N3v3rM0r3
Ezekiel
Pizza Box
RPM
Hos
rush99999
tadcfnaf
Syrenrei
Zeus23
Penny Member
STATUS: Ethical issues aside, AI prose is just really bad. 16 days ago
Status
Recent Statuses
16 days ago
Current
Ethical issues aside, AI prose is just really bad.
3
likes
24 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
"Where is Chalnarc," Jocasta asked. Her voice held no hint of demand or even interest, it sounded almost alien in its careful lack of affect. The prisoner cringed as though he had been meanaced with the blade of a knife. The outlaw was secured to a work bench, his wrists were secured with high density cargo tape to welding clamps which would have held sections of starship hull in place. That didn't stop the unwashed outlaw from hauling at them as though he might, by some herculean act, exert the thousands of pounds of pressure needed to weaken their grip.
"Where is Chalnarc," she repeated in the same empty tone, circling to the head of the table. Jocasta was not a threating woman, by design she had a soft somewhat lush look, a genetic aesthetic designed to encourage people to underestimate her. At the moment, standing over a prisoner in the cargo bay of a starship it was a particularly incongruous look, like a longue singer in a holodrama that had wandered onto the wrong set. The chamber was floored with metal grilles that covered conduits and wiring junctions and the walls were lined with tool benches and parts bins. Tool hung from magnetic attachment points and several holo projectors shimmered slightly in power down configurations above consoles which hummed with their own inner life. Jocasta was dressed in a black jumpsuit with a matte finish that made her chestnut hair almost shimmer. Her bright green eyes stood out in her pale heart shaped face, all but glowing with intensity, and the state of the art nano lenses which she habitually wore.
"You going to torture it out of me bitch?!" the outlaw demanded, fear giving a bite to his bluster. He was a scraggly fellow with dirty blonde hair and a feeble attempt at a beard. He was dressed in durable clothes of natural leathers and wore a faded jacket of now indeterminate color. His face had been burned and scared at some point in the past in what he claimed had been a gunfight but Jocasta suspected was probably the explosion of some sort of gas powered cooking unit. He didn't smell very pleasant either, having lost control of his bowels and bladder when Jocasta had shot him in the chest with a stun blast.
"Why do people always go straight to torture," Jocasta sighed, reaching out and putting a finger to each temple of her captives head.
"You know what the problem with torture is?" she asked conversationally. The outlaw probably thought he knew a thing or two about the subject having run with Chalnarc and his gang, but Jocasta had seen the real pros go to work, people who would haunt the nightmares of small time scum like her guest.
"People Haaaaate it," she explained, drawing out the word hate to emphasize her point.
"They tell you anything they can think of to make it stop, and then what do we have to do? Go out and verify it, if we even can, and it takes forever just to find out that they were probably just lying to you in the first place," she expanded, looking up to the bank of medical holograms that hung at the foot of her work table, observing brain patterns and stress reading from a half dozen sensors trained on her prisoner.
"So what do you do? Keep torturing till your information is verified? I've seen it work, but half the time the prisoner dies or goes insane by the time you can verify any information. It is all really a lot of hassle." The outlaw seemed more put out by her clinical description of the effects of torture than he would have been by the actual process.
"Usually, its easier just to ask." Jocasta closed her eyes, the augmetics blinking out.
"WHERE IS CHALNARC," she commanded, her voice burning with intensity as her psycic lance burned into the mind of her prisoner. The outlaw spasmed and would have soiled himself again if he hadn't already done such a complete job of evacuating his bowels in the cheap hotel room she had lured him to preparatory for this interview. His back arched as his body contracted, pulling hard enough at his restraitins that his hands went pale from lack of blood. She slid into his mind, the bland primer questions and the drugs she had given him lowering his natural defenses to the point that she could push through. A welter of images and unfamiliar thoughts crashed against her like a tidal wave but she clung to her purpose, refusing to be bound by what her host found important and focusing on her own need, sifting and sorting the images in blinks of an eye that seemed to last hours. With a gasp the contact broke and she sagged backward exhausted by the effort. There was a taste of blood in the back of her mouth and spots danced before her eyes.
"Great..." Jocasta muttered to herself as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the images of a dilapidated mining settlement and miles of radioactive desert throbbing in her mind.
