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Here's the beginning of my story. This is basically just a prelude to the jump in time between the end of diablo II... and the beginning of this. Any and all suggestions and review are welcomed.
Also... is it impossible to add indents between paragraphs?
The last world had ended in an orgy of violence and a plume of black, foul smelling smoke.
The end of terror, of destruction and malice was meant to usher in a new age of prosperity for humankind. And it did. For a limited amount of time. Mans population grew with time, unchecked by war and famine. The lands were plentiful, and so were resources. No longer needing to keep watch over humanity, the wards of heaven left. Whether evil or good, the earth was left without spirituality of any kind. Tales of human triumph over the prime evils became no more than that: Tall tales that seemed too unreal to believe in books nobody read anymore.
A soulless people took all they could to fill the void left behind by the greatest struggle ever known. Consumer goods, politics, commerce. The faithful became bitter and jaded as god seemed to no longer be listening. The evils of terror and death might’ve been vanquished, but a more primal evil began to rear its ugly head. The original evil. The immortal evil.
The evil of human greed.
Soon enough the gap between the poor and the exploited grew too wide. The resources too few. The land too full. Powerful empires grew into allied countries. City-states ceded into larger assemblies. The times grew desperate, and the powers that were tense. They all held on as the planet died around them.
The poor couldn’t hold on any longer. They starved and died as the rich lived in comfort. They revolted. Terrorists from Harrogarath made decisive strikes on soft targets and nuclear plants. Desperate times had descended upon the planet. Either you fought to take from your neighbour, or you fought to keep what was yours.
Man turned his back on morals and dignity. Country fought country. Rich fought poor. Brother versus brother. Father versus son. The sky wept acid onto a dry earth after the eco-terrorists got hold of the right chemicals, blighting the lands of anyone unlucky enough to be targeted. Clouds of airborne virulence struck even those who hid from the violence, travelling rural areas like roving murderers.
The heavily deforested Kurast became a big, stinking open grave as impoverished guerrilla cults slayed friend and foe alike. Nobody was safe from what seemed like the final days. Nobody was safe from the apocalypse. From dying a violent death. God was unwilling to bestow mercy on those who had forgotten His name. And, for that matter, neither was he willing to save those that had kept faith.
Of course, it was all well documented. The media was everywhere in those days. The beginning was stark. But footage from the collapse itself was hazy and obscured. It was a slow burn that lasted for almost eighty years. Barbarism and paranoia reigned as the survivors of the ravaging unnatural disasters desperately grabbed power.
And then… it ended. The fighting stopped. Understanding was reached between the powers that remained, or that had formed since the collapse. It was safe once more to visit other communities. It was safe to trade and to collaborate. Nobody knew why, but those who had come to control the larger groups seemed eager to emerge from the dark age that humankind had fell into.
It was most likely due to the fact that the planet received a huge population drop off. Despite all the ecological damage the earth had sustained, there still was more than enough arable land to support the few who remained. Disease still suffocated growth until medical technology was resalvaged and reinstituted. Cities sprung back up. Science marched on as the damage was repaired. The wounds healed. Reunited, they had survived what seemed like the end.
His name was Deltroy, and his lower body was only passingly human in shape.
And I would be bunking with him for the next three days.
You could very accurately say that it was his fault that he was so deformed. He requested the surgery. He signed the papers giving his flesh away to strangers. And now, his right leg was placed asymmetrically away from his hips. Or ‘hips’, I should say.
This isn’t to say that it wasn’t worth it, if in a deludedly short sighted sort of way. Thanks to his great big right leg and cybernetic hip girdle, he could comfortably walk around with just under a ton of hardware attached to his hip rig.
Excuse me. Also jutting out of his right hip was a coupling to which a pneumatic arm could be attached.
And on the end of this arm, no doubt, was 300 kilograms of firepower. Stored somewhere in the cargo hold of the ship most probably. Other life forms might not understand our language, but everything knows a weapon when it sees one.
