Disconnection No. 6 – Transmission

Posted on July 1, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Part 6 of the Serial called Disconnection.

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* * *

The com of the triad played at drinking a bitter whiskey while her companions monitored her heart, and the rest of the room. Her skin felt tight, her teeth chattered — information passed through her at a rate that was making her fingertips buzz, her eyelids flutter.

* * *

She broadcasted, live from the silent zone, bypassing Nex’s permissions with a subroutine that Runig could not help but admire, even as it infuriated him. “Bastard’ll end up on this side of the wall and in my chair within less than a decade,” he muttered to himself, offline and unrecorded. If Runig had any idea just how right he’d be, he probably would’ve been using a word far stronger than ‘bastard.’

Within moments, the main host itself was accepting the transmission and rerouting it to play back over nearly every known device. Hell, even unknown devices — a woman connected only minorly to a sub-tertiary grid began to pray as her antique toaster began to hum with life and describe, in intimate detail, precisely how it was going to insinuate itself into the main host and infect it with something that would bring the age of connection to a snarling, sparking halt.

When it laughed, popping up two charred slices of marble rye, caraway seeds black and smoking, she fainted.

* * *

NEXT

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Shiny New Site!

Posted on July 1, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

Some of you may have noticed the site having a different look; the serials are more easily navigable now.
I’m on the hunt for more artwork, now, as well.

While you’re waiting for your fiction, how about a poll?

[polldaddy poll=8959071]

Posted in Announcements, Just Blog Stuff, Poll | 2 Comments

DeathWatch No. 61 – You Dare To Behave This Way In Ilona?

Posted on June 30, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #61 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.

Happy Reading!

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* * *

Much of the dust in the streets had been washed clean with recent rains; gardens overflowed with flowers and thick shrubs, twisting vines and thorny succulents. The capital itself looked clean, for the most part — in the markets closest to the shipyards, however, things were muddied and stinking, more crowded, full of beasts of burden, broken machinery, and the bent backs of those hardest working and least fortunate. To be fair, Jet thought, the poverty of Ilonan people was not like the poverty of those back in Centralis. Here, more people gave of what they had when they could, and the various positions held in the government made sure to care for the people as much as possible, rather than entirely lining their own pockets. Overall, it felt as though there was less greed, less corruption — it still existed, but it did not kill citizens by the thousands.

Jet had not left the palace since he was deposited in front of Immanis so long ago, and no part of him marveled that he would have run, if he’d been given the chance back then. The day he walked out of his own accord, on a mission, he did not wonder at his love for those who had accepted him into their family.

Those who had made him their blood.

That day, he roamed the streets looking for the enemies of his acquired family, looking for those who would rise up against his brother, if they could. If given the chance. He robed himself in black, and got himself lost in the poorest district he could find, until came upon a group of three men harassing a street vendor and her son. They broke her wares and were in the process of taking her purse, knocking her child to the dirt as she fought, furious and unwilling to give in.

What burned Jet’s heart even more, they wore arm bands with signs belonging to the city-state of Shadows, the lands of the people furthest from the Luminora.

“Come now!” one shouted. “How are we to protect you if you don’t pay us?”

“You protect me from nothing! You are thieves!”

“You don’t think you need protection, then, little mother? Don’t you think your little boy deserves to grow up with both his hands?”

That’s quite enough, Jet thought, feeling his fury rise. He stepped from the shadows and called out to them in Ilonan. “You dare to behave this way in Ilona? With the Prince watching over you?”

Startled, the men stopped their assault, and turned to size him up. One of them remained with the woman to menace her, while the other two set upon Jet without delay — blades drawn. “The Prince?” one of them laughed, knocking Jet back into the other’s arms.

Jet felt his heart race, his breathing hitch — he fought, out of instinct and the need to make a show, but the other man was strong, and held him fast.

The attacker sneered, leaning in, baring his teeth as he brought the blade up to point it at Jet’s chest. “He was attacked in his own palace, you sandflea. By our brothers in Tenebrae. People who know we should have surged over the Luminora and set fire to the Westlands, and ruined them all. He is but one man — he has but one life. Just like you.” And with that, he leaned his weight against the long knife, and drove it into Jet’s chest, scraping between his ribs, impaling his heart.

