenodi Empire, specially equipped to make them almost a match for a Jekotian, but neuro-patches and muscular-skeletal grafts are nothing compared to the elegant and time-tested gene sequences I was born with. I didn't have to wait for anything to initialize or connect... I AM Jekotia. The security doors slammed shut around a pallet full of candy and ground to a halt in a shower of colored sugar. Security beams sparkled around me as I leapt through the gap above the crushed boxes. The late-afternoon sunlight blinded me as I flew between the double doors and landed in the serviceway beneath the Civic Center auditorium. I stumbled up the ramp as alarms rang out in the public square. The square was crowded with shouting crying Imps pushing toward safety, desperate to find shelter before the dreaded terrorists attacked. The blue-black pyramid of the Civic Center loomed behind me as I pushed my way through the herd of panicked Imp civvies running for the emergency shelters beneath the auditorium. I felt an old familiar tickle in the back of my mind, and suddenly became aware that I was in the southeast corner of a roughly square plot of land a half mile or so on a side, a seemingly insignificant bit of city and lakeside property ringed by low hills and Imp security systems. I allowed the awareness of the landscape to fill my mind searching for the location of the power that drew me onward. Immediately I sensed what I needed, a warm homelike feeling pulled me toward the west, a safe haven of almost tangible familiarity and comfort, a Jekotian barracks. I turned towards it, running around a typically ugly Imp building and onto a long bridge. The crowds of Imp civvies had dispersed before I made it halfway across the bridge, my initial rush of adrenaline fading as I slowed to a stumbling walk, disgustingly out of shape. I trotted the rest of the way across the bridge, then broke into a run as I caught sight of the old familiar shapes of Jekotian automatic defense turrets guarding the entrance to a Imp construction area. They tracked me as I ran up, but did not fire. Despite my Brenodi work clothes, even the simple circuitry of the turrets could tell I was superior to any Imp... that and the fact that I wasn't broadcasting on the Imp military frequencies. A basso grumble echoed across the construction site as the dual engines in a massive Command Vehicle turned over nearby. The solid reddish mass of a Barracks appeared out of the afternoon mist, and I saw for the first time in years other Jekotian soldiers as they dashed into and around the building. A group of men lifted sheets of rusty metal into position by sheer physical strength, and a pair of engineers clinging to the sides of the Barracks quickly riveted them into place. A cheer went up as the two men jumped to the ground and declared that the Barracks was complete. As I ran with my brothers into the welcoming steel womb of the Barracks I felt alive again for the first time in years. The room echoed with the sounds of power tools as the building materials stacked in neat piles across the acres of concrete were re-purposed into weapons of war. The Imps had thought themselves safe, so far from the front. Construction sites and material stockpiles were common in the areas where the Imps were rebuilding the cities they destroyed in the war, and we were quick to take advantage of them. All around me metal pipes and electrical fittings were coming together in ways that completely voided their warranties. My eyes were drawn to a table at one end of the room where a trio of technicians labored under an old, but serviceable display screen. Not only were the techs the first Jekotian women I had seen in years, but the display itself was an eye catching relic of command technology from the early days of the war. The whole room quieted for just a moment as the screen glowed into life and the techs began handing out the battle-scarred comm helmets that would allow us to hear - and obey, our leaders from anywhere on the coming battlefield. I quickly entered my serial number and was strangely ecstatic when my old name appeared in the list on the big screen. The techs finished their work and we all stared after them as they left the Barracks for the relative safety of the Command Vehicle. It took a whole squad of specially engineered techs to keep the huge vehicle and it's systems running, and we sometimes joked - only half in jest, that it was the irreplaceable (and extremely well designed) female technicians that we were protecting, not the equally rare Command Vehicle itself. As if in response to my thoughts, the data flashing across big screen updated and Commander: NONE flickered into Commander: Tallmage. It didn't matter that I had never heard of a Commander Tallmage in my life, command vehicles were only awarded to the best men, soldiers that had proven themselves in leadership positions time and again. I had a Commander again, he was in the CV, the Barracks was just as I remembered, and a pair of refineries were already coming together on the Resource Points the Imps had uncovered to power the installation they had planned to build here. I was more than happy to help my brothers change those plans. I adjusted the comm helmet's straps and fitted it on my head. Nano actuators whirred as tiny lasers scanned an image directly onto my left retina. The HUD was minimal, the information broadcast over our comm units was only the most basic and non-critical, to prevent the Imps from gaining anything of value when they inevitably cracked our encryption. I ran through the personnel lists and discovered that no one I knew was presently on the battlefield. My old squad was long dead, and I hadn't been part of the active military in years, so I had to apply for a slot in a squad that was forming up with other soldiers in the same situation. That done, I hustled over to a pile of crates stacked with equipment and requested an Engineer's kit.
