HALLO EVERYONE,
I now work 4 jobs and have a plethora of other responsibilities, so I got dragged screaming into the void. I'm trying to get back on track, although I'm not totally down with Chapter 11 it feels good to have something written. The story is at least half-way now, and turned out a lot bigger than I expected.
Alienscar:
Now you highlight it and I have a bit of time. I agree about Solomon. I'll toughen him up a bit in an edit sometime. I hope he hasn't lost his edge here, either.
'I’ve noticed over 20 occurrences of instances where the wrong word has been used and if/when you edit the story you change these it will really make a difference to the flow of the story. There are also instances of missing words or additional unnecessary words that interrupt the reader’s concentration.'
I apologise. I'll have a look myself, but if you have any time or energy to dig them up, I'll look at them again. In future, I really don't mind if you drag up things as they go. They might seem like little quibbles to you that you don't want to mention, but as I've said in the past, it's great having another pair of eyes and some substative feedback. I really value your contributions and I'm sorry I haven't looked at this for so long.
"I don’t know what you, or anybody else who is reading this for that matter, thinks but I think a writer should stick to one measuring system when referring to heights or weights"
I agree. In future I shall endeavour to use one system. Until the grand ole massive re-edit stage, there may be still a bit of fluxuation, but I'll try to stick to metric. I use metric a lot of scenarios but Imperial in the pub (pints, halfs ect) and Imperial at GW or when measuring rooms and stuff (feet, inches) so I have a really weird mixed up system. I'll try and straighten it out to metric because it seems more precise and 40Kish than feet, inches and tons. The ton/tonne of bricks thing was more a coloquialism. But it is one that isn't necessary and can be substituted.
The Thing! Yes, I get that actually. Maybe it's a subconcious acknowledgement. Some of the scenes - labs, containment - were inspired by Jurassic Park - book, not film, I guess - whereas the fight scene was a lot more Aliens vs Colonial Marines. Especially the cheeky 'Where's the Sarge?!' reference that might be a bit too OOT.
Anyway, enough blather. As mentioned, comments, criticism and questions are welcome and appreciated. As well as clarifications if I get my science in a mess. And also just post anyway, because of the way the double posting mechanic works.
Eleven – Emergency Protocol
It had been one-hour, seventeen standard Shelter minutes since containment was breached and lockdown initiated.
“Mea Culpa, Prime Magos.” Said Quail, bowing low.
“With respect, My Lord,” added Tvastar as he ran through the endless damage reports, “This is a major systems malfunction. I do not know how Confessor Delaine managed to achieve such a catastrophic result.”
Solomon’s eyes flared.
It had been a bad day for Prime Magos Solomon. The final butcher’s bill from the laboratory was ten terminated and another six wounded. They were mainly chemical burns, light shrapnel injuries, and a failure by one solider to account for residual EMP charge that had damaged his circuitry. Then there was a dead Ecclesiarchal priest which was bound to cause awkward questions.
Half the facility was completely offline, and the other half was battling to keep it operational. The Logic Engine had initiated lockdown, sealing off entire sections of Forlorn and would being ‘Emergency Protocol’ if power was not restored within twelve hours. Containment was breached and there was now the very real possibility of a highly intelligent and aggressive Tyranid vanguard organism on the loose.
To compound this, the catalogue of failures by his subordinates had humiliated the Priesthood and called the Divine Mission into question. Just as Magos Biologis Quail’s research had developed promise, as soon as the Prime Magos had taken a direct interest, it had all come crashing down.
“Your apologies do not annul your responsibility, Magos Biologis. This difficult situation has been brought upon us as judgement for your complacency. Save your pleas for the Omnissiah.”
“Prime Magos!” Breathed Quail nervously, “If I could…”
“You cannot. You have proven that already. I have no use for your protestations, Quail. You will do what must be done.”
“My Lords,” said Tvastar, daring to enter the conversation, “With the generator offline, we have limited power. I cannot begin to repair the damage.”
“We will accommodate you, Enginseer,” replied Solomon, his fiery eyes never leaving Quail, “The Magos Biologis will provide a solution.”
Quail nodded. Fraiser and Marlowe watched on from the shadows, completely adrift in an alien sea of terrible possibilities horrifying consequences. The door hissed open and Crane returned silently from his errand. It did not take a psychologist to assess the current atmosphere in Control. He crossed the room and sat in a chair, staring at a blank monitor with his fingers steepled.
Biologis Quail took a deep breath. He turned to Tvastar.
“Correlate damage reports and advise necessary prerequisites to restoring key systems, re-capturing Specimen Three and lifting lockdown.”
“My lord,” the Tech Magi replied, “It is a total grid failure. Without the primary generator, I cannot undo the damage we have sustained. We must manually restart the generator.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
“But,” he continued, “Such a task means leaving Control.”
There was an unspoken implication.
“Failure to act could have catastrophic consequences.”
“The creature,” said Fraiser, “It can’t leave the laboratory…”
“Right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if it had escaped, travelled all the way to Lothis and was masquerading as the Bishop of Haalm,” cursed Marlowe. Watching Specimen Three take apart two squads of elite Mechanicus infantry had left her doubting the viability of any of Tvastar’s security protocols.
