Penny Member
STATUS: Ethical issues aside, AI prose is just really bad. 18 days ago
N3v3rM0r3
Ezekiel
Pizza Box
RPM
Hos
rush99999
tadcfnaf
Syrenrei
Zeus23Status
Recent Statuses
18 days ago
Current
Ethical issues aside, AI prose is just really bad.
3
likes
26 days ago
She wanted to read, she wanted to write, but the main thing she wanted was something to fight
4
likes
1 yr ago
Make it clear that you don't need him to be reading Dante tomorrow. Also suggest it would be fun if you had a private language that you could use to mock English speakers in secret.
5
likes
2 yrs ago
Luckily history suggests an infinite ability for people to be shit heads ;)
1
like
3 yrs ago
Achmed the Snake
1
like
Bio
Early 30's. I know just enough about everything to be dangerous.
Most Recent Posts
41
Bump
Calliope was marched up out of the subterranean chambers by a pair of guards. Each of the unwashed corsairs held a length of chain affixed to the collar around her neck, one to the front, and one to the rear. The arrangement meant that she was unable to lunge in either direction without the chain bringing her up short. She began to hum to herself as she was led up a flight of sandstone stairs and into the bright sunlight. The guards exchanged uneasy glances at his incongruous turn of events and glanced down at the mystical cuffs that were still fastened around her wrists, preventing her from using her magic. They were still firmly in place, indeed they seemed to be one piece and there was no obvious way for them to be removed.
It was night time when they emerged into what appeared to be an ancient and half collapsed amphitheater, though the heat of the day still radiated up from the stones like a cooling fireplace. The amphitheater had probably been a fifty yards wide when it had been constructed, but the western side had fallen mostly to ruins and large purple blossomed bougainville had grown up over the remaining arches, their long thorns making them too much effort for the pirates to remove. Palm trees stood beyond them, their pale bark glistening in the moonlight and their dark leaves waving in the sea breeze. Illumination was provided by dozens of torches thrust into the sand of the base of the amphitheater and wedged into cracks in the stone work. They burned smokily with the familiar scent of coconut oil and filled the structure with a rudy flickering glow.
The eastern side was more or less intact, with four tiers of stone benches rising from a wall, eight feet tall and designed to keep the spectators above the action below. There were iron barred tunnels that lead into the darkness, though given the rust stains that infrequent rains had washed onto the sandstone, Calliope wouldn’t have bet that any of them could be opened. The stone work to either side of eastern wall had crumbled somewhat, perhaps it had initially been an earthquake that had done the damage but passionfruit vines were now growing between the stones, thrusting them apart with the determination of nature against the works of man. The structure crumbled in a jumble of stone blocks that provided access to a sure footed man, as any sailor, accustomed to climbing the rigging, was surefooted.
Mahal-Sabim sat upon a throne at the apex of the eastern wall. The throne was crudely carved from some kind of local wood and four skulls, each clumsily gilded in gold or polished brass adorned the hand rests and the large posts that supported the backing. A pair of large ebony skinned men with large wicked halberds and tunics of boiled leather stood guard on either side of him. Below him Blood axes cauroused drunkenly, the stink of sweat and Arak evident even over the perfume of bougainville and the coconut oil lamps. Several of the thugs were amusing themselves by poking Sketti with sharpened sticks. The dwarf was shirtless and chained to a stone post that might once have been a door lintel. Blood stained his impressive musculature and matted his beard. The pirates jabbed at him from out of range and hooted in laughter as the dwarf rounded on them like a bee stung buffalo, only to find himself unable to reach his tormentors. The game wasn’t without risk however, as Calliope watched the bosun caught one of the spears mid thrust and yanked it forward dragging its drunken wielder with it. The dwarf’s fist was the side of a roast chicken and it caught the pirate squarely in the jaw with a crack audible above the revelry. A half dozen sticks drove Sketti back before he could stomp the life out of the drunken pirate, and his fellows pulled the unconscious man back to safety. Other members of the crew were also visible, shackled together in a long line secured at either end by a stone bench, though Calliope couldn’t pick out Markus in the crowd.
“Bring her to me,” the pirate king crooned, crooking a finger at Calliope. The guards obediently lead her to stand before the throne. She continued to hum to herself.
The God’s Laws I did forbid...
“A much more appropriate look for a woman,” he sneered, leaning forward to kiss her on the lips. She endured his reeking breath for a moment and he pulled back, arching an eyebrow, perhaps surprised at her lack of objection.
And most wickedly I did…
“I look forward to sampling you futher..”