The quartermaster was a scarred old soldier with a hard glare who looked right through me a moment, then began throwing items in my general direction as he muttered under his breath. I caught a battered old reddish coat with armor plates bolted onto it, and a pair of too-small combat boots that I squeezed my feet into by stomping on the floor as hard as I could. I snatched up my SMG, checking it for fatal defects, as it had just been assembled from scrap metal less than an hour before. The quartermaster looked as if I had offended him, but he was considerably more careful when he handed me my Engineer's Tool. Like the Command Vehicle and the Comm Helmets, the Engineers Tool earns its capitalization by being one of the rare and indispensable pieces of early war equipment that we need to win the war. There are still a few industrial bases hidden in the far north, but they cannot begin to keep up with the demand for the few high tech devices we absolutely must have. I didn't get nearly as much ammunition as I would have liked, but the men behind me all needed equipment and ammo as much as I did. I stepped away from the crowd around the crates, forcing a loaded magazine into my smg and cycling the bolt to load the first round into the chamber. The tool belt cinched snugly into place with the mostly empty ammo pouches within easy reach. I pulled out my Engineer's tool and tapped in my personal code as I walked towards the exit. I stood on the threshold of the Barracks and looked out to where a handful of engineers worked to build a crude refinery, engineering tools sparking bright as plasma streams welded the delicate internal parts of the refinery that couldn't simply be riveted or bolted together. I itched to get out there, but I lingered within the Barracks until my application to join Golf Squad was approved. It was critical to belong to a squad because of the limited power available to us deep within enemy territory. Batteries were woefully inadequate, and power cables impossibly cumbersome, so we used an old broadcast power system. It was terribly inefficient, and had a limited range, but it worked and could not be blocked or jammed. The techs in the Command Vehicle finally approved my squad request, and my status within the Command Network rose immediately. Extra energy flowed into my personal systems, and I immediately routed it into my 'tool, greatly enhancing its building ability. 'Tool in hand I raced across the dusty concrete to where the second refinery stood incomplete. The inside of the refinery looked like an explosion in a conduit factory, but a few moments poking around assured me that I still remembered how it all worked. I spot welded the energy transmit unit onto the generator and attached the power relays as two other engineers riveted the armor plates onto the base. One of them looked over my work and pronounced it acceptable, so we proceeded to fit the curved sections of the outer shell and weld them into place. The other engineers wrestled the corrugated resource transfer pipe into place as I keyed into my 'tool the access codes that couldn't be safely transmitted over the comm. The refinery banged and clanked as it began to convert the raw material of the Node into Resources the Commander could use. As crude as our technology has become, we have one thing the Imps never will. Every Command Vehicle contains a carefully grown and lovingly supported Genetic Life-form and Disk Operating System. As good as the Imp's computers are, they can't beat good old-fashioned genetic engineering. Any comm channel can be jammed, any computer system can be hacked, but a living, thinking Empath encased in an armored mobile life-support system is impossible to block or subvert. The Imps can go on all they want about "unnatural abominations" and "the rights of all people to live free", but we never force anyone to fight. There will always be a few who are born physically unfit but mentally gifted. Unlike the hypocritical Imps, if these specially gifted individuals wish to contribute to the defense of Jekotia, we will find a place for them. Some physical and mental alteration is, of course, required... but those who survive it never complain of what they sacrificed for the cause. I felt the touch of the Empath in the back of my mind. Some soldiers complained about it, said it itched or burned or irritated them. There is no way to block the Empath, if you are within a mile or so and psi-sensitive (as all Jekotians are engineered to be), you will feel it when it sends to you. I had always liked it, it kind of tickles. There are no real words in a sending, I simply