By request, all of my contributions to the More Futuristic Fun Than You Really Wanted, part I of V (http://www.principiadiscordia.com/forum/index.php?topic=28761.0) thread.
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations Center. 6/13/11 0317**
"Should have seen the guy. He was elated. Didn't have the heart to tell him the rumors."
"He wouldn't have believed them anyway. You know those goddamn servoheads are too jacked up on adrenaline and Paynejuice to think anymore."
"Payne juice? That drug's a wonder and applicable to way more than just the Paynites. None of those poor fools would last a mission if it wasn't for it."
"And another thing, off that Paynite shit, all credit goes to the servoheads. Yeah, they have a tough job. No, I do not envy them, but at least they're on the juice. We're in this hive straight. They get, what, two encounters a mission? A half dozen? We're running dozens a day. No replacement for the real thing or anything, but those vids are a little too vivid, and some joker rigged up Operations to have stadium sound so we can hear every little scream and, well, whatever the fuck you call that gurggling shrieking shit the Nessies make."
"What have you got against Paynites? Maybe if you took some of the 'juice' off duty you wouldn't come in with your nerves all shot! Look at you! You can't hold a coffee cup without spilling it, I'm going to have to start plastic wrapping the instruments!"
"I let my tension out by jerking off onto your chair when you take bathroom breaks."
"That's disgusting."
"Anyway, do you think it's true? About the retirements?"
"Absolutely not."
"Yeah, you're probably right. After all, considering the keep us locked underground during off hours and the non disclosure agreements and all. You're probably right. They just let servoheads that have fought fucking monsters just walk out the front door, go tell Auntie Erin."
"And the alternative is what?"
"We're all in this for life. Us. Servoheads. Command, probably."
"You think the whole thing will last that long?"
"Nope." ... "You know, you look like you could use an extra cuppa Payne juice tonight. Tell you what, suck it down and then try to picture what our own retirement's going to look like."
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations. 6/14/13 0058**
"Been thinking about what you said."
"Don't worry, I don't actually jerk off onto your chair."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know, and I don't actually mean that."
"So if you're so vocal about 'those Paynites' how are you here? This is a strictly faith undertaking."
"Good choice of words, undertaking. Like the old bastards disappearing into sewers. Like that we dug our own graves joining up.
Paynites are small. They're more intent on their beliefs than those Nessies are about gobblin' your grandmum, but they're small. Rich as hell, somehow, and don't ask me how. So here I am, independent contractor so to speak. Let me tell you, this hellish little nub we live in sounded like paradise on paper."
"Look, I've met Payne. I've even met Pixie. Those two are not about to deceive anybody. They aren't about to retire any of us like you're thinking, they're good people."
"Nobody fights like a believer."
"Have you even ever heard about Curly?"
"The short ones that get all sticky when I'm done with your mum?"
"Fuck it, fine, you've made yourself perfectly clear."
"Oh come off it, tell me something. Where do you think the Nessies came from?"
"They started off as the ones who didn't believe, kept themselves in the dark on purpose, hid from the Truth."
"And then poof! after inhaling in some Southampton wanker's stench they turn into shrieking demon monsters?"
"It happened over time, see, and with, uh..."
"When did you first hear about them?"
"Services, like anybody else."
"Not me."
"Well then when did you first hear about them?"
"Worldly man such as myself, on more than one occassion I've found a late night stroll to be precisely the right thing to keep my wits about. You ought to try it, and given the circumstance of our location, I do suggest Tunnel 13 for you. Thing is, everyone knows about it topside. Anyone with eyes. So I keep well away from grates and such and I walk, late at night.
Took a few months of this to catch one. Don't look at me like that, I don't mean catch it, catch it. See it. Well, smell it first more like, and hear it even though they're deadly quiet when they aren't attacking. Smart fuckers, see, not the dumb beasts like the servoheads we're sending after them. They go after the slow and weak because they know, they fucking know I'm telling you, that if they're found out for real it's a tougher fight ahead. So I hid.
Got a few less than friendly inquiries from the local constable catching me in the wee hours hiding in a bush, but a known community presence such as myself gets certain allowances. One night this drunk went shambling and I knew he was going to get it."
"Wait, you knew?"
"Yeah. Can't explain it. Couldn't hear the thing, couldn't even smell it yet. Felt it, though, like a presence, like a knowledge I didn't have before."
