#ajco-stuff

Name:     Isador

Nature and Climate:    Hot, Mediterranean style climate. The ubiquitous sandstone     ‘Cliffs of Isador’ make up a large part of the geography with cities built in, around, between and on top on them.

Politics:    Nominally democratic, however due to losing part of the coast to State occupation and the constant threat of its expansion, military leadership is heavily involved in civilian matters.

Specialisation:    Historically a centre of art, music, and architecture it is more commonly known for it’s resistance to State expansion attempts and the presence of State Occupied Territory on the coast.

Defining Characteristics - Culture:    Isadorians are a passionate, hardy and stubborn people as a whole. ‘Dug in like an Isadorian’ is a turn of phrase used to describe someone who doesn’t back down from an argument, and is doubly appropriate considering the number of Isadorian settlements dug into and around the cliffs. Relationships between peers (both romantic and not) are very important to Isadorians, with personal respect being highly valued. Intense but short romantic relationships between couples or groups of varying genders are common, particularly amoung the young

Defining Characteristics - Wealth:     Natural resources are not hard to come by, large amounts of natural sandstone, silt, clay, and quartz are found in the cliffs of the central plains, with metallic ores being present in the mountain range marking the inland border. Grapes and olives are common crops, and pre-occupation wines are seen as particularly valuable. While life quality drops rapidly with proximity to the Occupied Territory the country as a whole cannot be considered ‘poor’ despite resources often being funneled into the resistance efforts.

Defining Characteristics - Religion:    Adherence to a  monotheistic religion with reference to saintlike figures is fairly common, but with varying levels of adherence, in the populace. Religious ceremonies are most extravagant and communal for births, deaths and marriages, particularly if the marriage is between more than two people.

Defining Characteristics - Tech:    Technology is mostly at a mid 20th century level, with cheap, automatic firearms being fairly common for resistance fighters. Gasoline is rationed for the resistance effort so use of horses is common for civilians. Cybernetics are uncommon but not unheard of for wounded military officers and have a tendency for function over form.

Defining Characteristics - Magic:    Magic is not very common, especially more studious forms such as Thaumaturgy which are somewhat looked down on as being ‘dry and boring’. Naturally occurring elementalist sorcerors are always welcome in the resistance of course and are the most common form of mage, albeit still a very small section of the population.

Real world analogies:    While not an exact match for any existing real world country or area, if you think of modern Spain (particularly the city of Ronda in terms of appearance) with a dash of Sardinia, mixing with Mexico at the time of the American Frontier you will not be far off.

Character Connections:    D_N has fought for the State against Isador twice, both times in attempts to extend the occupied territory. Firstly at the start of his military career (his climbing ability having been seen as useful in the rocky terrain) and once again four years later for his last deployment before he left the army which involved in part retaking some of the land he helped win (and was subsequently lost again) the first time...

Anything Else - The Occupation:    The area commonly known as ‘Occupied Isador’ (but not by the State which has it’s own ID code for it) radiates outwards from the tactically significant coast and is one of their longest running campaigns. The area of occupation ebbs and flows over the years, with great walls being erected at the division lines when expansions occur giving the area a ‘layered’ view if observed from the air. Expansion is made very difficult due to the highly defensible nature of the Cliffs and it is very frequent for a city to be taken by massed State force only to be taken backyears later when it is seen to be ‘subdued’ enough for resources to be allocated elsewhere, requiring another major push to take it again in a coming year. Occupied Isador shares slight similarity with the rest of the country, but is very subdued as it as State control is anathema to the Isadorian way of life, and the ‘Dories’ as the natives are (slurishly) called colloquially by the State forces are highly resented by most loyal State forces.

Major Cities:   

Espada - Capital city, located far inland.

Casares - Large Military base atop a cliff in the midland plains.

Aguilar - Oft reoccupied farming hub near occupation line.

Malvado - Industrial city near the mines in the mountains.

Moco - Former artistic centre ruined by war bombardment.