had a sudden urge to protect something several meters behind me. I turned to see the shells of an Armory and a Vehicle Factory being raised by soldiers, a few engineers climbing through the internal parts as they directed the grunts where to place the wiring and sheets of metal they were pulling out of the rapidly dwindling piles of Imp construction materials. As I moved towards the new buildings a real voice crackled through my comm helmet's earphones, badly distorted by the Imps jamming of our comm frequencies. "Ok guys, build these, then half of you get mines and RPG's with all the ammo you can, and take jeeps into the city to clear it out so the Engineers can build us a second Barracks in there." A pair of soldiers held up a section of sheet metal as my 'tool beeped and spat white lightning, fusing it permanently into the Armory's walls. Another group of soldiers struggled to carry in heavy crates of precious ammunition and medical supplies while a fellow engineer strung the wiring for the lights and ventilation system. A Scout wandered past me, scoped rifle useless after firing all his rounds at the impossibly distant targets of the Imp military, who had apparently just realized where we were because this idiot had shot at them. The idiot stumbled into the Armory, pushed past the soldiers carrying supplies and fumbled with the locked crates, trying to force them open, apparently unaware that the particulate filtration and inventory control systems were still being built. The Scout peered out at me through the louvered windows of the bunker-like building. "How get ammo?" he asked as we finished our work and the Armory hummed to life. I shook my head in disbelief, then forgot all about the idiot as the Empath tickled my mind. I was filled with a warm feeling of accomplishment, and I knew that my hard work had been recognized and appreciated by those in charge, and I would be rewarded for it. The knowledge of who was an effective soldier was something the Imps could not be allowed to know, so it was monitored and relayed to the commander by the Empath alone. Along with the sense of accomplishment was a special feeling of togetherness, a flavor of teamwork that surprised me. I scanned my HUD and was surprised to see that the other engineer in the Armory was my Squad Leader. I looked up to see him trot down the armory steps, slinging a case of extra ammo onto his back. Once I actually took a good look at him the Empath marked his presence in my mind, ensuring that I would always know his physical location and health in the future. I saluted as he passed, then ran into the Armory, snatching an empty ammo crate off the shelves. I filled my my ammo pouches, and my status as an engineer unlocked the inventory control system to allow me to fill the crate with all the ammo my enhanced strength would allow me to carry. I slung it across my back and cinched the straps tight as I left the building. I hurried toward the Vehicle Factory, a large project, and critical to our success. A small group of engineers and soldiers was already at work there, my squad leader directing the effort to maneuver the complex machinery of stolen Imp auto-assemblers into place. The equipment would be re-programmed to build simple but effective war machines and munitions instead of the commercial electronics and household appliances the Imps had intended. As I joined them I felt a soothing coolness radiating out from my squad leader. He was re-broadcasting the extra energy the Commander was sending him, surrounding himself with a carefully modulated energy field encouraging the genetically engineered bodies of his squadmates to heal themselves. I had forgotten about the Imp security beam that had almost knocked me out earlier, but now I realized that the pain was gone, the burns across my scalp were healing with unaccustomed speed. This was yet another thing the Imps could never do. Only carefully crafted genetic engineering could create a system sensitive enough to produce energy fields that would heal you where you stood. The late afternoon sunlight seemed brighter as I stepped up to the half-built factory and began spot-welding a wall section to the support girders already in place. I realized that our Commander had an actual plan, I had a Squad Leader who was doing his job, and I knew this city like the back of my hand. The plasma streams arcing against the wall were painfully bright, and my armor was already beginning to chafe, but I smiled to myself as we assembled an automated factory that would build the vehicles we would ride into a deadly explosive hell. It sure beat shifting pallets.