For a moment, Jet panicked, crying out — what if it didn’t work this time?

It was too late to take it back, and his last thoughts in that instant were of Kieron, far and away, safe or dead or what — Jet didn’t know. But then the world went black. Jet sagged in the other man’s arms, his eyes rolling back as he dropped to the dusty alley. The man pulled out his knife, and laughed, kicking Jet’s body over.

Blood spilled, but only briefly; dead men do not bleed.

Jet laid utterly still, that strange fire in his chest scouring him from the inside out.

The men moved away from the body, and returned to the woman and her child; having seen the murder, they opened their purses to the attackers, unwilling to die, even if it meant they had to start with nothing.

“We won’t take it all, woman — but you’d better have more for us, next time,” laughed one of the men.

“There won’t be a next time,” said a voice in the alley behind them.

The men turned, and each of their hearts knew fear as they looked upon the man who had died in front of them, but now walked closer, and closer, pulling a massive sword of gleaming black glass from his side. The theatrics had seemed too much, to Jet, but Lucida had insisted. Give them something to tell stories about. Make it big, she’d said.

“Give her back her money,” Jet hissed, gesturing with the blade.

“How did you not kill him, Luto?” one of the others jeered. “Did you miss the heart?”

Luto looked furious and uncertain as he threw down his knife and drew his own sword. “I’ll find it,” he snarled.

Jet slipped close, and the men cheered, laughing, as Luto thrust his sword beneath Jet’s ribs hard enough that it erupted from his back in a fountain of hot, red wet. He looked down at the sword, and felt his knees nearly buckle, but reached to grab the sword with his off hand, and took a step forward. “You must have missed again,” he hissed, and blood ran from his lips.

“May the heavens have mercy,” the vendor wept.

The blade of black glass cleaved the air so cleanly, it sang; Luto’s head hit the dust, and his body fell to the alleyway. Jet pulled Luto’s own sword from his flesh and dropped it next to the body, sneering as he looked at the other two attackers. “Tell your brothers,” he growled. The hole that had been driven through his body seared shut, burning from the inside out, char falling from his skin, smoke filtering blue into the dusty air. And then it was simply healed, bronzed skin revealed unbroken, untouched.

The men gaped and staggered back, dropping their own weapons. “What–what would you have us tell them?” one of them asked, wide-eyed.

“Tell them something blacker than their shadows comes for them,” he laughed darkly. “Tell them it has a thousand thousand lives, and it will spend all of them to burn out the plague that Tenebrae’s children bring to Ilona. Tell them to stand beside Ilona’s prince, or live in fear of the darkness for generations.”

There, thought Jet. That’s bound to be dramatic enough. Lucy would be proud.

* * *

NEXT

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The Autumn Queen No. 23 – Twenty Years Gone

Posted on June 29, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is #23 of The Autumn Queen. To start at the beginning, go here.

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* * *

I realized, at one point, the time that had passed, and wondered if I had been forgotten by all but the guards.

Twenty years gone, and I had not seen the stars.

When the guards came, when Kellis came, I no longer waited at my cell door, hoping for anything more than terse words and the day’s rations. Instead, I sat on the floor and leaned against the back wall, and with all my candles gone, I was little more than red dust, as everything else was. That time, however, the door was unlocked, and opened, and rather than coming in, Kellis motioned me out. I walked on trembling legs, followed him without words, shoulders bent, head bowed. We passed a long hall of empty cells; I had been the last in the dungeon, left to rot. All others accused of treason had either died, or been released.

I was walked up impossibly long staircases, and as we reached the topmost landing, coming to the surface, I felt the outside air on my face, and for one moment, I nearly threw all caution to the wind and ran for the doors. When I paused, looking with longing toward the way out, Kellis did not turn around, but said softly, “It would be a pity even I would cry for, if you would die before seeing the sky again, and an even worse pity if you would die before seeing the reason for your release.”

I turned and followed at Kellis’s heels; if I had not been broken after all those years, the ice of his voice would have felled me then and there.