Reference Photos

Ronda, in Spain

There had been warnings of course. Lights in the sky. Sounds. Feelings. Building up all at once, like the dull oppressiveness of the void had peeled back to fill the senses with an inaudible but sharp thrum of alien pressure. Not violent, not yet, just... there. As soon as I realised something was happening I was headed to the building like a shot, but by the time I’d got inside the whole business with the crackling sky had ended.

Abruptly.

It felt like we were all in an accelerating car that just took a hard right of a cliff and was going into freefall. The sisters had been sitting in a circle around Ezekiel, chanting in unison near the altar as I burst in. When the pressure stopped they froze. Eyes wide and mouths open as the Father continued his annointments, his paws gently and methodically ministrating oils as he moved around the circle until he had completed his task, and then, raising his head our eyes and he just smiled, knowingly.

That was when the second wave hit, the whole world felt like it had tipped down on it’s end and I went flying, falling through the front door. It was a miracle I managed to grab the outer handle on the way through to be honest. It felt different this time. Angry. An almost naked aggression assaulted all my sense as I flailed about for dear life and the chant from the sisters inside started up again as a kind of plaintiff wail..

That was about 30 seconds ago and they still haven’t come tumbling past me.

Straining I left my head to look upwards into the cathedral as the universe spins, lurching around me. I can barely see anything in this maelstrom of cause and chance and chaos I find myself in, certainly not the sisters or Ezekiel anywhere inside. I can’t even hear their wail any more, merged as it is with the wail of the void and yet somehow I can feel their presence, barely, and it is leaving this place.

Ezekiel’s knowing smile flashes in my mind.

And they are gone.

The Sisters.

The Father.

They are Everywhere and Nowhere now.

I have no idea how I know that, but I do. I know it with the certainty of a dreamer tumbling through the dark and before I can think to much about that I am blessedly distracted by the unholy screeching sound as our tiny spit of rock tears… through the dark and explosions of image flash around and through me, imprinting on my mind’s eye like fragments of the dream I am waking from.

A dark shadow spreading.

Golden fields scattering.

The rushing of water.

A thousand others that I cannot even understand, and I shake my head as above me, in a more immediate reality there is a blur of movement. The creature who wears my friends face reaches down through the doorway with an arm of liquid shadow and I almost reach out instinctively, but in a split second of uncertainty, of unwillingness to face what I had helped create my grip fails and I am falling.

The cathedral spirals away from me, and I am lost.

Again.

The breath is sucked from me, just as it was when I first fell through that blighted tear in the wasteland.

Betrayed by someone who should have known better.

There is no cold seeping into my bones this time though. There is light.

All around me there is blinding light and as time slows to an almost halt my mind races with a thousand faults and failures, of choices sleepwalked into and then…

Impact.

Not a strike, not a blow, I’ve had enough to know the difference, just… the sudden shocking  whiplash that I am not spinning anymore and there is solid, real ground under my back. My lungs gulp air and I struggle to squint through the sunlight, and catch my bearing before the finality of unconsciousness catches up with the only remaining thought my frazzled mind can muster.

I made it.

Behind me, however I do detect footfalls. I recognise the pattern and don't even bother to turn around.

"There you are, son.."

The priest murmurs a ways behind me. His voice sounds as if he's smiling.

"I have made more of the potion, but you weren't in your quarters."

I take the thick stoppered flask from the priest, even the liquid sloshing inside seeming muffled and muted in this place, and put it with the half empty one in my pack at my waist.

"Thanks, Preacher Man. I've mostly been keeping myself busy out here..... Weird vibe inside ya know"

He nods in response, leaning on his staff.

"I understand. I imagine you must have been shocked to see your comrade react so.. violently. But he has been improving steadily. The sisters have made him a robe and cowl."

I pick up a another rock and send it violently spinning away.

"Yeah, that's good and all. Only problem is... That ain't my 'comrade'"

Another rock goes flying into the void. The darkness devours the stone, without so much as a hiss as it vanishes from sight.

"Ahh..." The priest exhales wearily. "I see."

There is a pause before he speaks again. ".. Forgive the curiosity of an old man, but - why are you throwing stones?"

I snort.