The writing is great, but in terms of relation to the Empires universe, its a failure. Jekotian's don't have a HUD, they don't have a network they log into mentally. Their military enhancements are purely genetics. The closest thing to a HUD they have is the un-natural sense of how badly they are wounded. They can detect how deep a bullet has penetrated, what it has hit, and how lethal it is if not removed or treated. They by no means have a HUD that creeps into their vision with technical information. Any HUD a Jekotian would have would be in an external interface, such as goggles. Its things like that, that don't fit. Jekotians dont have advanced technology like the Brenodi. Much of what you describe doesn't fit. It also sounds too much like a games retelling, and not a real conflict.
dis regard his state ments. he obveosly dosent understand ythe purpose of this story. Which is awsome! Great job!
Why a _harsh_ critique is NOT automatically a _negative_ critique. I do tend to disregard unfounded criticism... but this is not it. Ningleepo has taken the time to read and critique my writing, which IS why I posted it here. He therefore deserves consideration on MY part _at least_ as detailed and thorough as HIS consideration and reply. Ningleepo makes several important observations regarding the form and content of my story, and I'll address each of them in the order he chose to present them. 1: "The writing is great" Thank You! I've spent several years refining my understanding of the English language, its vocabulary and grammar, and the use to which both may be applied in the field of science fiction. None of that, however, makes a story "great"... only readable. It's good to know that the story I wrote contains that extra bit of 'something' that makes a story WORTH reading. 2: "in terms of relation to the Empires universe, its a failure" The real critique starts here, and could be easily ignored... EXCEPT, he then goes on to give several specific examples supporting his thesis. No real artist will ignore a person who is honestly trying to help the artist improve by identifying real flaws in the work, and who then offers useful ideas to correct those flaws. 3: "Jekotian's don't have a HUD, they don't have a network they log into mentally. Their military enhancements are purely genetics" This is a kind of grey area, as 'what a NF soldier actually sees/feels' is not explicitly stated in the official materials, BUT it is an opinion which is widely shared by many Empires Mod players AND Developers. Further, I share this opinion myself. In this case, I failed completely. I knew I was failing to convey my meaning even as I was writing it, and I was too lazy to put in the extra effort necessary to step outside of my own (computer based) conceptual framework and really put myself into the mind of a Jekotian. This is, in my opinion, my greatest (and most unforgiveable) failure in the story. 4: "The closest thing to a HUD they have is the un-natural sense..." And here he gives me a key to understanding and properly conveying the world-view and awareness of a Jekotian. This is something most critics would not do, and I am grateful for his willingness to do it. A key point in the Empires Mod conflict is that the Jekotians are just plain _un-natural_. They are not just unWILLING to give up the war, they are physically and mentally unABLE to accept their defeat. In the classic (current American Foreign Policy) view, the Brenodi are the technically advanced, genetically pure, disciplined, humane, peace-keeping HEROES. The Jekotians are nothing more than vicious trans-human TERRORISTS, contemptable genetically flawed remnants of a fallen empire that brought about its own inevitable destruction when its people chose to indulge in unnatural practices against the proper order of life itself. 5: "Jekotians don't have advanced technology" This is one of the key points in the game, which I completely ignored. I chose to describe advanced technologies totally at odds with the stated capabilites of the NF. Not to mention that the tech shown in the game is conspicuously absent, with the sole exception of the Engineers Tool. This is a major and seemingly obvious point, which I missed competely in my story. This is why multiple drafts and serious critique is absolutely necessary. 6: "It also sounds too much like a games retelling, and not a real conflict." A good point, which I noticed myself in the second section. This is one place where 'merely' sticking with accepted universe lore will not help me. I actually have to work on my writing skillset to bring more STORY into the story. As the admirable Mr. King instructs; put believable characters into interesting situations, and the characters own self-consistent response to the situation will practically write the story for you. (Although he spent most of a chapter in On Writing to make the point.) I think it is clear that ningleepo DOES understand the point of my story, and cares enough to point out where I had lost sight of it myself. However, it is also VERY nice to have friends who will defend you even when you are dead wrong! Thank-you Ningleepo and Vessboy. I will try to have a corrected second draft posted this weekend... as I now have a real 40hr/week job taking up my weekdays.