Shoot first, maybe twice. Then ask some questions, and shoot some more. Such a typically imperial attitude.
“So, what are you doing here?” He summons enough curiosity to finally ask after nearly six hours. Indicating that he didn’t really care to begin with.
“I’m here on behalf of Internal Intelligence.”
I didn’t want to tell him what I was really doing here. Psionicists are always regarded with distrust and paranoia. Nobody likes having their minds read like open books. Truthfully I didn’t care to even try unless it was in my interests to do so. But as some egomaniacal and autocratic psychics have demonstrated, the power was terrifyingly easy to abuse.
His interest was nonetheless piqued. It was written plainly on his face. “Oh really?” He gave an interested pause. “You wouldn’t be handlin’ onea them battle psychos, would ya? Or-“ He almost gasped with wonderment. I could tell that weaponry and battle interested him on the same level lures interested a fisherman. “-Are you a part of the third eye?”
It amazed me that he knew so much about Internal Intelligence.
“Rumours circulate quickly, so I see.”
“Is it true?” It was nerve wracking, watching him stand there and talk to me with his leg off kilter, stance unwavering with an inhuman steadiness. No wonder people called them “walking turrets”.
I then affected an air of authority.
“All that crap is just fantasy and rumours. Psychics are really of no practical use to us outside of parlours and circus sideshows. There is no possible way for a man to make something explode by looking at it… or to have one in anything remotely resembling a combat scenario.”
I disappointed him with my strategic lie. Hopefully we weren’t going to run into any trouble on our trip. Then I’d be exposed. Any expressions of wonderment slumped away from his upper body language- since his legs and hips were mostly ferro-fiberous titanium.
“Too bad.” He murmured. “We’re gonna need that sort of power where we’re going.”
“We don’t know that yet. It’s probably just an communications error.”
Just then, the intercom chirped for our attention. We were summoned to sickbay for out mid-voyage physical.
For the record, I hate Imperial field medics. And this Mekerle guy was a big fat reminder of my sheer antipathy.
He was at least fifty years old, but kept in shape with regular steroid and HGH (Human Growth Hormone) injection cycles. And, of course, fresh organs harvested from our Empires healthiest prisoners. Formerly healthy, anyway.
His face was angular and rough like a carrion birds. Eyes that were clearly once someone else’s peer out from an age chizzled and battle scarred face. Neat grey hair was allowed to grow just long enough to obscure surgical scars along his skull. He was lean and wore all black, aside from a red armband around his bicep identifying him as medical personnel.
He was taking a big syringe to Deltroys neck as he sat in a deep scan machine. It chugged loudly, the radons cross sectioning his skull with green light from above his inclined head. It went real slow so that it could properly soak up every last neuron on the inside of his brain.
Deltroy of course was curious about what was being done to him.
“This marvel of technology-“ Here comes a practiced speech. “-is mapping every last micron inside your brain. It then plots the synaptic connections and neuron quality in the memory section. This way if you die, we can not only re-create your old body with cloning techniques, but your old brain as well.”
This was all very blasé for him, judging from his tone. But then again, that’s how he’s sounded for the entire visit. “Every last memory and neurosis and personality trait can be reproduced by nanite guided cellular construction. The new brain will be placed inside the new body. You will be synthetically resurrected.”
A silent pause followed in which, presumably, everyone who overheard pondered the moral and ethilogical quagmire behind this degradation of the human soul and spirit. What did death mean? How real will our memories be? Can personality be changed to fit a mould? Was nothing sacred?
“If I die…” Deltroy speaks up solemnly, at last. “…what’s gonna happen to my hip rig? Is it just gonna get left behind? That thing cost a fortune.”
It was a good thing to see that he saw this whole thing as deeply as I did. He seemed greatly troubled.
“Don’t worry,” The doctor reassured in the most uncaring tone he could muster. “We have a transport signal built into that beautiful piece of cybertechnology inside of you. We wouldn’t cheapen something so irreplaceable by leaving it behind.”