"Ya know what? That is an excellent question. Guess I’m just showing it who’s boss. Seemed like the thing to do.”

There is a pause as the priest waits for me to go on, and I sigh. Truth was I hadn’t thought much about why I was doing it. Forwarding planning has never been my strong suit, that’s a lot of the reason why I ended up falling in here. That and the turncoat, blonde streaked bastard…

I stand up with a start and send another rock, a big one this time hurtling away at the memory before sagging somewhat realising my new friend was still waiting on an answer.

“I guess, I used to do it a lot when I was a kid. It kinda, helps me.... clear my head ya know?"

"Ahh. So there is something weighing on your mind?"

I turn to face him. The light plays over his features, bestial, but concerned as he fixes his gaze on me.

"Damn straight there's something weighing on my mind."

He huffs a soft snort and smiles gently.

"I can't seem to shake this fog in my brain, like it's getting into me. Hell just before you got here I caught myself thinking all this flowery stuff about 'oily rivers of blackness', narrating what I'm doing inside my own head like a guy in one of those fancy Opera's the Doc played for us that one time. Man. That ain't me. I’m more of a live in the moment kinda guy ya know? Getting too reflective and maudlin doesn't sit well"

I turn and sit, sending a small cloud of dust hazing around, the light from a sudden flicker of void light reflects through it like a...

Damn.

I’m doing it again.

A paw settles on my shoulder. "It is difficult. To lose so much and then be flung into darkness and doubt. Loneliness and grief can turn any mind inwards on itself.."

His voice is soft but it cuts the hungry silence that surrounds this whole drifting island.

"That is why companionship is something to treasure above all else."

He releases my shoulder and steps towards the edge, looking far out into the darkness.

"The Void has designs for us yet, this much is true."

I snap back at him, perhaps somewhat unfairly. "You really think that? That it planned to tear my friend to bits the first time he stepped into it and then replace him with that... thing after we put him back together?"

He chuckles softly. "Fate works in mysterious ways... Your friend has suffered tragedy, but God has given him a second chance. You must not be so quick to judge the disfigurement of the body, for it still houses a soul, and we have been kept sheltered yet." The Priest turns to me, dark eyes catching a glint of the golden light that spills through the glass windows. "What do you suppose has kept us sheltered and living, if not the Void itself?"

He’s not wrong, I guess. "You can say what you want about us being sheltered. Sure. I appreciate whatever it is you have going on here, but that's NOT Cesar. Arghh, I never should have even told you his name. I…. I  saw it’s eyes when we were back in there. Cesar... hell even when we were fighting the real assholes he could never shake that slight look of guilt whenever he had to hurt someone... That thing in there" I shake my head "Got nothin’ but rage when it's scrappin. It's unsettlin' "

As if to answer me the long low toll of the bell tower rings out. If I squinted I might be able to make out the large robed figure in the tower working the ropes.

"That what you've got him doing to work his keep now?"

The priest tilts his head at me curiously. "He volunteered for it."

"But I am more concerned for your well-being at this moment." Behind the tangled mane of grey-white hair, I can feel his eyes fix on me. "You seem... agitated. Beyond your distrust."

"Yeah. Fair call. I’ve been out here a lot recently, and I went for a wander earlier Up by the river, ya know. It’s just, I can’t really explain it. The whole place seems... smaller. Somehow. Like bits of it are missing "

Another rock goes flying, hard into the darkness. A smarter guy would say it was some kind of metaphor, but I still don’t really know why I’m doing it.

"I look out there and I swear I can feel it churning. Waiting for us, like it's eating this rock bit by bit. Ever since the... ritual. It's like I can feel us hurtling around, like there's barely nothing stopping this place from flying off again. It’s electric, like this great....." My hands flail as I trying to put it into words, but I shrug down as I fail "I can't explain it, feels like when we were waiting for an enemy push back in Isador, like we are waiting for the other shoe to drop"

The priest smiles again. “You are a still a military man at heart, Private D_N. But this. This is a place of peace. What the void wills is what comes to pass, and it DID will for you to be here. If it no longer has need for us then we will know soon enough.”