He brought me into the throne room itself, and led me toward the dais — when we came to the steps, I lifted my bowed head so that I could see the sky, but before my eyes could find the heavens, Kellis’s boots found the backs of my knees. I dropped to the marble without looking up, and put my hands to the tile. “I beg your mercy,” I said. “I–”

“Silence.” The command from Herself was quiet, but impossible to ignore. I shut my mouth and closed my eyes, hanging my head.

Footsteps, down the dais, then, light boots, stepping right up to my hands.

“Rise.”

My heart stopped, if only for a moment. That voice–

“Rise, Elodie.”

I stood up, then, and he steadied me — not Kellis, but the one who had walked down the dais, the one who told me to rise. When my eyes found him, I nearly fell again. The world spun, and I could not find my voice. How? There he stood in all his glory, pale skinned and silver-haired, looking at me with eyes that had never been ruined.

The ghost of my brother stood before me.

* * *

NEXT

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Disconnection No. 5 – Anomaly

Posted on June 28, 2015 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Part 5 of the Serial called Disconnection.

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* * *

They weren’t on maneuvers; these days were mostly spent in training and observation — in the silent zone, you had to use your augments in different fashions. Here, it wasn’t always about the soundstreams, datalines, grids, connections, or anything like it. They were used, but with inconsistent feedback, messages sent out piggybacked on the transmissions of anyone and everyone else. Ops who were in the silent zone were forbidden from initiating com to main host, save for emergencies. Often, they’d go for weeks without a single blip to or from anyone, which was why the sudden sharp tone of a summons, via the soundstream, would catch the triad off guard.

Earlier that day, the three had decided to do more than simply ‘observe’ — they made the rookie mistake of being damned sure they could handle themselves. Every triad does it at least once, and most are lucky enough to come out of it with minor scrapes and a few blown augments here and there.

This time, however, the triad containing the top three of the most recently advanced class was not precisely lucky. They sat in a dingy corner table of a ratty old bar, eavesdropping on conversations and communicating with one another via gesture and expression. Right around the time one of the three clicked up her audio augment past what could be considered sane or safe, and began to record, (across the bar, there was a conversation going on that she was fairly certain everyone in Nex would want to know) Runig opened wide his own comstream and transmitted a high-pitched shriek of interference. Normally, such a sound would be painful, but not damaging even to the most sensitive of ops.

This time, hearing such a thing at an amped volume was bound to be more than painful — receiving such a signal right then would overload the augment, but not before it flashfried what systems it touched — it would be like a surge, except small, precise. And slow enough to be agonizing before it got fatal. The receiver would no doubt hit the floor before she realized what was happening, tendons strained in throat and jaw, eyes wide and unseeing as blood poured, thick and red from now-deaf ears. Except that the augments are inside, and stimulate the brain still, convincing the op that the roaring noise hasn’t gone. She’d claw at her ears, her face, muscles jerking as her own voice lifted in a howl of agony. Such behavior would betray the three as a triad to the entirety of the bar. In the silent zone, they’d be decimated and likely strung up as examples.

The Never Connected were a furiously vengeful sort — just as religiously psychotic as those who refused to detach from their sync points and rejoin humanity — instead preferring to waste away, atrophying in the chair.

Before any of that happened, however, Autorun detected an anomaly that would’ve registered as incredibly similar to one years ago (and several, in between, really) had the original (or any of the subsequent) signals been recorded. Less than a second after the anomaly was detected, Autorun deleted it (as it always had) and kept on going with its routine, which would be unremarkable, save that it stands to remark that Autorun was never supposed to delete anything. Ever. Not a mistake, not a keystroke, not a wrong turn, not a number, not a character, not a line, a feed… nothing. So to cannibalize an entire possible compromise was simply… unheard of. The anomaly caused the comstream’s signal to be balled up and kept from the listening op, as though it were being collected, and stored for later.

* * *

Back at Central, Runig knew that his message hadn’t gotten through, and he was about to rethink his entire strategy on making the op an example, when the triad pulled its next stunt.

* * *

NEXT

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