"You're telling me you can read their thoughts?"
"Don't be ridiculous. It was more like, well, like fear was a part of it that came before itself, before sound or scent. Hard to explain."
"So what happened to the drunk?"
"You've seen the vids same as me, what happens to the servoheads when they get attacked? Yeah, like that, but without the metal underpants. No trace of the poor sod when it was over. Stopped going for walks after that. Signed my contract here the next morning, actually."
"I don't believe you."
"Fuck's sake I think your last dose is wearing off. It almost sounds like you have a few brain cells to rub together."
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations. 6/14/13 0538**
"It's been weighing on me you saying these things are smart."
"Not as much as it's weighing on the dead servoheads."
"How do you know?"
"They're dead."
"No, how do you know they're smart?"
"How they move, like we've been seeing. How they attack. They don't attack superior numbers, and if they do it's when they have a better position. Just like when they steal people away above. They do it when it's dark and they're alone. And they're learning, looks like, and scary fast. There's something they know about the vets, how they walk or something, maybe how they smell, but when there's a group of veterans together the Nessies come in bigger numbers. Maybe this is just my imagination, too, but do the ones after the vets look bigger in vids? They might be sending the stronger ones out."
"Are they smarter than us?"
"Maybe some of us. Oh don't look so hurt. It was a joke. I don't know if they're smarter than us, or more organized. There's a lot we don't know, and that's the scariest thing in a world that, apparently, now contains actual living nightmares.
Look, there are quite a few kinds of intelligent. You're a hell of an engineer, and that takes smarts, but you think like a medieval serf. Maybe these things operate like bugs in some kind of hive. We don't know. Maybe they hunt like wolf packs. We don't know. Is there an Alpha, is there a mother? I mean, what the blazes are they even doing?"
"They're taking people from above."
"And?"
"Eating them."
"We know they're eating them?"
"What else would they be doing?"
"Anything, that's the point. They could be studying us. They could be assimilating us, turning into more of them. They could be eating us, yes, or maybe enslaving us. Balls, the fact that this never occurred to you is infuriating me. Don't you have some prayer ritual to attend to, worshiping Payne's cock or something?"
"You can be a right prick at times."
"I'll take being right about something, at least. With these Paynites and the Nessies the only thing you can do is be wrong. We just don't know."
"Why's it keep coming back to Paynites?"
"Why their keen interest in our screeching murderous friends down here?"
"You keep saying their as if I'm not a part of it. I follow Payne. Very much so, actually."
"You're no Paynite any more than I'm a Royal. Paynites are in the know, they have to be. You, and the rest of the techies up here and all the servoheads in the sewers, you're the believers in the whipped up frenzy."
"What says that I'm not in the know?"
"You take the Payne juice when you're off duty. That swill is impressive, it really is miraculous, but I don't think you'll be finding any of the real players in the faith sitting down for a cuppa."
"You seem awfully against them."
"You're using the word them, by the way, not us. I like that."
"Oh don't start. If you're so against the Paynites, why are you here?"
"Well I told you before, we all know about the Nessies up there. Yeah some folks will talk about it being hoodlums or standard crime, but there's something going on, that much can be agreed on. By the locals anyway. I felt the Nessies, I saw their work on my own. Whatever they are, they are not here to bring about some peaceful resolution to this, to this, whatever this is."
"And at least Payne and Pixie are doing something!"
"You've got that at least. Don't know their angle, don't know if they're some fucking doomsday cult. But they're doing something."
**End Record**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations Lower Office. 6/14/13 2300**
"You wanted to see me?"
"Operator Hayes, yes, have a seat."
"So to what do I owe the change of scenery on this fine shift night?"
"Mr. Hayes, you are not a stupid man."
"Why thank you, sir."
"Yes. You must have known we were monitoring your workspace."
"I assumed so, yes. Who drew the short straw having to watch my ugly mug each evening?"
"What is it you do during your down time, when you aren't monitoring any crews out in the sewers?"
"I watch the vids. Over and over again, I watch the vids."
"Ah, yes, we'll have to come back to that. Do you know what your partner does?"
"Watches the vids?"
"Yes. He watches the vids. The vids of other shifts. Just like the others watch yours, the ones with a bit more loyal tendencies."
