Chapters to be published every saturday as far as possible

In the distant future, a single brutal corporation has plunged the world into a dystopian era of corporate fascism; there are, however, many people willing to fight for their freedom. Over several decades as the corporation has grown in power, a doctrine of zero-tolerance for 'extremism' - which has come to mean any deviation from the established dogma - has forced dissent underground; seemingly out of the blue, as the struggle escalates into armed conflict, a Martian invasion force has approached almost unnoticed by the preoccupied corporate government. Driven by fanaticism and a thirst for conquest, these invaders have exploded violently onto the streets of Earth in a shower of blood, and neither the corporation nor the rebels can afford to ignore them any longer.

Tuesday 19 May 2009

Chapter 4


Picking his way through the now eerily quiet warehouse towards the nearest armoury, pulse rifle gripped at the waist ready to fire at the first sign of movement – loyalist or rebel – Sam realised the LSF must have evacuated the base. He was somewhat dismayed at this thought, realising that, considering his shaky-at-best relationship with the rebels, there was no guarantee they would ever let him into the replacement base. They might even think he was the one who sold them out.
Reaching the armoury, Sam unclipped the current charge pack from his blastgun and let it fall from the floor, leaking a glowing green liquid from a small crack on the side, and replaced it with a new pack from the shelf. He also took a few spares for his bandolier, along with half a dozen batteries for his rifle – all the 32MW packs that were available – and a handful of grenades.
From where she was sat on the cold floor of the war room, Jeanne’s eyes shot daggers at the enemy commander, irritated that she had been caught so easily. The evacuation had been thwarted, and all the surviving rebels had been gathered in the war room with their hands bound behind their backs, presumably awaiting transportation to detention facilities.
"Major!" Johnson called, "We have a camera crew coming over from Media Department, and they want you to put together a firing squad. They want you to make the executions as bloody as possible,” he continued, showing evident disdain, “entertaining. 'We have to be seen to be tough on the terrorists', they said. 'Hearts and minds', and all that crap...With all due respect sir, you won't get me in a firing squad. You'll have to court martial me for insubordination first."
Morgan knew most of his men were as disgusted with the commercialisation, brutality and lack of honour in the modern corporate military as he was, but it was encouraging to see that Johnson was determined enough to risk facing court martial over it. “No, Johnson, don’t worry,” he replied, “I agree. Surely you can’t believe I’d be happy about that either. I’m not gonna be presiding over cold-blooded murder!” he declared indignantly. “But the question is what we can do about it…”
“Well sir, I’ve got your back whatever you decide,” Johnson told him. “So long as you don’t put me in the firing squad of course, that is sir,” he hastened to add.
Sighing wearily, thoroughly demoralised, Jeanne rested her head against the cold metallic wall behind her. As die-hard determined as she was to defy corporate rule for as long as she breathed, in her current sleep-deprived state, combined with the shell shock of seeing her lifelong friend Tom killed like a dog by corporate troops, she was about ready to give up the fight. Ready to let despair take her; ready to die. She had, of course, been ready to die for as long as she had been working with the LSF, if her death was beneficial in some way to the fight against oppression. But this was different. She simply did not seem to have the strength to carry on. She almost willed death to come to her.
That was, until she saw one of the soldiers, complete with egotistic strut, aura of chauvinism and the repulsive stench of machismo, step towards her. All of a sudden, the fire of rage, resentment and hatred lit inside her a furnace of defiant energy. Apparently, there was some fight left in her after all!
“Up ya get, sweetness,” the pig spoke, grinning at her.
“Bite me,” Jeanne retorted, plastering a condescending smile all over her face and drawing her left knee up to her chest.
As the somewhat stunted man came closer to her, she forced her other knee hard into his groin, and let out a small laugh at his grunt of pain. “Bitch,” he wheezed, doubling over and falling to his knees, his voice a few octaves higher, “that just earnt you a front row seat.”
Jeanne just looked at him, still smiling sweetly and feeling slightly amused, and catapulted her booted left foot into his face, shattering his nose.
A short, heavy man with whiskers and a spotlessly smooth tuxedo which was a little tight around the chest area swaggered in the door of the war room where the prisoners were being held from a neighbouring common room. “I’m Mr Adams, I’m the director of the broadcast. My camera crew are almost finished setting up, so whenever you’ve picked your firing squad feel free to send the first group of prisoners through.”
Morgan, seeing red, turned and took a step towards the newcomer, so that they were standing nose to nose, Adams looking suddenly uncomfortable. "You seem remarkably cavalier about cold-blooded killing, Director," Morgan remarked, lifting him slightly by the Adam’s apple and drawing his pistol, “but only over my dead body will you get me involved.” He shoved the pistol threateningly under Adams’ chin.
They stood there – well, Morgan stood and Adams hovered there – for several minutes, Adams sweating profusely.
“If you think it’s so interesting, Director, then surely you would like some… experience?”
“But-b-but” Adams sputtered. “But… I work for Dermis! I’m not a terr-“
At hearing a dispassionate, cold-blooded killer have the nerve to refer to people who risked their lives every day for what they believed in and to defend the people they cared about as ‘terrorists’, the pale red transposed over everything Morgan saw turned bright crimson and he saw nothing else.
“Lights out, scumbag,” he said, pulling the trigger. “Curtains closed.”
The shot echoed through the room.
Allowing the body to fall to the floor, breathing heavily, Morgan turned to see all eyes on him.

2 comments:

  1. Hmm, I still can't seem to get the formatting right lol, but its improving...

    Sorry about the wait, I've been delayed by activism, exams and bureaucratic shite relating to my course change.

    In reference to the story itself, you might have noticed Jack Morgan seems to have a bit of a double standard with regards to cold blooded killing...that's partly true, in that his thought process here is that Mr Adams has others killed in cold blood and therefore doesn't deserve the same considerations he denied them, but mostly its a reflection of the fact that he's a 'real' person with real emotions - if maybe a bit more short-tempered than most - and that bad things happen when you put a lethal weapon into the hands of a fallible human being. Ultimately, I suppose the moral of the story - if there is one - is that the power to kill is something none of us are qualified to wield.

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  2. And the same goes for all of the characters. I've made every effort to make sure there's no flawless character in the story, partly because it's realistic and partly because seeing the contrast between the good and the bad of the different personalities from outside can serve as an aid to make people reflect on their own character and improve - I know writing about Morgan's temper has helped me to see times when I could have reacted less hot-headedly to situations, anyway.

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