As I sailed…
“After we take care of your Captain…”
As I sailed.
Calliope's head snapped forward and she drove the flat of her forehead into Mahal-Sabim’s face. There was an audible snap as he nose broke beneath the blow and a spurt of hot blood on her face as the pirate king reeled back with a yowl of pain. Both guards yanked on their chains pulling her off her feet and tumbling her bruisingly to the tier of seats below. There was a dark chuckle in the back of her mind as she was hauled to her feet. The pirate chief glared down at her, blood running from his nose and a lip he had cut against his teeth.
“I look forward to teaching you your place bitch,” he snarled, the words unfortunately nasally until he placed a hand either side of his broken nose. With a snap and a wince of pain he reset it and his voice returned to its normal menace.
“But business before pleasure,” he commented, raising his arms before addressing the crowd in a booming voice.
“Bring out the Northern Filth!”
It was night time when they emerged into what appeared to be an ancient and half collapsed amphitheater, though the heat of the day still radiated up from the stones like a cooling fireplace. The amphitheater had probably been a fifty yards wide when it had been constructed, but the western side had fallen mostly to ruins and large purple blossomed bougainville had grown up over the remaining arches, their long thorns making them too much effort for the pirates to remove. Palm trees stood beyond them, their pale bark glistening in the moonlight and their dark leaves waving in the sea breeze. Illumination was provided by dozens of torches thrust into the sand of the base of the amphitheater and wedged into cracks in the stone work. They burned smokily with the familiar scent of coconut oil and filled the structure with a rudy flickering glow.
The eastern side was more or less intact, with four tiers of stone benches rising from a wall, eight feet tall and designed to keep the spectators above the action below. There were iron barred tunnels that lead into the darkness, though given the rust stains that infrequent rains had washed onto the sandstone, Calliope wouldn’t have bet that any of them could be opened. The stone work to either side of eastern wall had crumbled somewhat, perhaps it had initially been an earthquake that had done the damage but passionfruit vines were now growing between the stones, thrusting them apart with the determination of nature against the works of man. The structure crumbled in a jumble of stone blocks that provided access to a sure footed man, as any sailor, accustomed to climbing the rigging, was surefooted.
Mahal-Sabim sat upon a throne at the apex of the eastern wall. The throne was crudely carved from some kind of local wood and four skulls, each clumsily gilded in gold or polished brass adorned the hand rests and the large posts that supported the backing. A pair of large ebony skinned men with large wicked halberds and tunics of boiled leather stood guard on either side of him. Below him Blood axes cauroused drunkenly, the stink of sweat and Arak evident even over the perfume of bougainville and the coconut oil lamps. Several of the thugs were amusing themselves by poking Sketti with sharpened sticks. The dwarf was shirtless and chained to a stone post that might once have been a door lintel. Blood stained his impressive musculature and matted his beard. The pirates jabbed at him from out of range and hooted in laughter as the dwarf rounded on them like a bee stung buffalo, only to find himself unable to reach his tormentors. The game wasn’t without risk however, as Calliope watched the bosun caught one of the spears mid thrust and yanked it forward dragging its drunken wielder with it. The dwarf’s fist was the side of a roast chicken and it caught the pirate squarely in the jaw with a crack audible above the revelry. A half dozen sticks drove Sketti back before he could stomp the life out of the drunken pirate, and his fellows pulled the unconscious man back to safety. Other members of the crew were also visible, shackled together in a long line secured at either end by a stone bench, though Calliope couldn’t pick out Markus in the crowd.
“Bring her to me,” the pirate king crooned, crooking a finger at Calliope. The guards obediently lead her to stand before the throne. She continued to hum to herself.
The God’s Laws I did forbid...
“A much more appropriate look for a woman,” he sneered, leaning forward to kiss her on the lips. She endured his reeking breath for a moment and he pulled back, arching an eyebrow, perhaps surprised at her lack of objection.
And most wickedly I did…
“I look forward to sampling you futher..”
As I sailed…
“After we take care of your Captain…”
As I sailed.
Calliope's head snapped forward and she drove the flat of her forehead into Mahal-Sabim’s face. There was an audible snap as he nose broke beneath the blow and a spurt of hot blood on her face as the pirate king reeled back with a yowl of pain. Both guards yanked on their chains pulling her off her feet and tumbling her bruisingly to the tier of seats below. There was a dark chuckle in the back of her mind as she was hauled to her feet. The pirate chief glared down at her, blood running from his nose and a lip he had cut against his teeth.