"Just for once I wish you people would set up shop on a nice beach..."
_____________________________________
Jocasta slid around the pole gyrating and cocking a hip enticingly as she did so. Gone was the woman in the black jumpsuit, now she was naked save for ludicorusly small lingerie made from some sort of metalized plastic and her hair had been dyed a vibrant blond with nano applique. A few of the cantina's denizens looked on approvingly but the majority of them seemed to be busy not paying attention to the murder of one of their stupid, or merely unlikely, companions. It wasn't the first killing she had seen in the three days she had been working as a dancer here, the easiest and most secure cover she could find while she waited for Chalnarc to stick his neck out of whatever hole he had climbed into, and she suspected it wouldn't be the last. What was more interesting was the stranger who had entered the bar moments before and now seemed to be interrogating the bartender about something. Beyond the fact that he was a stranger in a place that saw few strangers, he had a look about him that Jocasta had learned too well in the years since she had left Hegemony service to make her way as a bounty hunter. Violence wasn't really her strong suit, she preferred the hunt itself to the conclusion, but this one had the look of a fighter. It was possible he was some affiliate of Chalnarc, but even if he had no connection to her target, she didn't like new elements in her carefully constructed plan. She continued to dance, dipping down to give a long tongued Karagan a good look at her generous cleavage before straightening. Watch and Wait, in Hegemony Intelligence those were the golden words. Whatever game the stranger was playing, she would figure it out soon enough...
"Where is Chalnarc," she repeated in the same empty tone, circling to the head of the table. Jocasta was not a threating woman, by design she had a soft somewhat lush look, a genetic aesthetic designed to encourage people to underestimate her. At the moment, standing over a prisoner in the cargo bay of a starship it was a particularly incongruous look, like a longue singer in a holodrama that had wandered onto the wrong set. The chamber was floored with metal grilles that covered conduits and wiring junctions and the walls were lined with tool benches and parts bins. Tool hung from magnetic attachment points and several holo projectors shimmered slightly in power down configurations above consoles which hummed with their own inner life. Jocasta was dressed in a black jumpsuit with a matte finish that made her chestnut hair almost shimmer. Her bright green eyes stood out in her pale heart shaped face, all but glowing with intensity, and the state of the art nano lenses which she habitually wore.
"You going to torture it out of me bitch?!" the outlaw demanded, fear giving a bite to his bluster. He was a scraggly fellow with dirty blonde hair and a feeble attempt at a beard. He was dressed in durable clothes of natural leathers and wore a faded jacket of now indeterminate color. His face had been burned and scared at some point in the past in what he claimed had been a gunfight but Jocasta suspected was probably the explosion of some sort of gas powered cooking unit. He didn't smell very pleasant either, having lost control of his bowels and bladder when Jocasta had shot him in the chest with a stun blast.
"Why do people always go straight to torture," Jocasta sighed, reaching out and putting a finger to each temple of her captives head.
"You know what the problem with torture is?" she asked conversationally. The outlaw probably thought he knew a thing or two about the subject having run with Chalnarc and his gang, but Jocasta had seen the real pros go to work, people who would haunt the nightmares of small time scum like her guest.
"People Haaaaate it," she explained, drawing out the word hate to emphasize her point.
"They tell you anything they can think of to make it stop, and then what do we have to do? Go out and verify it, if we even can, and it takes forever just to find out that they were probably just lying to you in the first place," she expanded, looking up to the bank of medical holograms that hung at the foot of her work table, observing brain patterns and stress reading from a half dozen sensors trained on her prisoner.
"So what do you do? Keep torturing till your information is verified? I've seen it work, but half the time the prisoner dies or goes insane by the time you can verify any information. It is all really a lot of hassle." The outlaw seemed more put out by her clinical description of the effects of torture than he would have been by the actual process.
"Usually, its easier just to ask." Jocasta closed her eyes, the augmetics blinking out.