"That's good. Got us spying on each other. Ever take a good look at the locker rooms? Because I'd like you to be able to picture my fat arse when I suggest that you pucker up to it."
"Fair. And probably deserved. It's an ugly business, but I think you misunderstand why we're doing it."
"You're in the faith. You build unwavering trust in your followers so you can abuse it without anyone ever questioning it. Wouldn't want anyone spreading bad ideas around, which is why I imagine I'm here."
"Haynes, if we were the malevolent organization you thought we were, why wouldn't we just kill you in your sleep instead of this conversation?"
"It's not easy to convince an experienced electrical engineer to give up every aspect fo their lives for an indefinite period of time in favor of a cramped hideout in the lovely sewers of southern England?"
"True, but still off the mark. The fact is, we don't care what you believe. I don't. Actually, a few of us have stared using your colorful 'Payne juice' and 'servohead' expressions. You're quite right, a lot of the higher ups, Payne and Pixie themselve, for example, don't take it. It has side effects, I don't mind saying, that aren't conducive on an organizational level, which is why none of our Operators are to use it on shift."
"So then why am I here?"
"Let's get back to the recording. I, personally, think you'd be a lot more useful to everyone, and probably less harmful to yourself, if you relaxed a bit. The fact is, we're recording because this is an extremely capable organization. Don't make that face, your partner Sams is an intelligent young man, brilliant even.
I'll preface this by saying, yes, largely we do have a strategy. We doing our best."
"But."
"But we're looking for ideas. Things nobody saw before, about the Nessies. So as much as I, and many others, hate the invasive nature of it, we'll continue listening in. New ideas are crucial."
"You didn't call me down here to tell me to keep thinking."
"No. The other reason for the recording is, very simply, that we need to keep stress as low as we can down here, given the situation.
Hayes, you're a mess. Take some tranquilizers, or maybe during your down time read a book instead of watching vids. Get your head out of these tunnels."
"My head's only in these tunnels because you won't let it out of them."
"You, me, all of us. The other reason we're talking is your relationship with Operator Sams."
"Look, Sams is a good kid, he's just a bit behind on, shall we say, post conventional thinking?"
"Do you know why Sams is down here, Hayes?"
"Guy loves Payne."
"He is the second Sams to join us in the sewers. The first was his older brother, one of the, what you call, 'servoheads.' We lost him early on. Operator Sams, while a follower of his own accord, came to us to find his brother. Another ugly deceit we've done is take his help, his badly needed help, before telling him his brother's fate.
Given his circumstance, in addition to all of our circumstances, all I'm asking is that you hold back a bit in your conversations with him. Not add to his burden.
And I can see you're taking that very personally. I'm also asking that you don't. There's no way you could have known."
"Will that be all then?"
"You have the rest of the shift off. Please, try to relax."
"I'll try."
"Do you have any questions?"
"Do you know?"
"About the Nessi-"
"Just. Do you know?"
"Have a good evening, Operator Hayes."
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Gymnasium. 6/23/13 0900**
"This is the fucking gym!?"
"Hayes? What are you doing here?"
"I told you the other day, I'm trying to keep my nerves down. Makes sense, really, I used to enjoy walking so I might as well keep doing it. Even if it is in place. Never saw the use in that topside but I guess when the alternative is Tunnel 13 I'll settle for this."
"Never thought I'd live to see the day."
"Poor choice of words, given our predicament. How have I never been here before? Seen what a sorry state this is. Did they actually bring this stuff down to the sewers because it looks like they just found it as is and decided to make the best of it."
"Heavy objects and stationary walkways, what more do you need?"
"Could stand to gaze at a finer arse than yours, for one."
"So how's the late shift?"
"What late shift, I work seven to three now."
"They moved you?"
"Nah, see, I figure if we're down in this pit there isn't much use for thinking of time by daylight. So I work seven to three, and you work seven to three, it just happens that there's an eight hour difference between your seven to three and mine."
"A bit strange."
"Like I said, trying to be healthier. Working seven to three, I can wake up, go work my shift, have a quick bite and then come to the gym, running into a fine co-worker like yourself, Palmer. Seeing one of those psychiatrists they've got down here, voluntary rather than mandatory like the servoheads. Learning French."
"Get the fuck off, learning French?"