“I look forward to teaching you your place bitch,” he snarled, the words unfortunately nasally until he placed a hand either side of his broken nose. With a snap and a wince of pain he reset it and his voice returned to its normal menace.
“But business before pleasure,” he commented, raising his arms before addressing the crowd in a booming voice.
“Bring out the Northern Filth!”
The lancet stung Junebugs finger as the tiny blade sampled her blood before a tiny drop of sealant sprayed over the damaged capillaries. There was a whirring click as the palm sized unit sequenced her DNA and then printed it onto a small chip the size of a fingernail. Another technician bought forward a shock proof metal case and opened it with a key that hung around his neck from a lanyard. Inside the case was a boxy looking rifle. It was a little shorter than most assault weapons she had handled but thicker around the barrel, with standard holographic sites as well as iron sights for emergencies. It had no ejection port that she could see but a number of integral heat sinks that looked like they could be manually expelled if the weapon got too hot, a design she had seen on some high end vehicle mounted plasma weaponry. It usually didn't matter too much as the kind of rate of fire one needed to maintain to fill the heat sinks was enough to melt and deform the barrel. A standard powercell was set forward of the trigger assembly as well as a bullpup style rear magazine behind it. The whole unit was sheathed in high density plastic rather than metal and coloured in dark green and gray.
“The ACR-18,” the technician said proudly, lifting the weapon from the foam insert inside the case and pulling free the rubber shock pad that covered the butt to reveal several input jacks and chip slots. He slipped the chip into the slot and clicked it home before replacing the cover and handing the weapon to Sayeeda. The weight was surprising especially given the plastic used in its construction. The technician nodded at her slight hesitation.
“We had to use plastic to keep the weight down,” he explained, “the early prototypes were too heavy to be easily man, or woman, portable.” Sayeeda ignored the feeble jest and bought the weapon to her shoulder finding the balance to be to her liking.
“The rounds are…” the tech began but Sayeeda was already stripping the magazine and thumbing one of the brass cartridges free. The round itself was light and to Sayeeda’s surprise hollow, with the rear section open. The interior was smooth and extremely shiny.
“The plasma generator creates the displacer field,” the technician explained with evident pride.
“The rounds simply serve as jackets to keep it contained till the arrive, once it hits the deformation will destroy the round and everything within about a five centimeter radius.”
Junebug bounced the little brass round on her palm for a moment and then fed it back into the magazine. It seemed to be a simply spring load which was a good sign. Humanity had developed a plethora of advanced weapons in the several millennia since the invention of gunpowder, but the cleverest idea in a lab tended to break down in the dust, mud and general hard use of a battlefield.
“Are the rounds just brass?” she asked as she clicked the magazine back into place. The technician nodded enthusiastically.
“Sure are, though any metal with a high enough reflective index will do the job, you can create the rounds using any basic metal fabrication unit,” he bubbled. Junebug nodded her understanding, pleased that the rounds themselves were easy to manufacture. Exotic weaponry was often hard to keep operational either because the parts or the ammunition was hard to come by. It sounded like the machine shop on the Highlander would be advanced enough to turn out ammunition.
One of the other technicians took the grenade launcher from Neil’s hands with a lofty expression.
“Better let him keep that,” Junebug told the fellow.
“This isn’t for public…” he began but Junebug arched an eyebrow at him.
“You can discuss it with Lady Graciella, I’m sure she will be interested to know that you are taking steps that decrease the likelihood her fiance will survive to reach the wedding day,” she pointed out reasonably. The tech paused and glanced at the leader who nodded. With evident reluctance the tech handed the weapon back to the pilot who offered him a sardonic bow.
“If you will step this way madam…” the accented scientist said with a surprisingly courtly gesture. The stepped through another set of blast doors and down a short flight of stairs to a long thin corridor, one wall of which was open at waist height to overlook a shooting range. The range ran about a hundred meters and was lit with recessed chemical light behind armored glass. Humanoid mannequins studded firing lanes at various distances, they seemed to be made of some sort of pliable plastic. Damage to the targets was evidently repaired by the simple expedient of replacing the destroyed material with moulds. Slight differences in the dye batches meant that despite the fact the targets were uniformly tan, they were covered in leperous patches that differed slightly from those around them.
Junebug stepped up to the range and flicked off the safety before pulling back the charging handle with a snap. What she had taken for a square of green plastic turned red. Apparently some sort of colometic diode, a better choice than an LED for situations in which stealth or concealment was necessary. A shot clock made of similar diode informed her she had a full thirty rounds in the magazine. Junebug sniffed with a professional disdain, any professional could judge the load in a weapon by the weight to within a round or two, but that was usually lost on civilians. The flicked on the holographic sights and took aim at one of the distant mannequins before squeezing the trigger. The rifle cracked, feeling similar to a chemical variant though there was a slight high frequency hum in the background. The head of the mannequin was suddenly missing a chunk the size of a large orange, excavating the right eye socket almost to its ear.