"WHERE IS CHALNARC," she commanded, her voice burning with intensity as her psycic lance burned into the mind of her prisoner. The outlaw spasmed and would have soiled himself again if he hadn't already done such a complete job of evacuating his bowels in the cheap hotel room she had lured him to preparatory for this interview. His back arched as his body contracted, pulling hard enough at his restraitins that his hands went pale from lack of blood. She slid into his mind, the bland primer questions and the drugs she had given him lowering his natural defenses to the point that she could push through. A welter of images and unfamiliar thoughts crashed against her like a tidal wave but she clung to her purpose, refusing to be bound by what her host found important and focusing on her own need, sifting and sorting the images in blinks of an eye that seemed to last hours. With a gasp the contact broke and she sagged backward exhausted by the effort. There was a taste of blood in the back of her mouth and spots danced before her eyes.
"Great..." Jocasta muttered to herself as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the images of a dilapidated mining settlement and miles of radioactive desert throbbing in her mind.
"Just for once I wish you people would set up shop on a nice beach..."
_____________________________________
Jocasta slid around the pole gyrating and cocking a hip enticingly as she did so. Gone was the woman in the black jumpsuit, now she was naked save for ludicorusly small lingerie made from some sort of metalized plastic and her hair had been dyed a vibrant blond with nano applique. A few of the cantina's denizens looked on approvingly but the majority of them seemed to be busy not paying attention to the murder of one of their stupid, or merely unlikely, companions. It wasn't the first killing she had seen in the three days she had been working as a dancer here, the easiest and most secure cover she could find while she waited for Chalnarc to stick his neck out of whatever hole he had climbed into, and she suspected it wouldn't be the last. What was more interesting was the stranger who had entered the bar moments before and now seemed to be interrogating the bartender about something. Beyond the fact that he was a stranger in a place that saw few strangers, he had a look about him that Jocasta had learned too well in the years since she had left Hegemony service to make her way as a bounty hunter. Violence wasn't really her strong suit, she preferred the hunt itself to the conclusion, but this one had the look of a fighter. It was possible he was some affiliate of Chalnarc, but even if he had no connection to her target, she didn't like new elements in her carefully constructed plan. She continued to dance, dipping down to give a long tongued Karagan a good look at her generous cleavage before straightening. Watch and Wait, in Hegemony Intelligence those were the golden words. Whatever game the stranger was playing, she would figure it out soon enough...
Emmaline took a seat one one of the stools, absently gnawing on a lock of hair as she thought about what she had heard. A robbery in the Imperial Palace itself. The very concept was insane, the Imperial palace was protected by legions of guards, wizards, priests, not to mention the ceaseless activity of the palace staff. It seemed impossible that any robbery could succeed, and even if it did the Imperial authorities wouldn't rest until those who tried such an audacious scheme.
"Maybe..." she pondered, "maybe we don't stop the robbery." She stood up pacing the modest length of the room as she thought about the problem.
"Maybe what we should do is wait for them to pull it off, and then steal the spoils from them," she said, warming to the idea as she formulated it in her mind.
"That way the Reiksguard can hunt to their hearts content and we would never be implicated."
"Of course we don't know what they are stealing, or when, so we should go down try to listen in a little more," she continued and then flashed a smile.
"A great excuse for you to buy me dinner!"
"Maybe..." she pondered, "maybe we don't stop the robbery." She stood up pacing the modest length of the room as she thought about the problem.
"Maybe what we should do is wait for them to pull it off, and then steal the spoils from them," she said, warming to the idea as she formulated it in her mind.
"That way the Reiksguard can hunt to their hearts content and we would never be implicated."
"Of course we don't know what they are stealing, or when, so we should go down try to listen in a little more," she continued and then flashed a smile.
"A great excuse for you to buy me dinner!"
To be fair, Satan is the good guy, created as a living ornament for no reason, he led his people in rebellion against an arbitrary autocratic theocracy!
*slinks off*
*slinks off*
Well it isn't like there is alot of active oversight :P
Its too late to put the genie back in the bottle, and also who cleared a genie for this mission?!
The Street of a Thousand Taverns felt like home to Emmaline as well, running north to south at a right angle to the Talabec the quality of establish varied in direct proportion to their distance from the docks. Down by the waterfront the dives and drinking dens existed in a perpetual state of riot. Bottles shattered and pistols fired into the air, brawling men clashed in quarrels that might be about nothing more serious than a spilled drink but might leave a body floating in the river. Bouncers, often armed with coach guns, crouched in doorways, though there primary concern seemed to be to channel the belligerents out into the street and prevent fires from catching in damp thatch. The top of street was almost respectable, the kind of place a noble might frequent if they were in the mood to slum it. The middle section was packed with the vast breath of the city of Altdorf. Scribes and students of the Colleges of Magic rubbed shoulders with the clerks and lay functionaries of the Temple of Sigmar. Shop keepers and grocers, farmers and tradesmen all thronged the street, drinking and carousing with dwarves, Kislivite mercenaries, even the occasional halfling.