Okay, you've got me interested enough to keep reading, so good job. Some comments and questions:
- The preface sets the stage pretty well, but I found it to be bland and too much like other post-apocalyptic setups I've read or seen so many times before. The terrorism angle is somewhat fresher so you might emphasize that.
- I like the 'voice' of your main character. It is gritty and calculating and one of the elements that makes me want to read more.
- The opening could be improved:
Quote:
His name was Deltroy, and his lower body was only passingly human in shape.
And I would be bunking with him for the next three days.
It's almost a great opening: introduce a character, describe an intriguing attribute, and provide a relationship to the main character, but separating it into two sentences and using the word 'and' twice robs it of some impact.
- Is 'ethilogical' a real word? I'm guessing it is part of the fictional world of the story and is a combination of ethical and logical. When introducing fictional words you might want to provide a context that makes it clear that they are part of the story.
- Another proof-read would help. For example:
Quote:
He was taking a big syringe to Deltroys neck as he sat in a deep scan machine.
Both uses of "He" should refer to the same person.
- You like to use 'And' and 'But' at the start of a sentence, which is fine in the right situations, but there are places where it might be better to use a single sentence. For example:
Quote:
This was all very blasé for him, judging from his tone. But then again, that’s how he’s sounded for the entire visit.
Why not let it flow, like this: This was all very blasé for him, judging from his tone, but then again, that’s how he's sounded for the entire visit.
- Does this story come back to the world of Diablo II at some point?
Yeah, the beginning is somewhat unnotable, but it's breezing over the time between diablo II and this... which I see sorta as 'diablo III'. It is the weakest part of my story, and I should revise it to be at the very least more clear.
This story doesn't return to the time of diablo II, but soulstones, the prime evils, Tyreal and a variety of other plot elements will be (re)introduced. It's basically just about the timelessness of these evils, and the war between good and evil. Just a different setting.
And you're spot on about all that sentance structure advice. If it ever goes beyond this board, I'll be sure to edit.
Let me just say that space travel is the most boring experience a human being could possibly be put through. Perhaps I’m simply anxious- or jaded- from my time in the tank. But I want something to happen, and I want it to happen now.
All this black, empty space. What a goddamn waste. What the hell was god thinking?
I try to wander the ship and socialize, but fail miserably. The engineering and medical crews look at me as if I’m there to spy on them. I could read their minds to see what they thought of me, but I know exactly what I’d hear. “I bet you’re reading my mind you filthy sand eater. Well read this: **** you.”
Every time the chief medic talks to me I feel as if he’s sizing me up for spare parts. He seems quite fascinated about my mental capacities, and my brain especially. As a medical head, he had my file.
“How long did it take for your old mind to break in the tank?” He asked with morbid curiosity. Sometimes I wish he’d chase his stimulants with more sedatives. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with his probing questions. “Or did you last the entire year in there?”
Entrants into the Third Eye division of Internal Intelligence are required to spend a one year maximum inside a sensory deprivation tank. The body is nurtured intravenously and fed the proper hormones to prevent muscular atrophy.
Without any way to interpret time or space with any of the senses, reality loses all objective meaning. The body is lost and all you are is a brain floating in utter blackness. Some people become so intensely aware of their mind that they need therapy to reaccustomize themselves with their bodily functions. Without any input, the mind is forced to improvise. Hallucinations are commonplace, and it’s a constant struggle to maintain your ego.
80% of all initiates are broken mentally through some sort of neurological or psychological dysfunction. They leave the tank changed. Most are like zombies, which II likes. Very capable and sensitive mentally, but uninhibited by thoughts or emotions. Easily moulded. Eventually their personality slowly starts to grow back, but it takes a back seat to the training regimen. A small percentage become total head cases and are dissected to prevent further incidence. Some make it through the whole year. If they’re strong enough.
Either way it’s impossible for the initiate to tell what’s happened to him or herself. There’s no way to tell time in there, and they don’t tell you when you get out.