“Nice shooting mist..” the technican began but Junebug clicked the shot selector to automatic and squeezed the trigger in a long burst, the mannequin flopped to the ground cut in half from the mid section by the sustained fire. Several large perfectly circular divots appeared in the far wall of the range as rounds struck the stone wall, destroying them with as little difficulty as they had the mannequin. The air around the barrel shimmered slightly but the weapon didn’t appear to be having any difficulty with the sustained burst, none of the heat sinks even seemed to have adsorbed a charge.
“As you can see the displacer round has roughly the same effect no matter what it hits,” the chief technician pronounced proudly. Junebug clicked the safety back on and stripped out the partially expended magazine before she realised she didn’t have a fresh one to replace it with.
“Very cool,” she admitted grudgingly before passing the weapon back to the technician. He clicked the saftey off and then pointed the weapon downrange, squeezing the trigger. Nothing happened as the weapon refused to fire.
“The genelock seems to be working perfectly,” he said, “I do hope that when your mission is complete you can provide us with some images of the field test?”
“The ACR-18,” the technician said proudly, lifting the weapon from the foam insert inside the case and pulling free the rubber shock pad that covered the butt to reveal several input jacks and chip slots. He slipped the chip into the slot and clicked it home before replacing the cover and handing the weapon to Sayeeda. The weight was surprising especially given the plastic used in its construction. The technician nodded at her slight hesitation.
“We had to use plastic to keep the weight down,” he explained, “the early prototypes were too heavy to be easily man, or woman, portable.” Sayeeda ignored the feeble jest and bought the weapon to her shoulder finding the balance to be to her liking.
“The rounds are…” the tech began but Sayeeda was already stripping the magazine and thumbing one of the brass cartridges free. The round itself was light and to Sayeeda’s surprise hollow, with the rear section open. The interior was smooth and extremely shiny.
“The plasma generator creates the displacer field,” the technician explained with evident pride.
“The rounds simply serve as jackets to keep it contained till the arrive, once it hits the deformation will destroy the round and everything within about a five centimeter radius.”
Junebug bounced the little brass round on her palm for a moment and then fed it back into the magazine. It seemed to be a simply spring load which was a good sign. Humanity had developed a plethora of advanced weapons in the several millennia since the invention of gunpowder, but the cleverest idea in a lab tended to break down in the dust, mud and general hard use of a battlefield.
“Are the rounds just brass?” she asked as she clicked the magazine back into place. The technician nodded enthusiastically.
“Sure are, though any metal with a high enough reflective index will do the job, you can create the rounds using any basic metal fabrication unit,” he bubbled. Junebug nodded her understanding, pleased that the rounds themselves were easy to manufacture. Exotic weaponry was often hard to keep operational either because the parts or the ammunition was hard to come by. It sounded like the machine shop on the Highlander would be advanced enough to turn out ammunition.
One of the other technicians took the grenade launcher from Neil’s hands with a lofty expression.
“Better let him keep that,” Junebug told the fellow.
“This isn’t for public…” he began but Junebug arched an eyebrow at him.
“You can discuss it with Lady Graciella, I’m sure she will be interested to know that you are taking steps that decrease the likelihood her fiance will survive to reach the wedding day,” she pointed out reasonably. The tech paused and glanced at the leader who nodded. With evident reluctance the tech handed the weapon back to the pilot who offered him a sardonic bow.
“If you will step this way madam…” the accented scientist said with a surprisingly courtly gesture. The stepped through another set of blast doors and down a short flight of stairs to a long thin corridor, one wall of which was open at waist height to overlook a shooting range. The range ran about a hundred meters and was lit with recessed chemical light behind armored glass. Humanoid mannequins studded firing lanes at various distances, they seemed to be made of some sort of pliable plastic. Damage to the targets was evidently repaired by the simple expedient of replacing the destroyed material with moulds. Slight differences in the dye batches meant that despite the fact the targets were uniformly tan, they were covered in leperous patches that differed slightly from those around them.