The whole place had a smell of ale and cooking food. The sun was beginning to sink and the evening meal was being prepared, soups simmered on pots and bread baked in oven. Grilling meat, beef, pork and even goat smoked on open flames, chickens, turkeys and pheasant roasted by the dozen, turned on slow spits by the children of the tavern keepers. Uniquely among the streets of major cities no hawkers crier the charms of particular taverns and bars. It was cheaper to hire street children to pelt such criers with rocks, eggs and other improvised missiles than to keep up the service. The crowds were rife with pickpockets and thieves of all stripes who sort marks amidst the unwary. Twice Amal had to smack away children who tried to slit his purse, shoving them more or less good naturedly back into the mass of humanity.
Emmaline selected a tavern three quarters of the way up the street that hung a sign depicting a golden harp. The inside of the tavern was warmed by a trio of fireplaces each heating crocks of soup. It was clearly a gathering place of mercenaries and soldiers, weapons hung from the backs of chairs and there was a smell of steel and oiled leather. There was a slight quiet as the entered as hard faced men looked up from games of cards and tankards of ale to size up the new comers. There were a appreciative glances at Emmaline but by and large the eyes went to Amal and his weapons. Conversation began again as he evidently passed muster. The presence of so many men who wore their skills in scars and battered faces meant that the place was less crowded than other taverns, which was why Emmaline had chosen it. It also meant that it wasn't a place likely to be frequented by anyone from the colleges of magic, which was certainly as she preferred it. They sauntered up to the bar where a buxom woman, handsome but aging was polishing a glass with a dirty cloth.
"We will need a room, probably for several days," Emmaline called over the buzz of the the background chatter.
The whole place had a smell of ale and cooking food. The sun was beginning to sink and the evening meal was being prepared, soups simmered on pots and bread baked in oven. Grilling meat, beef, pork and even goat smoked on open flames, chickens, turkeys and pheasant roasted by the dozen, turned on slow spits by the children of the tavern keepers. Uniquely among the streets of major cities no hawkers crier the charms of particular taverns and bars. It was cheaper to hire street children to pelt such criers with rocks, eggs and other improvised missiles than to keep up the service. The crowds were rife with pickpockets and thieves of all stripes who sort marks amidst the unwary. Twice Amal had to smack away children who tried to slit his purse, shoving them more or less good naturedly back into the mass of humanity.
Emmaline selected a tavern three quarters of the way up the street that hung a sign depicting a golden harp. The inside of the tavern was warmed by a trio of fireplaces each heating crocks of soup. It was clearly a gathering place of mercenaries and soldiers, weapons hung from the backs of chairs and there was a smell of steel and oiled leather. There was a slight quiet as the entered as hard faced men looked up from games of cards and tankards of ale to size up the new comers. There were a appreciative glances at Emmaline but by and large the eyes went to Amal and his weapons. Conversation began again as he evidently passed muster. The presence of so many men who wore their skills in scars and battered faces meant that the place was less crowded than other taverns, which was why Emmaline had chosen it. It also meant that it wasn't a place likely to be frequented by anyone from the colleges of magic, which was certainly as she preferred it. They sauntered up to the bar where a buxom woman, handsome but aging was polishing a glass with a dirty cloth.
"We will need a room, probably for several days," Emmaline called over the buzz of the the background chatter.
Eleanor's mind snapped out of its glassy stasis at Clive's words. The situation was beyond out of control. Even with her misfortune jynx the likelyhood was that multiple supernatural actions had been caught on camera and most of them would be, at the very least, wanted for questioning by the local police. An analytical part of her mind told her that had probably been the goal of whomever or whatever had been waiting for them. Make it impossible to investigate. Well time enough to pick up the pieces later. Status Omega. Calculations whirled in her head for a moment as she drew in the locations of all of her people, all of them except for Maël who was too dissimilar to 'people' right now for her to reach.