“Is that heart in your chest as black as your last three?”
Clearly I did not appreciate him prying. With a smirk he gleefully informed me that he did not have a heart. I was inclined to believe him.
So I spent the rest of the trip discussing with Deltroy the various wars he had fought in as we sat in the rec room.
I'm having a bit of problem with this chapter. It seems that I have a case of character-introductionitis here. On one hand, nobody likes having a bunch of new characters breezed over and stuffed into such a short space. But on the other, if you spend a chapter fleshing out each one, people eventually get bored. I don't know how to balance. Did I do a good job on this one?
Chapter 4- The Captain
The conference room was bright, and crowded. All titanium grating and halogen lighting along the nooks. Thankfully they were all disciplined enough not to talk unless asked. My nerves were frayed as it was.
“I’m sorry for these cramped conditions. But normally there’s never more than four people in here at a time.”
There were only seats for Mekerle, three others and myself. Deltroy and the Lieutenant had to stand. Deltroy didn’t mind of course, being a bloody mechanical centaur. Well, with two legs instead of four.
“This one is a loaner, anyway. Our flagship, as you all know, is adrift a few hundred miles from Urube.”
Of course we all knew. Even the robots that washed the dishes knew. That’s what all of us were doing here.
The captain of our ship, The Vindication, was an aged man with short grey hair and dark skin. He wore the green cargo pants of a regular soldier in the Emperors army, along with a tanned captains jacket, closed. Despite his age he was still in good physical condition. Judging from his lined face and beard, as well as his mannerisms and speech, he was a man of invaluable experience.
A strange man in an irregular grey crewman’s jumpsuit stood behind and to the side of the captain. His hair was brown, and he seemed to be entering his thirties. No marks, no facial hair. Average build. No distinguishing traits whatsoever. But every so often the captain would glance back to him. Almost in deference.
I resisted the temptation to read minds.
“All I can say is that we’re not leaving until The Invincible is operational and in tow. As this ships captain, that’s the only part of this operation I have control over.”
He pauses. The sign of a true orator.
“We’re due to arrive in an hour. The plan is that first we shuttle in you guys- our specialists- into one of the docking bays. You check to see if everything is secure.”
He hesitates. Dreading something.
“If everything’s fine security wise, we’ll send in the engineering crews and fix whatever’s wrong.”
I was already aware of the mission details. Or perhaps the lack of mission details. The Invincible was returning from garrisoning the Urube archaeological settlements. They made it a few thousand kilometres out, and then all radio contact severed. With both the two planetary settlements and The Invincible. Like clockwork, so perfectly timed.
Was it Mutiny? Aliens? Pirates? Spacial anomaly? Sabotage? My personal skill of clairvoyance (or ‘cynicism’, as my headmaster called it) told me it was none of the above.
The captain went over our primitive intelligence anyways. Nobody like to go in with the feeling of having no idea what to expect, so it was basically just a big song and dance to make everyone feel safe.
As he spoke on, my attentions turned to the occupants of our stuffy ‘conference room’. Which, the more I examined it, seemed more like a janitorial closet.
Seated at the table next to me was a man with a head shaven down to the skin and a neatly trimmed black moustache. His grey jumpsuit identified him as a crewman. A blue armband indicated his status in engineering crew. Reading his name tag I was able to put a name and face to a file.
The captain then vocalized what I already knew. An experience I know well.
“This here-” motioning to the man next to me, “-is Allen Tromus. He’s a robotic division head back on earth. We got a mark four on board.”
The room fell silent. Dead silent. In this rare moment, I could hear their brains speaking.
Mark fours are not only possessed of intellect and personality like the common mark three, but also has something precious which once separated them from us: Free will.
Not even its creators can know what lurks inside the memory of a true mark four model. Of course, they all have kill switch routines. But every time you look one of those things in the eye you feel that somehow, somewhere, a line has been crossed.
Nobody wanted to look soft complaining about a robot. We all had more important things to worry over than a machine that could make its own decisions.