"Knew you were a smart one. And quite an early riser, I see, it's what, one in the morning for you?"
"No, Hayes, it's nine, like it is for everyone else, and the Paynites, you know, who run the place?"
"Ah me and the Paynites have another thing to disagre on then."
"Speaking of which. I hear you spoke with the Chaplain?"
"Don't worry, they don't know anything about the plan. They wanted me to - hey, Palmer. What do you do during your down time at work?"
"My particular seven to three happens to be very busy, but they've got me reviewing vids when there isn't a team out."
"What kinds of vids?"
"Scout, mostly. You want to talk about the Templars being crazy. These fuckers jump in cold. They run topside, see, no armor so they don't raise suspicions. Usually younger guys, fast ones. Go up above with a list of locations, make sure they aren't spotted, and jump right into the nearest manhole, grate, whatever leads to the sewers."
"Fuck off, that's nuts. Do they ever make it out? How have I not heard about this?"
"We've got some good ones, but yeah, we lose them. And if you think it ain't pretty what Nessies do to armor. Thing is, they don't talk about the scouts because the scouts go above. It's quite an enviable job, you'll have to admit, being able to walk about like a normal person."
"And that's where your info comes from. Palmer I'm starting to think you're a clever bastard and it's frightening. Speaking of which, what's the latest word?"
"It's like we aren't even trying. Got the odd press coming down to investigate, but that's on account of the locals getting their attention."
"No government, then?"
"When's the last time you got any official attention?"
"Aside from the police?"
"I think we're better off getting some involvement down here if we elect a Nessie to Parliament. I think the Paynites have a bit more pull than we thought."
"Let's find out. Next time you talk to your scout, get him in touch with the press again. This time, don't even talk about the Nessies. Have them look into the Paynites - they're big, but they're local. Tell them to follow the money. Follow the fucking money. Find out how a new little church can pay us bastards and outfit a bunch of servoheads in this high tech stuff. Maybe if we can find their seat of power we can put a lever on it to get some actual armies down here to wipe these Nessies out."
"That's the thing, Hayes, about that runner. Didn't make it back from the last mission."
"Rotten luck."
"I'm not sure. Before this guy I had another contact, and the day after one meeting he got torn up on a run. Got me thinking. What if they're sending the ones I'm involved with to the dangerous drop-ins? Don't know if I can be responsible for any more of them."
"If they know about you, then you'd be the one that got attacked."
"Yeah, but maybe it's not me, maybe they're seeing the contacts they're having above. I just don't know, Hayes."
"There has to be a way to get to the media. Think about it, government troops down here instead of mercenary rejects. What chance would the Nessies have?"
"Bugger it. I just don't think it's worth it."
"Not sure I follow."
"Hayes. You ever thought about leaving?"
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations. 6/24/13 0142**
"So what's your read on Tom?"
"Wanker."
"Payne?"
"Wanker."
"Pixie."
"All those wankers? She's the reason why."
"Chaplain Baker? Chaplain Thomas? Palmer? Fry?"
"Wanker. Wanker. Decent sort. Wanker."
"Well what about The Old Man?"
"War."
"What?"
"War. Of the Apocalypse. Rides a Red Horse. The Old Man is a rare sort because he's the only one that manages to be perfectly sane and all kinds of hard in the tunnels. And you can measure the rest of the servoheads by him.
Take a look at the next crew that goes with him. The ones that seem to fit by him, those are warriors. The rest, that avoid him or breathe a big sigh of relief when it's over, those are just the psychos and the poor fuckers who signed up for the worst job under the earth. Got to be something supernatural about him, too; calls me Alec. Never gave him my first name."
"Yeah, he calls me Sam too."
"Well that's what everyone calls you."
"No, they call me Sams."
"Hold off, your name is Sam Sams? Oh that's fucking rich."
"Say what you like, I've heard it before. Usually go by my middle name, anyway. So what do you think the other horsemen are?"
"Death's easy. Death is the Nessies. Famine, now, famine I figure is going to come when the Payne juice runs out."
"Hayes. Runs out?"
"Said it yourself, this is a top quality drug. It's not like they're brewing it in the shitter, right? And you can't exactly make off with some stuff like that without someone noticing. And the servoheads are getting addicted. Using more and more of it per troop, plus more troops all the time. Yeah, I figure Famine will be when we have a bunch of high powered addicts willing to do just about anything for a dose."