His other paw is on my shoulder as he turns me to face him.

He was not an old man by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, when Dr Vachan had selected him for the procedure she had emphasised that a certain degree of ‘cerebral plasticity’ would be required for full success. He looked old though, and at times like these, walking in a world he felt little connection to he certainly felt it. The myriad wrinkles in his gaunt sienna face were scored in from months lying awake at night with his mind racing through a thousand unfinished thoughts. There was a pronounced stoop as he walked; a large, bulbous cybernetic covered the entirety of his scalp, extending both down his cheeks and over the back of his head and down the back of his neck, like a gorging insect which unbalanced him and necessitated the slow pace and walking stick.

Making even slower progress behind him, his assistants strained to wheel a pair of overstuffed carts laden with the towers of papers, files, and folders they had recently procured from a local logistics hub. It had been an exercise in pulling teeth, metaphorically for once, as the Junior Librarian assigned to them had a very singular interpretation of the data sharing protocol. Inflexible even by the standards of the bureaucracy, the information on the carts had only been allowed out of the building under duress and strictly as an overnight lending.

Their ship, designation MNSC-17, more colloquially know as “The Argus”, was scheduled to depart at the next dawn regardless so they had arrived in the morning, but the sun was setting on the grey and aggressively functional building by the time he had shakily signed each individual receipt; in triplicate. The smugness of the Librarian’s 'I do hope you have time to read it all' was surely intended as a barb as they left, but the officious little man had no idea who he was talking to.

The Quartermaster smiled at the thought as they crossed the room, the squeak of trolley wheels adding to the metallic tap of his stick. He knew exactly how this would pan out.

Both piles of information would be fully absorbed into the existing knowledge base within the next six hours, including all relevant refactoring and analysis. The dockside courier Assets would be waiting with the now neatly processed paper stacks at the library doors when they opened, the only suboptimal aspect was that he would not be there to see the slack jawed face of the toadies that worked there when they realised what had been achieved.

He slowly sank down onto the hefty power supply that formed the base of the rudimentary chair in the centre of the room, the weight of his body pressing into the well worn shape in the reams of cables around his arms, his back supported by the blinking lights and glass valves of the primary data bank. As the trolleys finally caught up he looked over to what he had procured.

The first cart was laden with geographical data and history regarding the southern front of the Isador campaign, which the group of ships they were part of would be reinforcing. The second was mainly telegram data; this would be parsed for any non-redacted troop movements and resource requirements that could be found. Half formed strategies, and more likely, complaints regarding resource allocation from the Officers in this particular theatre would also need to be analysed for any gleam of insight that could be influential in forming a greater strategy. Balanced precariously atop the second pile was a single faded binder, the lettering on it barely legible, and it was this that had caused the most consternation at the library. It contained all existing knowledge regarding the stop he would be making enroute, when the Argus and a pair of modified gunboats would briefly break away from the rest of the fleet.

Outpost 44. Better known in the hushed whispers throughout the back offices of the ministries as 'The Crag'.

He frowned at the thought. He had heard the rumours. Scoffed at the children’s stories told to young Wards, of assignment there for poor test scores. It was mostly a myth. An almost forgotten island from the Golden Age of expansion for the State, that barely justified its continued existence with processed rare earths shipped back to the mainland twice every year. It was a disappointment to Mother and She had abandoned it.

The only unpurged record of its founding they could find was the aged and incomplete volume they had pried from the Librarian, and the only knowledge at all from the last decade were the wild tales of severe disparity and roaming gangs of near-feral children, muttered within earshot of the dockside Assets by dead-eyed sea captains. The Quartermaster's mind started to race. But. BUT... If it was created in the Golden Age then one could surmise that...

A flicker of pain encompassed his face as his mind reached out, instinctively trying to incorporate what he currently knew, with received information from generations ago that some part of him knew should be available, but that was shockingly, achingly unaccessible to him.