All of us except the ships priest. A six foot beast of a woman. Long limbed and orange haired. And rather characteristically of the Holy Clergy, she was opinionated as all hell.
It took her four seconds to speak up and steal the air out of the captains opening mouth.
“This robot isn’t coming with us, is it?”
Allen seemed a bit indignant.
“Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he?”
“’He.’” The woman scoffed in mockery. “I wasn’t aware these mechanical servants were thought of as men.
“Save it Tscerca.” The captain snaps with a hateful gurgle in his voice. Despite his experience, it seemed, he was prone to irritability. “There. That was your introduction. We could all get along much better without debating ethics.”
All voices became silent, but looks and emotions lingered.
It was at this point it occurred to me that this Tscerca woman wasn’t the ships priest, but an imperial battle cleric. I didn’t recognize her from the dossier photos.
Battleclergy of the emperor, with a sword in one hand an a holy tome in the other. How laughably pathetic. If God were to exist, I would imagine him to be wise enough not to care about humans, much less their pithy wars. And now here she is in space to spread the empires distorted lies.
The Captain carried on.
Lieutenant Baylen here is in charge of the space guard detachment we have on board. Eight in all.” The captain motioned to the man standing next to Deltroy dressed in camouflaged fatigues. Coloured to match the interiors of imperial ships.
He was a man of dark skin, like myself. His posture and mannerisms stern and focused. He simply nods in acknowledgement.
“He’s also in charge of the operation itself. So once you get into that ship, his word is your command. I know enough about all of you to trust there will be no insubordination.”
A testing glance is thrown around the room. At me, at everyone. It was almost as if the captain was expecting danger.
We all trusted him, for some strange reason. He seemed genuinely clueless.
“You’re all dismissed.”
All of us filed out of the small room. All of us except the captain. And his inconspicuous friend.
Allen asked me because I was internal intelligence. Him and I were off to the edge of our military conga-line in the shuttle bay. Waiting for our equipment to be carted up from the cargo hold.
“I don’t know. What’s in that crate you’re holding?”
The best way to deflect scrutiny is to fire back with questions of your own. Thankfully he was rather eager to talk.
“It’s Scorns brain.”
He lifts it proudly. The thing must’ve weighed 30 kilos.
“Oh. You mean the robots?”
“Yes.” He replied with contrasting dryness. “The robots.”
A service elevator made its way up to stop on level with the deck. Beeping lights and all. The cargo hold was located beneath the shuttle bay, as logic would dictate.
And hunched down atop the elevator, locked securely in a freight conveyor, was Scorn. At least 200 kilos of ferro-fiberous alloys and titanium, galvanized into the shape of an exaggeratedly menacing humanoid.
The plating was a dull dark copper colour, the joints an equally darkened brown. The hands were made with the strength of industrial grade vices and sized to palm a human skull. Shoulder shells cased a set of fierce looking mini-guns. Inside of oversized arms were an auto cannon on the left, and a grenade launcher on the right.
And that face. That cold, fake face. I could only imagine what being killed by one of those things must feel like. At least being killed by a human has the burn of anger and the viscerality of emotions behind it. Adrenaline and fear, even in the coldest of killers. Maybe even the remote chance of mercy.
Finding mercy in this things face is like trying to find mercy from a painting. Despite how it seemed to look at you as it crushed the life from your ribs, you’d still technically be dying alone. You wouldn’t even get that satisfaction. This robot was built to be as cruel as stainless steel, and as serious as cancer.
Ordinance technitions were filling him with coils of bullet belts, grenades, and heavy looking auto cannon shells.
“I have to go put the brain in the golem over there.” He lifts the case again. “Excuse me.”
----
I felt a bit useless. All I need is my amplifier. Which from an asthetic viewpoint is a ball on a stick.
Really all that matters is the sphere part. It serves as a psychic foci. For it to work properly, it needs to be perfectly spherical. After all, the sphere is the shape of all matter. From the planets down to the atoms they’re made of.