"You know I'm not taking it anymore, right?"
"Didn't make much sense for you to, honestly. It jacks you up, and it seems you needed a calming down more than that."
"I needed to forget, which is why it helped. But I might need it again."
"Oh?"
"I'm thinking about joining the Templars."
"Fuck me. I think we just found Pestilence. 'S you. Plague upon my fucking mind."
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations. 6/24/13 0255**
"When was the last time I told you you're a bloody fool?"
"Actually that specific choice of words, this is the first."
"Mark it, it's nearly eleven in the morning."
"This again? It's two fifty-five a.m."
"One day you'll see the benefits of Hayesian Standard. Oh, scratch that, you'll get killed before then because you're signing up to be a tin of meat fighting nature's most efficient tin openers!"
"What makes you so sure I'll get killed?"
"Have you ever put on the power armor?"
"Not as such."
"Have you ever held a sword?"
"Well no."
"Have you even ever been in a fistfight? Look, don't answer that, none of the answers matter. I'm sure you'll get killed because they all get killed."
"The Old Man hasn't."
"Oh The Old Man hasn't, alright, well then you best get to training to be a grizzled old fucker. It starts twenty years before you were born."
"Not everyone gets killed, Hayes, and getting killed is besides the point. It's doing the right thing."
"The right thing is being an Operator that most of those servoheads would kill to be brainy enough to accomplish. So as to avoid the whole wading around in human shit in a suit that sticks a plug up your arse."
"And recruits keep coming to do just that."
"Let me tell you why recruits keep coming to Payne. It's religious fervor of a kind never seen. Not that it's any more powerful than, say, the Crusades, but that it's a new type. It's never been done."
"What's that?"
"Every religion grows by its sell. Have you accepted Christ in your heart, or do you know of the Buddha or some shite. You follow?"
"Of course."
"Now a nation grows strong on its sense of duty. The yanks had the 'ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country' bit, and it works. Sacrifice of the people to make the cause stronger."
"What's this got to do with Payneism?"
"The fundamental difference between the two is this. Your common religion says, basically, 'you need us.' It attracts the impoverished, the guilty, the weak, not to make the goal more real but to just be a part of something bigger. It's solace.
Payneites are fed the opposite. 'We need you.' It's a recognition of the strength of the individual it's being told to. It's a sense of duty, the kind that's mixed with a religious strength. That's the scariest bit, too, because the Payneites aren't even hiding it - they call their troops bloody Templars!"
"You and I have talked about this before, though, in a sense. Payne might not be doing the best thing, but at least he's doing something."
"That's true, but ask yourself this. Say we win this. Say The Old man steps into the sewers tomorrow and slays every last Nessie. What then?"
"I suppose we'd all go home."
"Maybe you would, and that's probably what makes you an Operator. The servoheads? They just going to waltz back into a normal life soon as it's all done? That's why this whole thing is dangerous. You've got a group of drug addled killers whose primary existence is based on the idea that they're needed. Either you tell them they aren't needed any more when the Nessies are dead, or you find them another thing to be needed for."
"I just can't see it turning into all that."
"At least think on it. And preferably without a servomotor whirring away behind your head."
"Hayes. You really think it'll all turn into a religious war, after the Nessies?"
"No. I don't think there'll be an after the Nessies."
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations. 6/24/13 0534**
"Sams, you said you'd met Payne before, right?"
"Of course. Actually surprised you haven't. For the leader of such a big thing he's quite accessible."
"Never said I haven't. What was your read on him?"
"Brilliant, but not so much in the way, say Einstein was brilliant. I mean, maybe he is but I couldn't know that. No, more like he had answers to things. Questions we never even thought of before. Why do you ask?"
"Looking into a theory I have."
"Another one? Maybe you should apply all this thinking to Nessies instead of Payneites. Hell, you could probably think them to death."
"All these vids I don't know I've seen a single person think in the presence of a Nessie."
"Oh yes, the dumb servohead fixation you've got."
"No, I mean those creatures get you working on an instinctual level. You either fight them because it's what you were born to do, or you focus all your thoughts on not running away and fight them anyway. I reckon the deep thinkers are the ones with their suits sliced open and sunk to the bottom of the muck."
"Ah. Well what was this about Payne this time?"