A few other things I didn't point out as I was in a rush. In the back story, it isn't random commanders. Commanders are qualified and highly experienced tacticians. There are no 'bad' commanders, but there may be some that use unorthodox and foolish tactics. There is also no respawning. If they are dead they must be revived, and even then, only if their brain is still alive (some of this stuff I am working on. Have been talking to devs to ensure it fits for Empires.) The basic system of reviving is attaching a needle to the little tube like thing sticking out the bottom of the NF calc, then jabbing that into the chest of the fallen. It uses biological agents combined with electrical pulses to restart the victims heart. In addition, the NF don't fight because they CANNOT stop. At least, not in the normal sense. Its not that they simply can't, they just simply refuse to allow the Brenodi to control them. They are a strong and proud people, and they believe they can save the planet from being consumed by a fascist war. edit: 3 more things. Soldiers don't apply to squads, they train with them and go into combat with them. They may join another squad if their the lone survivor, but they don't simply walk out onto the battlefield and apply to a squad. The commander wouldn't be pre-recorded. Communications gear is standard gear. Typically, all soldiers have a headset and a short-wave radio pack on them. Everyone communicates themselves unless they need radio silence, at which point +mute. Weapons don't come out the floor floating. There would be arms racks and storage space for gear. In the back story, this can lead to specialized situations, like heavy infantry with different weapons loadouts (e.g. an engineer with an assault rifle, or a scout with a deployable camera).
If the story is very far from the empires universe - then surely so must the game be? The story is very much consistent with the game version of the universe, and since the universe is a background to the game (assuming it was that way around) then doesn't it make it more accurate this way? I see the point of having a background situation, but if the story ties into the game then is it the story and the game that are both wrong or the universe - or, my favourite option, does it not really matter as long as its all good entertainment? Heck, if in the course of a well told story BE soldiers come across a TSA marine base and everyone gets attacked by kahraa and a predalien (ok that sounds a rubbish story) then whats wrong with that? Separate point really, the main one is that if its a blending of universe and game then where game aspects don't fit with the universe, its up to the writer to choose. Needing a hud to compensate for it being a game not us actually being a weird NF chap doesn't mean we don't see a hud. Main criticism, on seeing "Commander : Vess", surely the natural reaction would be to run screaming back to the crate packing facility?
Hey! I've proven my self well enough. Being voted 4 times in a row means i'm at least carismatic. If not successful. No this story draws you closer to actual gameplay then any other. It's based on the actual game. And thus perfect in its craft. ningleepo his mentioning of respawning is funny! your totaly the guy surrounded by a laughing crowd saying:"I don't get it, It dosent make sense"
The second draft is awsome. the ending is a bit abrupt tho. you should write the whole mission. Talmage is my midle name...
ahh, nice revision, its still the same story and effect but taking into account ninglee's comments and 'fitting' better I suppose - nice and organic soldiers. I secretly hope that the sensible comm is replaced by HSM and shouting later in the story... hmm maybe thats not quite as secret as it was
Thanks! I'm really trying to keep the characters real this time. Not so secret, no. There will be shouting, but I'm not familiar with HSM, tell me what it is and I'll see what I can do. Thanks, that's why I love feedback! It helps me improve. Yes, it is a bit abrupt, and I do plan to write it all, as well as giving BOTH sides their chance to shine. I'm thinking that I will alternate writing from the Brenodi/NorthernFaction POV every 2 posts or so. I type slowly, and don't have a ton of time, but I am serious about this, so expect the next section to be from the POV of a Brenodi National Guardsman working in the Civic Center with the NF main character.