“That is unlikely,” said the Prime Magos without a trace of humour, “But the sentiment is not inaccurate. We must ascertain the location of Specimen Three before we proceed.”
The lictor had faded into the grey and white laboratory like a chameleon. Even if it were still in the wreckage, it was not moving and ergo completely invisible to most conventional detection means currently at the disposal of Forlorn’s remaining staff.
“Pict-casters are offline.” Said Tvastar, not afraid to state the obvious.
“Indeed, and without power they cannot be restored,” replied his superior.
“Sounds like a no-win situation,” Offered Marlowe sourly.
“Not entirely,” Solomon continued, “There is a way the pict-casters can be brought online temporarily in a specific local cluster. A single camera does not require vast quantities of power to operate. Were we to isolate a recorder from the rest of the surveillance network, it is possible that we could power it from this room.”
He paused.
“Biologis Quail, you will interface with the Surveillance Directory for this laboratory, isolate a feed and power it up using your internal processor. You will determine the presence of the Specimen in the room below.”
“My Lord,” whispered Crane, “It is dangerous to interface with damaged spirits, more so to power them from one’s own processor. To share a heart with an injured machine? The mere connection with the damaged technology almost killed Lord Quail yesterday.”
The Prime Magos gave him a cold, emotionless stare.
“Then let us hope he is better prepared this time,”
All eyes turned to Quail, but there was no room to argue. This was his responsibility, and to his Lord Solomon, it was also his penance. With heavy footsteps, Quail approached the terminal. Its carapace was dark, with not a single neon glow to signify life. He whispered a prayer to the Omnissiah, feeling their eyes on his back. Then he interfaced.
* * *
For a moment, everything around him was dark. The console was completely dead, and it gave the impression that he was standing in a giant, empty void. No roof, no floor, no walls, but an eternity of night stretching in all directions. To power the console, he would have to share some of his own energy. The internal processor that maintained the rhythm of his body and powered his augmetics would give life to the pict-caster’s Machine Spirit. Reluctantly, he began to re-rout power, first from his limbs, then from his vital organs. He felt his heart rate elevate slightly as fear surged through him. His internal processor attempted to correct it, with limited success.
There was a blinding flash of white light as the machine powered up. It focused the world into a single tunnel. At the very centre, he hazily glimpsed the ruined laboratory, as if through a crystal ball.
Instantly, the world around him changed to amber and red. Feeds from the data streams filled the void with numbers and letters, reeling off damage reports. The Machine Spirit was in agony, and Quail’s disembodied soul heard himself scream in pain. It was otherworldly and distant. Here, inside the Surveillance Directory, was ten thousand times ten thousand miles away from his body.
His consciousness was surrounded by glowing circuitry, crimson stabs of pain lancing into his mind as the Machine struggled to cope with the lack of power. The terrified feeling of separation from its core processor. He sensed its hurt, fear, and anger. The injured rage of the God within the Machine.
* * *
“He is losing,” said Tvastar.
Quail’s body shuddered. Light spilt from his eyes and mouth.
“Do something!” said Marlowe aghast. “Techpriest, you have to help him.”
“He is beyond my reach,” said the Magi in monotone. Tvastar had a good heart. A great heart, in fact, one of the best currently available to Initiates of his rank. He felt sorry for Quail, he just couldn’t articulate it. Deep in his electric soul, the Techpriest mourned.
“Lord Quail is capable,” said Biologis Crane with a certainty he did not feel. “We must trust his ability and plead the grace of the Omnissiah.”
* * *
Quail’s consciousness battled toward the end of the tunnel. Every second brought nausea and pain. The distance was immeasurable, and the end seemed a lifetime away. Greedy systems grasped at him, throwing numbers at his ethereal consciousness, attempting to steal away the precious life that powered his mortal body. Databanks spilled their contents, threatening to drive him mad as the information poured into his mind at the speed of light. Maddened security procedures tried to restrain him, and every one he shut down with the force of his will. Grimly, Quail pressed on.
* * *
Above his protesting frame, a single monitor blinked on and shut down repeatedly as the Biologis forced his way towards the pict-caster’s unblinking lens. Finally, it powered up, quivering and flickering. Every eye in the Control room watched the only visible sign of Quail’s spiritual struggle. Words appeared on the screen.
DATA FEED NOT RECOGNISED…
ATTEMPTING TO BOOT FROM PROCESSOR…
STANDBY…
A tense minute passed. The shuddering body of Quail went still, before slumping forward. The overhead monitor flatlined and went dark. There was a stunned silence.
“He is dead then?” asked Fraiser finally.
Solomon remained motionless. Biologis Crane rose slowly to approach the body. He passed Marlowe, whose eyes never left Quail. Her face was made of stone.
“Disconnect him, Tvastar,” said Crane as he grasped Quail’s limp shoulders. “It’s over.”
“Patience.” Instructed the Prime Magos. His eyes were fixed on the prone form of his subordinate.
“Do not touch him.”
The monitor flickered back to life. It filled with random numbers and letters against a blue screen, scrolling for what seemed like an age.
“Magos Biologis Quail,” said Solomon. “Focus. We are waiting.”
A moment passed.
“I apologise, my Lord.” replied the vox system.