A surge of short, sharp panic slid through him as his stomach lurched, his mind kicking back at him like those many nights he was jerked awake from the precipice of sleep with the certainty that he was falling. Unbidden mantras cursing his own weakness; his own smallness, racked his internal monologue until the whirring of the overhead pulleys calmed him with the promise that the interface mechanism was being pulled into position, and soon he would soon be vast and strong again.

“Continue.”

The Quartermaster spoke the rasping command and it came as a palpable relief to the still-frozen Assets filling the room. A dozen sets of hands hungrily set about entering the recently acquired information, and a dozen pairs of eyes were averted from what they knew was coming.

Attention refocused towards the anachronistic host of input devices that had been requisitioned from various FAC surplus stores, using whatever scraps of the military communications budget they had been able to commandeer.  The majority of the Assets had the barest minimum of interface training, and were using the laborious keyboards set into the walls to slowly enter munition levels and frontline measurements. Others were scoring punch cards, to be entered directly into the bowels of the primary data bank, swallowed and read by the hungry state-machine therein.

Sitting in the centre of the room, facing the Quartermaster and his makeshift throne and behind their own raised desks, were two platinum-blonde Assets. A man and a woman who, unlike others scurrying around with their heads bowed, kept themselves still and poised. Their chins were up, exposing to the blinking light of the room the twin brands of 608 and 708 seared into their faces. These two Stenographers were the most highly prized Assets present. Once the Quartermaster had engaged the system they would be able to relay the important information directly to him, starting with with the folder regarding Outpost 44. It was vital to the smooth running of the system that the Quartermaster was left undisturbed when engaging it.

There used to be a third chair in the centre of the room, designed for the Quartermaster when the system was in use, but he had long since had it removed with hand-waved partial truths about lag times. He wanted to be closer to the core of the system. He needed it. As he cast his gaze around the room the stenographers were the only people who met his eyes as the interface device was lowered, pulled into place by the elaborate pulley system built into the room’s ceiling, and extended wormlike toward him.

There was a crinkle of unfurling plastic as the external mandibular sheath of the descending neural interface unfurled, drawing downwards and outwards, to envelop the upper portion of the Quartermaster’s cranial cybernetic in a sterile embrace. In turn the modified skull began to open slowly and an almost chittering sound arose as rows of sharp, conductive needles twisted out from the central maw, to cover the exposed surface area of his brain. The stabilising bolts twisted into place along the cybernetic extensions down his neck, preventing his movement and the risk of permanent damage, but he was not afraid of it. Not any more.

The crackle of contact juddered through him as the network of smaller needles covered the glistening surface, and he could feel his breath quicken as he teetered on the edge of completion. Their touch was light, but the circuit lacked a primary input source. The neural mesh was in place and ready to amplify, but it was only part of what was required for the system to work. Dr Vachan had stumbled for far too long in trying to stabilise a reliable neural-machine interface, but with the neural proboscis she had finally succeeded, and with it had been awarded her fourth furtherance.  The probes extended, almost leisurely, from the central mouth of the interface pipeline towards the opened surgical plugs in the Quartermasters exposed cortex.

He closed his eyes and smiled as the instruments clicked into place and his consciousness

  e  x  p  a  n  d  e  d

  Blackness filled his vision, but as he sank deeper into the system he could sense the data flow and pulse around him. He could feel the Assets inputting the latest requests from the Isador Field Marshall, the endless complaining about a lack of low level resources for clearing the hostile terrain, rants on the nature of the traps set by the recently-returned guerilla fighters. Postulation on why they had chosen this year to move against the token Goodwill Committee left by Mother, to reclaim a land that was still ravaged from the previous war. All this and more washed around and through him as his mind adjusted. Troop movements and casualty reports seemed to run over his body before even that sensation was lost, like dream upon waking as he reached the climax of his potential. Iron and Silicon replaced flesh and bone, and he stretched to fill it. He fell into the system, into The Argus.  He was home.