Now that sir, that is absolutely amazing. The writing and content is by far among the best in Empires fiction. MOAR! p.s. I is ningleepoo
BE POV <First Draft> I watch the new guys drop a pallet. They have fallen behind and they know it, so they are in a hurry. New guys think that working faster is somehow going to make up for their lack of skill and experience, it never does. They both turn to look up at the control booth where the manager is "supervising" from, but I have better things to do than stare at the warped reflections in the cheap mirrored safety glass. Three of the teams unloading pallets have stopped. At two pallets a man shaped thing stands twitching, his partner eying him warily. Animals. Human shaped, but twisted into rabid killer things on the inside. One of the men partnered with the animals is smarter than the other. He stepped out of reach, ready to move if things go bad. The other man is ignorant, untrained. Not military. The pallet nearest him is the other that has stopped. The men there are old military stock, their surgical scars are years old, almost invisible unless you know what to look for. They will move in if it comes down to it, but it probably won't be fast enough to save the idiot. The animals shake themselves like dogs and bend back to their work, pretending to be something other than what they are, pretending to be men. It's a shame that they all couldn't have been liquidated at the end of the war, but someone on their side was more clever than we gave them credit for. There was the big public cease-fire, the long-negotiated terms of surrender that meant nothing. It was all just a show for the civilians, a stall for time while they moved their most critical resources and most horrific excesses into hiding. Even as their "peace martyrs" signed the treaties, the real leaders were consolidating their forces in the mouldering halls of long forgotten Jekotian kings. So now we have to give them jobs, let them live among us, pretend that they aren't just biding their time before they strike again. A clever ruse, making us take their soldiers into our homes, convincing the civvies that they were harmless, making believe that the long war was finally over. The first terrorist attacks on (insert reference to earliest emp_map here) should have changed all that, but the bleeding hearts down south refuse to do what needs to be done. The so called "Jekotians" are NOT people, no matter what they claim. Their own scientists admit that they are genetically distinct from real humans... although they don't put it quite that way. Genetics speak louder than words. The Empire tries to cover it up, don't ask me why, but anyone who's ever cracked open a NF command vehicle knows the truth. The NF terrorists are no more people than any of the other vicious animals that once roamed the northern wastes, and now real people have to risk their lives working with them. A delivery is rolling in late, the afternoon sunshine floods through the big double doors as a powered hand-jack whines back and forth, a bored truck driver letting the servos do all the work. The last pallet is rolling in through the doors when the world explodes into searing white. A miniature clap of thunder gains richness as it rolls through the cavernous warehouse, it trails off into the static whine the pa system feedbacks into when the overhead security stunners are recharging. Off to my left the white flash of the stunners strikes again and again. I try to turn and look, but my neuro-muscular system has been temporarily interrupted by the Master Control Program hardcoded into my R-Grade military cyber rig. Time slows when the rig kicks on, a safe technological answer to the terrorist's abnormal reflexes. I have plenty of time to see the shock on the drivers face as the heavy security doors smash shut around his pallet of candy. The plastic and fiberboard splinter and tear, scattering candy everywhere, but the tough metal tines of the fork jam the doors open. A flicker of motion to my left resolves into one of the animals making a break for it. The thing snarls and gnashes it's teeth as it leaps clean over the shattered pallet. The stunner caught it a glancing blow, a part of it's hair has burned away, it's head trails a thin stream of greasy smoke. The candy is still tumbling lazily through the air as the creature hits the concrete of the walkway and dashes out into the crowd. The red and orange candies spray up amid the brown and grey clouds of shredded packing materials like the blast of a sugary sweet land mine, and I come out of cyber paralysis laughing so hard I fall down. Sometimes the switchover is like that, your mind takes the shock of the rig initializing as a burst of emotional static. I stop laughing almost as quickly as I began. The take cover alarms are already sounding and the civvies thronging the square are beginning to realize something is wrong. Soon they will panic, and the nearest emergency shelter is right here, the door jammed with spilled candies. I hit the unlock/override on my way out the door, and the driver falls back in panic as I yank the hand-jack controls out of his grasp. I'm running the thing on full even before the doors pull free of the wreckage. The tires squeal and smoke, the servos sparking as the smashed bearings tear themselves to pieces. I just manage to get the thing clear of the doorway when the screaming crowd of civvies hits me like a slow motion avalanche of flailing limbs and too-fat bodies. By the time I