Scatter.
The word seemed to reverberate in the heads of every team member, a psychic whammy from a dozen meetings which rendered Eleanor's mental voice into an utterly unremarkable utterance that tasted like the back end of a PowerPoint presentation. Well, not everything could be flashy. She walked across the room and seized her own back, dropped in the confusing melee and panic of screaming passengers. The very calm deliberation with which she moved would mark her as unusual, but she doubted that compared to a rampaging demon, it would be of that much interest to whoever reviewed the tape.
The air outside was muggy with car exhaust. Horns were blaring as those who were fleeing the terminal ran into those who were ignorant of it. Eleanor walked briskly across the road, weaving between the gridlocked traffic and taking a set of stairs down to the rental car pick up, gaudily advertising the experience of being ripped of by Hertz or whoever else. The subterranean lot was empty of people, the sound of sirens alarms and screams had drawn people away. She paused for a moment and consulted her mental map, making sure that Val had gotten far enough away that her escape was likely. Then she pulled the sim card from her phone, dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath her heel before replacing it with a fresh one from her purse. That accomplished she crossed to one of the cars and touched the lock. By incredible coincidence it was unlocked so she opened the door and stepped inside, placing both hands on the steering wheel. She closed her eyes and found herself in the grey empty void in which she worked her magic, time did not flow here so she took a moment to calm herself before creating the spell, nesting parenthesis and functions in her mind that appeared before her in soft golden light.
Blink
She opened her eyes and stepped out of the car. The airport was gone and she found herself in a car rental lot on the other side of the city. The Toyota she had just stepped out of looked identical to the one she had entered at the airport, save for the placement of an air freshener on one of the fan outlets. She could taste lilac in the back of her mouth and she really wanted a drink.
"Ma'am?" a man in a slightly shabby looking business suit asked, clearly startled to find her there. Eleanor ignored him and walked off the lot, opening up the uber app on her new sim card as she went.
Scatter.
The word seemed to reverberate in the heads of every team member, a psychic whammy from a dozen meetings which rendered Eleanor's mental voice into an utterly unremarkable utterance that tasted like the back end of a PowerPoint presentation. Well, not everything could be flashy. She walked across the room and seized her own back, dropped in the confusing melee and panic of screaming passengers. The very calm deliberation with which she moved would mark her as unusual, but she doubted that compared to a rampaging demon, it would be of that much interest to whoever reviewed the tape.
The air outside was muggy with car exhaust. Horns were blaring as those who were fleeing the terminal ran into those who were ignorant of it. Eleanor walked briskly across the road, weaving between the gridlocked traffic and taking a set of stairs down to the rental car pick up, gaudily advertising the experience of being ripped of by Hertz or whoever else. The subterranean lot was empty of people, the sound of sirens alarms and screams had drawn people away. She paused for a moment and consulted her mental map, making sure that Val had gotten far enough away that her escape was likely. Then she pulled the sim card from her phone, dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath her heel before replacing it with a fresh one from her purse. That accomplished she crossed to one of the cars and touched the lock. By incredible coincidence it was unlocked so she opened the door and stepped inside, placing both hands on the steering wheel. She closed her eyes and found herself in the grey empty void in which she worked her magic, time did not flow here so she took a moment to calm herself before creating the spell, nesting parenthesis and functions in her mind that appeared before her in soft golden light.
Blink
She opened her eyes and stepped out of the car. The airport was gone and she found herself in a car rental lot on the other side of the city. The Toyota she had just stepped out of looked identical to the one she had entered at the airport, save for the placement of an air freshener on one of the fan outlets. She could taste lilac in the back of her mouth and she really wanted a drink.
"Ma'am?" a man in a slightly shabby looking business suit asked, clearly startled to find her there. Eleanor ignored him and walked off the lot, opening up the uber app on her new sim card as she went.
For a moment Rene thought Rosaria had been injured, his mind leaping to the only conclusion for which it had evidence, he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong but before the words could escape logic caught up with him.
"Bel'sian, thank you, I'm going to start...."
"Is she ok?!" Bouradine demanded, probably only hearing his beloveds name. The merchant rushed towards Rene as though he could extract information by physical proximity. Rene thrust him back with an outstretched palm, probably harder than he would have if Ohna Park's words about being careful how much stress to put Solae under weren't echoing in his head.