Information from his Radar array pulsed like a heartbeat, a throbbing internal bass rhythm within him that combined with the beats of the keyboards of the room, just on the edge of his awareness, into a frantic, pounding tempo as he stretched out his senses. He didn’t just have access to the information it provided, he could feel the small flotilla around him, as if he could reach out through the ether and pick the loads and required ration levels if he so chose. They were mostly inefficient. He had recalculated for maximum yield within his own confines, converting inefficient bunk space to house further data banks or supply closets. Further adjustments had also been made this morning to the gunboats that would be accompanying him to The Crag, maximising capacity to bring as many supplies as possible to the discarded Outpost.

He would scour and absorb every inch of the island. That was why they were sending him. Sending The System. His mind looped back to his previous thoughts, a lifetime ago, as he had crossed the server room lost in the smallness of his weak flesh, and he cast out again, a line into the darkness now spattered with points of light, his teeth gritted as the dopamine flooded his system.

‘But if it was created in the Golden Age then one could surmise that...’

and it caught

… it was created to provide anti-aircraft support during one of the many wars of expansion. A towering beacon made of stone and metal for Mother’s watchful gaze, built on a craggy, intimidating island in the sea between the State and one of her many enemies. Remote; the entire outpost was designed to be self a sufficient tri-FAC structure. Food would be provided by extensive automated mariculture facilities built into the housing development; raw materials from the local monazite mines would be refined into lenses that could be shipped back to the mainland; and of course the batteries of high-range flak cannons mounted atop the central tower facility would bring down any sorties of aircraft that thought to attack through the gap in remote static defenses, caused by the State’s bordering of that dark and unforgiving sea.

Reams of propaganda material spun in his mind’s eye as he swam deeper through the sea of information, no longer just dry words or columns of figures on a page but raw data interpreted and extrapolated through a human brain.  This was the true power of the Quartermaster project, and from that one small folder a whole world of information burst into his mind.

Come to the New world of OUTPOST-44! The Future is now!

The archived images of bold, primary coloured posters extolling the project to those undergoing resettlement gave way, fluttering out of his vision to reveal a fleet of boat trajectories arcing across a map like a wargame, as the system interpreted reams of passenger manifests and fuel duties through his brain and into his occipital lobe. Stark lines, white on black, spread beneath him as the resettlement ships moved from the mainland until they reached the destined spit of land which grew to fill his vision. Construction figures blossomed from a map that was simultaneously vibrant and monochrome to his senses, as the timeline of this simulation progressed. Material consumption rates from the progress reports were automatically interpreted and he could see the tower rise before him. It was reaching completion as the mines and housing facilities started to spread around like roots. Not just construction reports either, as a sheath of ammunition expenditure reports caused the flak cannons to burn red streaks into the reconstructed sky, over and over scoring hit after hit until, with a shock, his vision was blurred and shaken from impacts outside his field of view. Retracting his gaze he could see the nuclear fire falling on the enemy lands, cross referenced from the old files at the heart of the databank, and purging it clean.

With a stroke the flak cannons fell silent.

The State had won its war a bare 3 weeks after the towers’ completion; our ever-pragmatic Mother had secured victory with a different hand.

His gaze return to the tower, its roots left incomplete, and it was as if the island itself was sighing. The reports were slower now, and they told a very different story. Mariculture yields falling as the waters around the island were poisoned by the fallout from the dirty bombs. Accidents caused by the incomplete mining and residential facilities. The occasional downed scout plane that just barely justified the sending of resupply ships, and that rate slowed until there was only a single ship sent in the summer, and one in the winter.

The available data slowed as time went on, Hey, and the system pushed to its limit to try and compensate. The Citizen population within the tower could be linearly predicted, but the fate of the Wards and Assets outside would be need to be extrapolated from what was known already. A lack of medical supply would lead to a lack of reproductive suppression, which in turn would lead to a rise in birth rate. This, combined with the reported high level of Self Audit amongst the populace once mainland support ceased, would lead to a general population imbalanced heavily in favour of the young. HEY! Mariculture failures could be offset with introduction of non-native Capra species, but budgets would need to be tightened across the board. The uncanny sound of the snapping of fingers somewhere close by. Probability of social control from the remaining Citizens living within the finished tower complex: high, consequences of lack of Friendship Facilities likely…

HEY I’M TALKING TO YOU, YOU ABERRANT FREAK!