The stick just helps me hold the sphere, and keep it powered. Some simply hold the sphere in their hand. Others can make it float before themselves with the power of their minds alone. Like I said, all you need is the orb.
And then an equipment chief comes along to mummify me in flak and trauma plating. My body does not sweat. All the heat trapped leaves through my bare head as my body temperature lowers. My breathing becomes even. I find an equilibrium. Just as easily as I blink my eyes, I control the cells in my body. Right down to the last mitochondria. I can feel them divide and die inside me.
My thin arms slip through the sleeves of my black Kevlar robe. It drapes down to my hard shelled boots.
I am now ready for other people to try and kill me.
----
Across from me, Mekerle is busy opening up medical supplies as if they were party favours. Endorphomine. Winistrol-H. Combat tailored amphetamines. He was already suited in his bright white and red trimmed armour plates. The clean white robbing torn off. Functionality before form. Field medics were always pragmatic about their duties.
He wore an interesting and compact pack on his back. Two cylinders into which I saw him insert soft plastic chemical packs exhausted out on either side. The design was dominated by a large tank with biohazard stickers near all the hook-ups. Tubes went everywhere. Into the exhaust ports. Into him. And most disturbingly, into a large hose- or vaccum. I wish I had more clearly read my files on the equipment manifest. I wanted to know what the hell that thing was.
Without having to talk to him, of course.
Cortical implants buzzed and hummed behind his eyes. Inaudible to all ears except mine and his. And I’m sure after living with it for so long, it was a non-sound to him.
The captain promised that his Weikman-Fowler protocol was deactivated for this mission. A type of software keyed into their retinal display. Powerful scanners were behind their pupils, able to diagnose wounds perfectly, even in the heat of battle. Some shrewd medical technician named Weikman attached costs to certain methods of treatment. Fowler was able to calculate exactly how much a human life was worth.
The diagnosis would be given a price for treatment, and weighed up against the injured persons rank and performance record. All calculated inside the medics head.
If a grunt got shot and went over on the Weikman scale, he’d get executed by the nearest field medic. Normally after the fighting ended. They don’t even bother hiding it behind a dehumanized euphamism, like ‘liquidation’ or something. You get ripped up too badly, you get executed.
The Empire doesn’t like to waste money. I’ve seen a field medic get chewed out for using too much ammo for executions.
The space guard we were escorted by cost too much to train to execute. Thankfully. Now I don’t have to worry about being blasted for a sprained ankle.
----
Tserca decided to lead us all in an unsolicited prayer before we got onto our shuttle.
The grunts seemed to eat it up, including their lieutenant. Even Allen was kneeling as she droned on. But if I truly believed that a prayer could make flying bullets somehow miss me, I’d be down there too. I could feel the creeping fear.
But I don’t believe in lies.
“Not going to offer a prayer to the Anchients?” Mekerle snidely mutters to Deltroy. We were the only three standing.
“Go pop some more vitamin S, vulture.”
Yellow lights spun at everyone as a power lift trundled Scorn over to the durable looking shuttle. Adding its godless beeping as an awkward, screeching chorus to overpower Tsercas prayer. God damn that thing was loud.
I savoured the discomfort, as it was ruining her self righteous God-magic show. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t even change her tone. Not even when the clumsy lift driver banged into the shuttle hatch. It then occurred to me that as a battlecleric, she’s probably said all sorts of prayers with grenades and live ammunition and torsos exploding all around her.
The thing shut up when Scorn was properly loaded onto the shuttle, and was swiftly followed by Tserca. In an auditory sense, they both had much in common. She stopped making her mouth noises so everyone could rise and shuffle up the ramp and into our shuttle.
As the shuttle bay hatch opened and gravity left us, I prayed for there to be nothing waiting for us aboard the Invincible. And that I’d live to be one hundred years old.
Okay, you've got me interested enough to keep reading, so good job. Some comments and questions:
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