"Got trapped in a conversation with a servohead lately. Try to avoid those, they're an unnerving bunch. Never can tell when they're on the juice, actually. Well he started talking about Payne. Painted this picture of the fella like some glorious leader, a regular Napoleon, standing to lead his men on the morning of a great victory. Started talking about sermons delivered with hellfire, mad prophet's words that stir your soul, like.
Got me wondering if this was the same bloke I met."
"I suppose he's like any other person. Rises to meet the occasion and such. Does what's necessary."
"Thought that too, but this is something else. It's like they're talking about a whole other person. You have the guy gazing in the beyond, they've got him lighting fires in their heads."
"Well, what do you see in Payne?"
"I see a regular fellow. Same as you or me. Maybe a bit on the wilder side, someone you'd have a pint with, not talk about the weather. Seemed like he didn't even choose to be in the position he's in, like he doesn't want it. And I don't mean doesn't want to fight Nessies, but doesn't want to have such a following, even. But he does it anyway."
"Here I thought you didn't like the guy."
"Never said that. Actually if it's going to be anybody leading these folk I'd prefer it be him. The worst thing that could happen would be someone getting such devotion and actually wanting that."
"So it's not as bad as you were talking about earlier tonight. As if this whole thing'll blow up if - when we're done with the Nessies."
"Questionable. I hear that Christ fellow was a good sort in his day as well, and look how that turned out when he wasn't around."
"It's like you said, though. At least he doesn't want it like this. At least he knows he's got responsibilities and such to turn it out for the best."
"Yeah, but who says I'm right?"
"You do, most often."
"Funny. But if you see him your way and the servoheads see him theirs, what's to say I don't just see him as reluctant leader because it's what I want to see? And I don't know what's more frightening. That I don't know what he's really like, or that he might not either."
**End Recording.**
Listen, dregs! Listen, lost! Listen, wanderers, and heroes! Listen repressed warriors, listen brave philosophers, listen questioners and brawlers! Listen!
We are humankind. Your Gods, whichever wrong path you follow, saw fit to throw to us ill conceived tests. Tens of thousands of years of triumphs. We fought beast and we mastered them. We survived the breath of titans and the rumbling of deeply sleeping ancients. We grasped the infinity of the sky; we've played with it. We even fight one another, with sword and gun, with rhetoric and invention. And still we triumph.
But there is something else.
There is a thing above mankind. Finally, for all the suffering incurred by our own greatness we are rewarded. We are given this because there is nothing else!
It is stronger than us. We are a frail specimen and even as such adapted to overcome. It can crush us even as we augment ourselves with steel flesh, for what is the servo but an extention of ourselves.
It is more relentless than us. With a singularity of purpose it hunts. It thinks as one and alone, together, a synchronicity and a capacity for individual thought both.
It is smarter than us. Because it watches us, learning our brutality and ingenuity. It improves while we grow stagnant.
This is a gift, humanity! It is not a test like our many forgotten undertakings. It is a gift because it is the End.
And we can kill it.
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Gymnasum. 6/25/13 0915**
"You know, I don't suppose getting out of here would be any kind of problem."
"Precisely what I was thinking."
"Just a matter of taking a short stroll down a tunnel and popping up above."
"Precisely not what I was thinking."
"Tunnel 13 is probably a decent choice, anyway. Plenty of sights to see along the way."
"You really think I'm a nutter?"
"Sing songy voices of the Nessies to help you ambling along. Adventure to be had, and the stunning smell of stirred up shite."
"Where are you going with this, Hayes?"
"Have you really given any thought to this whole getting out business?"
"Course I have. It sounds like you have as well."
"Been thinking is all."
"So then you're interested?"
"Oh certainly."
"Suddenly have a new desire to breathe the comparatively fresh air of above ground England again?"
"No."
"Not sure I'm following."
"I'm staying."
"You just said -"
"The kid, Palmer. The kid. Sams. I want him out of here."
"He wants out?"
"Well that's the tricky bit. I have to keep working on him. He's taking something out of our talks."
"Fuck's sake, you've gone soft."
"Only when I'm not thinking about your mum."
"Not sure if you've noticed but time isn't exactly on my side. This thing gets bigger by the day. If we don't act now, we might lose our chance."