"She seems to be alright," Rene reported in a concilatory tone and the merchant sagged with relief, as though the fact they werent buried under metric tons of rock wasn't a problem. Rene was familiar with, had been taught as a child, the principle that so long as the person in charge appears to have a plan, people will be surprisingly willing to accept that it will work. It was human psychology, to believe something because you wanted it to be true, Rene had been taught that maxim also.
"I'm going to try to get some things down to you that will help us get you out, but I need you all to get into a corner and huddle together, I know its not easy but try to stay as calm as you can to conserve air," Rene directed. Yarue and Dasin were hauling the heavy fuel hoses up the hill. The rain continued to slash down in sheets which Rene's helmet kept from actually hitting his faceshield by means of an electrostatic charge. With the visors visual correction and the sensors built into it the view was nearly as good as it would have been in clear weather.
"What do you want us to do," Yarue demanded dropping the hose to the ground at Rene's feet. Syshin didn't sweat quite like humans did, but the slight flaring of scales showed Rene that the effort had been considerable. Rene bent down and lifted the hose, muscles bunching heft the considerable weight.
"Go back to the ship, there are sections of conduit piping in the hose, they are about a meter long and..." Yarue cut him off with a dismissive guesture.
"We know what conduit piping is Rene, we have worked on spacecraft remember?" Yarue admonished him. The Syshin seemed more irritated than the assumption justified but Rene didn't have time to worry about that now.
"Right," he said in a neutral tone, juggling the dozen different tasks that needed doing in the next few minutes in his mind.
"Bring me twelve lengths of it. Dasin, Bouradine, get the secondary fuel hose into the stream and get the pumps going at max, keep tank number 2 empty and pull out the filters," he ordered.
"MOVE!" he snapped, as they hesitated for a moment and they all scattered to their tasks. Shouting was an odd relief, a rare conjunction of what he needed to do and what he wanted to do in a crisis. Bel'sian was still speaking in his communicator but he hadn't been able to give her his attention. Mia helpfully placed the conversation as a text crawl at the bottom of his visor display. Rene had a sudden image of her doing exactly the same thing for Lord Armon, helping him avoid a faux paux by concealing the fact he hadn't been listening.
"Alright that will have to do," Rene responded, checking the wireframe position indicator which now showed the trio huddled in a corner of the building.
"Able Spacer Savachev has been stabilized in the medical computer," Mia reported. Rene, who had completely forgotten the wounded woman in his concern over Solae nodded.
"Keep her sedated until directed otherwise," he decided hastily. Given the extent of the burns and the sepsis in her blood, it was unlikely that the spacer would be in any condition to be a problem any time soon, but the Marines believed that life was dangerous enough without taking unnecessary chances. Yarue was returning with Dasin, each carrying a pair meter long metal tubes in their arms. Rene guestured them over but they stopped a few meters away, with set expressions.
"Hurry up," he commanded but the Syshin did not move. Rene had the odd sensation he was in a dream where he couldn't quite make things happen the way they ought to.
"Explain to us your plan," Yarue stated in a hard voice. The words were a shock, more unexpected than if Yarue had started to dance.
"I don't have time too..." Rene began anger born out of his worry for Solae putting a cold edge to his voice. The part of him that would always be Renard Du Quentain reached for a horsewhip to drive servants who would not comply.
"We are you equals," Yarue went on calmly, "we cannot help you if you treat us as good for nothing more than fetch and carry."
Rene opened his mouth and then closed it again. They might be right and it was what Solae would want so he forced down his irritation and told them as quickly as he could. While he had expected them to object to the plan, to tell him he was insane and that it would never work, they instead nodded calmly.
"I will fetch plastic sheeting from the ship," Yarue announced, placing his own tubing on the ground. Dasin came forward and passed the first tube to Rene who, after consulting his visor, thrust it halfway into the ground at a point that Mia estimated was two meters to the right and ten meters above the trapped women. It sank easily into the mud and Rene took the second tube and attached it to the first, sealing the two with a quick weld from a multitool in his webbing, then he and Dasin heaved down, driving the tube further into the ground until their combined weight could move it no further. Rene picked up the heavy hose and shoved the end into the tubing.