Junebug stepped up to the range and flicked off the safety before pulling back the charging handle with a snap. What she had taken for a square of green plastic turned red. Apparently some sort of colometic diode, a better choice than an LED for situations in which stealth or concealment was necessary. A shot clock made of similar diode informed her she had a full thirty rounds in the magazine. Junebug sniffed with a professional disdain, any professional could judge the load in a weapon by the weight to within a round or two, but that was usually lost on civilians. The flicked on the holographic sights and took aim at one of the distant mannequins before squeezing the trigger. The rifle cracked, feeling similar to a chemical variant though there was a slight high frequency hum in the background. The head of the mannequin was suddenly missing a chunk the size of a large orange, excavating the right eye socket almost to its ear.
“Nice shooting mist..” the technican began but Junebug clicked the shot selector to automatic and squeezed the trigger in a long burst, the mannequin flopped to the ground cut in half from the mid section by the sustained fire. Several large perfectly circular divots appeared in the far wall of the range as rounds struck the stone wall, destroying them with as little difficulty as they had the mannequin. The air around the barrel shimmered slightly but the weapon didn’t appear to be having any difficulty with the sustained burst, none of the heat sinks even seemed to have adsorbed a charge.
“As you can see the displacer round has roughly the same effect no matter what it hits,” the chief technician pronounced proudly. Junebug clicked the safety back on and stripped out the partially expended magazine before she realised she didn’t have a fresh one to replace it with.
“Very cool,” she admitted grudgingly before passing the weapon back to the technician. He clicked the saftey off and then pointed the weapon downrange, squeezing the trigger. Nothing happened as the weapon refused to fire.
“The genelock seems to be working perfectly,” he said, “I do hope that when your mission is complete you can provide us with some images of the field test?”
“So the four of us against an unknown number of enemies dug in on their home ground,” Junebug said in a neutral tone. Gregorious nodded.
“If we could afford a larger footprint we would use a naval bombardment,” the Chancellor explained. He taped the hologram of Pradec, his finger distorting the hologram for a moment.
“We don’t need to kill everyone on the island, we just need Pradec dead and his files wiped,” Gregorious said. Junebug nodded, though she hadn’t been objecting per se. If she had been planning this mission she would have suggested a small team infiltration.
“I think we can handle it,” Junebug said dryly. The Highlander and her crew had certainly done tougher jobs for less reward. Gregorious nodded and made a flicking gesture, the screen blanked and a small PDA at the center of the table beeped in receipt of the transmission. Junebug scooped it up and tucked it into a pocket in the jacket she was wearing. Indra sat up looking considerably brighter now that the business discussion seemed concluded.
“Now we have wedding plans to make,” she said with a radiant smile. Neil smiled back though the expression seemed a little forced. Junebug coughed in polite disagreement.
“I’m sorry Indra, but I’m going to need my team to go over the tactical options,” she said, feeling a little guilty at the way the other woman’s face fell. The situation was complicated enough without her making it worse. Gregorious however nodded.
“A proper attitude for a soldier,” the chancellor nodded in approval. Graciella nodded also, though she gave her daughter a brief sympathetic glance. Both parents were clearly concerned that Neil would be killed and Indra’s heart would be broken. Well that was a reasonable concern.
“Also the armorers should be done with the plasma weapon by now, you should swing by and see them.”
“If we could afford a larger footprint we would use a naval bombardment,” the Chancellor explained. He taped the hologram of Pradec, his finger distorting the hologram for a moment.
“We don’t need to kill everyone on the island, we just need Pradec dead and his files wiped,” Gregorious said. Junebug nodded, though she hadn’t been objecting per se. If she had been planning this mission she would have suggested a small team infiltration.
“I think we can handle it,” Junebug said dryly. The Highlander and her crew had certainly done tougher jobs for less reward. Gregorious nodded and made a flicking gesture, the screen blanked and a small PDA at the center of the table beeped in receipt of the transmission. Junebug scooped it up and tucked it into a pocket in the jacket she was wearing. Indra sat up looking considerably brighter now that the business discussion seemed concluded.
“Now we have wedding plans to make,” she said with a radiant smile. Neil smiled back though the expression seemed a little forced. Junebug coughed in polite disagreement.
“I’m sorry Indra, but I’m going to need my team to go over the tactical options,” she said, feeling a little guilty at the way the other woman’s face fell. The situation was complicated enough without her making it worse. Gregorious however nodded.
“A proper attitude for a soldier,” the chancellor nodded in approval. Graciella nodded also, though she gave her daughter a brief sympathetic glance. Both parents were clearly concerned that Neil would be killed and Indra’s heart would be broken. Well that was a reasonable concern.
“Also the armorers should be done with the plasma weapon by now, you should swing by and see them.”
*Bump*
© 2007-2026