fight my way clear of the inrushing tide the other Soldiers in the room are hustling the body of one of the terrorists deeper into the complex. I've told the managers before that the security stunners are inadequate antiques, but they won't spend the credits to replace them until somebody forces them to do it. Even now they will probably try to claim that the one animal they caught is proof that the system works, instead of the dismal failure it is. I follow my fellow Soldiers out of the warehouse as the room rapidly fills with crying, screaming people all sure that the terrorists are about to kill them all. The manager stumbles drunkenly out of the control booth as I pass, he snatches at my sleeve, his voice a drunker slur even slower than usual. I shrug him off, closing the door to the complex behind me and hitting the override that will keep the civvies locked in the warehouse where they can't do too much harm. Soon enough the homeland security teams will show up to make sure they are watered and fed, until then they can eat all the candy they want. It's a relief to be in the quiet darkness of the sub corridors. My fellow Soldiers move and think with the same enhanced speed as I do. Their augments let them carry the weight of the animal's body without slowing their rapid steps. We are already moving faster than most civvies can run, and we're not even trying. It's so good to feel the crackling power of my implants after so much down-time. The few weekends a month and one week a year are not nearly enough when you have to spend the rest of your life slow and weak and half-blind. I can almost understand why the Jekotians chose to make their enhancements permanent, and I quickly push the thought away. The sunlight is blinding after the darkness of the corridors. I turn toward the center of town, following my companions towards the command center. The two carrying the body take a different route, toward the hospital. They'll have to run to get to the comm center in time, but for a Soldier, running is a part of life. Hurry up... and wait. I fall into line at the comm center, a silent line of grim men standing in stark contrast to the thinning tide of civvies disappearing into the shelters like cockroaches scurrying from the light. The line snakes forward without a pause. Each man is a finely tuned engine powering the intricate machinery of war, our implanted rigs feeding each of us a constant stream of vital information on the progress of the battle and our place in it. I am two men away from the quartermaster when the authoritative growl of a Command Vehicle echoes through the nearly deserted streets. I take my kit form the quartermaster and pop the comm helmet onto my head, the straps pre-tensioned to my personal specifications. Slipping into my crisp new combat fatigues is like coming home again. I feel the smooth weight of the rocket launcher in my hands and a spontaneous grin light up my face. It never fails. No matter that a grenadier carries the heaviest load, it just means that I can do that much more damage. The Command Vehicle grumbles to a stop outside the Command Center, and the valet leaps out, holding the door for a smartly dressed man that strides up and climbs in like he owns the place. The valet leaps into the jeep bearing the commanders aide's and the REMF's peel out, leaving twenty feet of rubber as they run like the cowards they are. The Commander leads from the front with the real Soldiers while his advisers cower like civilians in a hardened bunker, sniveling voyeuristic spectators viewing the battle with cloaked mini-sensor units that don't even have weapons on them. In the (laughably unlikely) event that the terrorists ever manage to decrypt our command net, each of us is known by a nickname, instead of our real names. So when the info-stream on my hud flips from Commander: NONE to CommanderleaginousNephropidae I know better than to comment on it... I just wonder what to call him. My confusion is short lived, as a cultured south-central Imperial accent rolls through my earphones. "Good afternoon, Gentlemen. It is my pleasure to be commanding you in the exercise this evening." The Commander continues in a clearly confident vein. "With a good sharp push and some honest effort from each of you we can take out this rabble and have the good folks of... this fine city home in time to enjoy a late supper!"
BE POV <First Draft> I roll my eyes at the men nearest me, and we share a silent laugh. I'm sure the Commander has impressed the right people down south, but the man doesn't even know the name of the city he's fighting in. My impression doesn't improve with his next announcement. "For the sake of keeping things clear in the field, you may address me as 'Commander', but not 'Ollie'". This time several men laugh out loud, but I manage a brief coughing fit instead. I'm silently considering our chances when Ollie announces that we will be pushing back 'the rabble' with a pair of forward bases, the first to be set in the square outside the Civic Center. It's awfully close to the woods, and open on two sides. Even a grunt like me realizes that the partially constructed industrial park across the bridge is likely the terrorists staging ground. My mood brightens considerably as we form up and fall in behind the flatbed haulers carrying the prefab sections of our first barracks. The bridge between the Civic Center and the Industrial park will make a great choke point for enemy armor, and I've always been fond of land mines.