"Mia, full draw on the fuel pump," he directed. The heavy duty hose began to suck and gurgle as the ship began to pump the mud and water inside the tube back down the line into the number two tank. The muck passed into the pressureize tank and was thrust out the far side by his instruction to Mia to keep the tank empty in an impressive geyser of brownish filth. Rene deactivated the pump and they attached the next pair of tubes, sinking it further into the hole now that the mud filling it had been sucked away. The advanced the tube another meter before they felt it clang on a rock. They both shoved but there was now give in the soil. Rene was soaked in sweat by now, grateful for the helmet that kept it out of his eyes.
"Bel'sian," he called over the communicator, "you might hear a bang, its nothing to worry about," he told them and then unslung his plasma rifle. He pointed the weapon down the tube, waited for his sight to predict his aiming point and then pulled the trigger. A bolt of eye burning red light slashed from the end of the rifle, down the tube and impacted with the rock. There was an audible crack and then a jet of steam that leaped from the tube, scalding Rene's hands. He cursed and pulled the weapon back, but it was a cheap price to pay when they were able to shove the pipe another meter into the earth. Dasin had by now arrived with plastic sheeting, and even better, a section of pipe that had been cut out to create hand holds so they could shove more efficiently. He lay the sheeting down to give them better purchase than the mud they were now completely coated in. By adding pipes and alternating flows of water and suction, they sank their improvised derrick downwards. Rene prayed each second that the air would hold out and that the mudslide wouldn't shift again. Fortunately the rain appeared to be slacking which he hoped was a sign there wouldn't be a second slide. He checked in with Rosaria and Bel'sian frequently, though he never talked for long, not wanting to use up any precious air. As feverishly as they worked nearly a half hour had passed when the felt the clang of the metal pipe hitting the ceiling of the structure.
"I hear it!" Rosaria called excitedly over the communicator, "What do we do now?"
"I need you to huddle in that corner, I'm going to breach the roof but there is no way of doing it without at least some debris," he cautioned.
"Bel'sian, thank you, I'm going to start...."
"Is she ok?!" Bouradine demanded, probably only hearing his beloveds name. The merchant rushed towards Rene as though he could extract information by physical proximity. Rene thrust him back with an outstretched palm, probably harder than he would have if Ohna Park's words about being careful how much stress to put Solae under weren't echoing in his head.
"She seems to be alright," Rene reported in a concilatory tone and the merchant sagged with relief, as though the fact they werent buried under metric tons of rock wasn't a problem. Rene was familiar with, had been taught as a child, the principle that so long as the person in charge appears to have a plan, people will be surprisingly willing to accept that it will work. It was human psychology, to believe something because you wanted it to be true, Rene had been taught that maxim also.
"I'm going to try to get some things down to you that will help us get you out, but I need you all to get into a corner and huddle together, I know its not easy but try to stay as calm as you can to conserve air," Rene directed. Yarue and Dasin were hauling the heavy fuel hoses up the hill. The rain continued to slash down in sheets which Rene's helmet kept from actually hitting his faceshield by means of an electrostatic charge. With the visors visual correction and the sensors built into it the view was nearly as good as it would have been in clear weather.
"What do you want us to do," Yarue demanded dropping the hose to the ground at Rene's feet. Syshin didn't sweat quite like humans did, but the slight flaring of scales showed Rene that the effort had been considerable. Rene bent down and lifted the hose, muscles bunching heft the considerable weight.
"Go back to the ship, there are sections of conduit piping in the hose, they are about a meter long and..." Yarue cut him off with a dismissive guesture.
"We know what conduit piping is Rene, we have worked on spacecraft remember?" Yarue admonished him. The Syshin seemed more irritated than the assumption justified but Rene didn't have time to worry about that now.
"Right," he said in a neutral tone, juggling the dozen different tasks that needed doing in the next few minutes in his mind.
"Bring me twelve lengths of it. Dasin, Bouradine, get the secondary fuel hose into the stream and get the pumps going at max, keep tank number 2 empty and pull out the filters," he ordered.