The Quartermaster’s eye flicked open, his mind reeling as his attention was forced partway back into the stale confines of the Argus’ server room. Inches from his own was a snarling face, all arrogance, slick parted hair and thin moustache. Behind him one of the stenographers was nursing a rapidly bruising cheek and the rest of the room was looking on in horror. The Quartermaster slowly moved a hand to wipe the drool that had collected while he had been under.  The time dilation from having to interact outside the system while still plugged in made him sluggish, and he could see the unkept contempt coming from the man in front of him. He felt stretched thin, as the system kicked with every heavy blink and more information was cross referenced from his lidded eyes, via the facial recognition subroutines that he couldn’t turn off even if he wanted to.

Birth records and enlistment papers span in the whirring void inside his head, unasked for but appreciated. The man was one of the younger Garvoldi family. Marco. Sergeant. Early twenties and with a very recent squad command commission. Back in the room the sergeant’s tirade was spewing forth in great detail and seemed to hinge on the recent cargo efficiencies depriving him of officer quarters while en route to the Isador campaign. There was an almost physical grinding as the Quartermaster’s attention was split, back from the invective-laden rant into the sparking associations the system was firing into him, demanding resolution. Garvoldi must be assigned to one of the Argus’ support gunboats. The feckless younger son of a powerful Citizen family off to find glory in war, personally recommended to minor command directly by Field Marshall Sinclair… That was interesting.

A torrent of seemingly unrelated details ran through his brain and inwardly he stood strong against it, plucking what was needed like a bear in a waterfall as outwardly he gazed dispassionately at a face raging inches from his own. The pieces built up: Missing supply reports, black market raids, deployment reports, unexplained absences, and a hundred others. A smile crossed the Quartermaster’s face and with a push of thought the dusty printers set near into the base of the stenography pedestals lurched into life. Garvoldi turned, irritation at the interruption turned to stark fear as he read the title of the reports spooling repetitively onto the floor from the myriad devices, as Assets scurried to collect them.

  RE-EDUCATION REQUEST FOR M GARVOLDI

JUSTIFICATION:

ILLEGAL GAMBLING

THEFT OF STATE PROPERTY

MISAPPROPRIATION OF STATE ASSETS

  Garvoldi snatched at a passing figure and the Citizen’s face paled as he read the details, which went into a great deal of detail about machinations he had thought well covered. He began frantic and impotent damage control, trying to pry and collect each sheaf, but the Assets were mobilised now, they had purpose, the paralysis caused by the interlopers insurrection had been broken and they surrounded him with hate in their eyes and paperwork in their hands.

The Quartermaster spoke, his words drawn out with a strange kind of hesitant certainty.

‘I suggest you return to your ship, Mr Garvoldi, and I would consider it a...’ there was a pause ‘...personal favour if you nip any similar complaints you hear of this nature in the bud. That might make me more...’ another pause, longer this time ’...favourably disposed to you’.

His eyes were piercing, almost looking through him as the young Citizen paled and turned on his heel, stammering acquiescence. The Quartermaster snorted. Insolent whelp. It was within the power of The System to concoct a suitable revenge, but it would not even be needed. The vaunted command Garvoldi was so proud of was in The Ostrander Division. The fool was so full of himself he had not thought to question the nature of his sudden promotion. There was not even any need for young Marco to fear a release of information to his superiors, not that he knew it. The stunt with the printers had been a bluff, albeit an amusing one, as the evidence led to one conclusion: The Field Marshall already knew about the crimes. The Quartermaster knew Sinclair; he was a man after his own heart, and never one to waste resources.

Why execute someone, when they will so willing accept a place in a division full of degenerates, used as little more than bullet sponges for the rest of the State army? Garvoldi would be dead within the year at the hands of some guerrilla ambush, without a doubt.

Distraction dealt with, the Quartermaster sighed as he sank back into the warm embrace of The System, simulations of artillery bombardment, casualty reports and troop movements combining like an orchestra within him; an ambrosial music that he and he alone could appreciate as he moved through the artificial theatres like a striding digital God.