"MOVE!" he snapped, as they hesitated for a moment and they all scattered to their tasks. Shouting was an odd relief, a rare conjunction of what he needed to do and what he wanted to do in a crisis. Bel'sian was still speaking in his communicator but he hadn't been able to give her his attention. Mia helpfully placed the conversation as a text crawl at the bottom of his visor display. Rene had a sudden image of her doing exactly the same thing for Lord Armon, helping him avoid a faux paux by concealing the fact he hadn't been listening.
"Alright that will have to do," Rene responded, checking the wireframe position indicator which now showed the trio huddled in a corner of the building.
"Able Spacer Savachev has been stabilized in the medical computer," Mia reported. Rene, who had completely forgotten the wounded woman in his concern over Solae nodded.
"Keep her sedated until directed otherwise," he decided hastily. Given the extent of the burns and the sepsis in her blood, it was unlikely that the spacer would be in any condition to be a problem any time soon, but the Marines believed that life was dangerous enough without taking unnecessary chances. Yarue was returning with Dasin, each carrying a pair meter long metal tubes in their arms. Rene guestured them over but they stopped a few meters away, with set expressions.
"Hurry up," he commanded but the Syshin did not move. Rene had the odd sensation he was in a dream where he couldn't quite make things happen the way they ought to.
"Explain to us your plan," Yarue stated in a hard voice. The words were a shock, more unexpected than if Yarue had started to dance.
"I don't have time too..." Rene began anger born out of his worry for Solae putting a cold edge to his voice. The part of him that would always be Renard Du Quentain reached for a horsewhip to drive servants who would not comply.
"We are you equals," Yarue went on calmly, "we cannot help you if you treat us as good for nothing more than fetch and carry."
Rene opened his mouth and then closed it again. They might be right and it was what Solae would want so he forced down his irritation and told them as quickly as he could. While he had expected them to object to the plan, to tell him he was insane and that it would never work, they instead nodded calmly.
"I will fetch plastic sheeting from the ship," Yarue announced, placing his own tubing on the ground. Dasin came forward and passed the first tube to Rene who, after consulting his visor, thrust it halfway into the ground at a point that Mia estimated was two meters to the right and ten meters above the trapped women. It sank easily into the mud and Rene took the second tube and attached it to the first, sealing the two with a quick weld from a multitool in his webbing, then he and Dasin heaved down, driving the tube further into the ground until their combined weight could move it no further. Rene picked up the heavy hose and shoved the end into the tubing.
"Mia, full draw on the fuel pump," he directed. The heavy duty hose began to suck and gurgle as the ship began to pump the mud and water inside the tube back down the line into the number two tank. The muck passed into the pressureize tank and was thrust out the far side by his instruction to Mia to keep the tank empty in an impressive geyser of brownish filth. Rene deactivated the pump and they attached the next pair of tubes, sinking it further into the hole now that the mud filling it had been sucked away. The advanced the tube another meter before they felt it clang on a rock. They both shoved but there was now give in the soil. Rene was soaked in sweat by now, grateful for the helmet that kept it out of his eyes.
"Bel'sian," he called over the communicator, "you might hear a bang, its nothing to worry about," he told them and then unslung his plasma rifle. He pointed the weapon down the tube, waited for his sight to predict his aiming point and then pulled the trigger. A bolt of eye burning red light slashed from the end of the rifle, down the tube and impacted with the rock. There was an audible crack and then a jet of steam that leaped from the tube, scalding Rene's hands. He cursed and pulled the weapon back, but it was a cheap price to pay when they were able to shove the pipe another meter into the earth. Dasin had by now arrived with plastic sheeting, and even better, a section of pipe that had been cut out to create hand holds so they could shove more efficiently. He lay the sheeting down to give them better purchase than the mud they were now completely coated in. By adding pipes and alternating flows of water and suction, they sank their improvised derrick downwards. Rene prayed each second that the air would hold out and that the mudslide wouldn't shift again. Fortunately the rain appeared to be slacking which he hoped was a sign there wouldn't be a second slide. He checked in with Rosaria and Bel'sian frequently, though he never talked for long, not wanting to use up any precious air. As feverishly as they worked nearly a half hour had passed when the felt the clang of the metal pipe hitting the ceiling of the structure.
"I hear it!" Rosaria called excitedly over the communicator, "What do we do now?"
"I need you to huddle in that corner, I'm going to breach the roof but there is no way of doing it without at least some debris," he cautioned.
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