"The kid needs to go. It's not fair, him all wrapped up in this. You and I aren't exactly old fuckers, well, I'm not, but he's right out of University. He deserves to get his heart torn out by a woman or two before it gets torn out by a Nessie."
"He's an Operator, it's not like he's in immediate danger."
"Yeah, not until the Nessies figure out a way into our hive. Is it easy convincing yourself we're safe down here when you can hear them horrors echoing about as you're trying to sleep?"
"Still remains that we can't wait to let you preach the light to him until he decides you aren't a nutter. Well, not about this at least."
"Maybe he doesn't need to think I'm right. Maybe the suggestion, or order, needs to come from the right direction."
"I can see it. Dear Sams, get the fuck out our sewers, Love Payne. And if that'll work on anyone, it'll work on Sams."
"I don't like it, but I'm more comfortable with that than the alternative."
"Whatever you do, get it done within a week. A week regular time, not your own fucking Hayesian time, by the way. We're moving on it with or without you."
"And the Paynites don't know about it."
"What do you take me for? I've been deleting these recordings."
"How the bloody hell you been do that?"
"You take certain actions that compromise ethics that you'd previously held."
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations. 6/29/13 0036**
"You look well. Healthier, lately."
"I told you, I'm living a healthy lifestyle."
"You said that, yeah, but you say a lot of things."
"Wasn't always a pudgy fucker you know. Did some sports in my school years."
"That's not what I was saying."
"Don't quite get a lot of exercise down here. Never did see the point of walking in one place until the alternative was holding hands with a bloody monster."
"They're monsters, then?"
"They're certainly named after one. What else would you call them?"
"Monsters works."
"What about yourself, ever get into athletics?"
"Not as such, no. Always been a bit of a book person, I suppose."
"Well we share that. Can't live a life out of books, though."
"Who says I have?"
"Ever been outside the country?"
"Never got the chance. Rather expensive."
"And with that nice university degree you decided to work in the sewer, perhaps sign up as a servohead."
"I have my reasons."
"Your brother?"
"Who told you about my brother?"
"A man hears things. Maybe it echoed off the tunnels."
"Yeah. My brother."
"Except you don't have one."
"Come again?"
"You don't have a brother."
"I suppose I don't anymore, no."
"You never did."
"And you heard that echoing off the tunnels as well, did you? Seems I'll have to have a discussion with the Chaplain."
"You'd have to tell him why you lied."
"I did not lie."
"Here's how I figure the conversation went. You talk to the Payneites about serving down here. They ask you why. Rather than say because you believe in Payne's mission, you try to earn a bit of respect. You'd heard the stories of a particularly heroic Templar and you let them make the connection themselves. Sams isn't such a stretch to Samson is it? Must've taken a bit of acting to find out he was dead, which really only helped in that he wasn't around to contradict your story."
"It was harmless."
"I agree."
"I shouldn't have done it."
"I agree there as well."
"It's just. My whole life I haven't been taken seriously. Through school, even as an engineer, really. I just thought I could get treated with some respect. And I didn't hurt anyone by it."
"But it didn't exactly help you either, did it? You got some sympathy, but it's damn clear you're nothing like Samson. Hell, nobody is."
"Don't suppose it did, no."
"Which is why you want to join up as a Templar. Show us all you've got the minimals to do it just like your fake brother. All that about duty and whatnot was bullocks."
"Getting a bit personal now, Hayes? What about yourself, you cynical fucker? I bet you want me to go and live life just like you did, eh? Talk down to half the world and trick myself into thinking I've got a right to? You're down in this sewer just like we all are, but somehow you got me thinking that there's a reason for you doing it. I bet you have yourself half convinced you actually do, too. The Payneites are evil bastards, the servoheads are stupid pawns, and the Operators all have the wool pulled over their eyes. Is that it?"
"If I knew what I was getting into, Sams-"
"Yeah? You and me both. Probably all of us. Except the Templars."
"Maybe so. What if there was a way out?"
"What are you on about?"
"Sams. Let's be honest with each other a second. Do you believe in what we're doing down here?"
"Yes. The Nessies need to be stopped."
"But you aren't sure we're doing it the right way."
"Well that. Yeah, that's a bit more on the mark."
"Because we aren't winning. And this is too big a job to handle for a church, even one with the resources of the Payneites."
"Yeah."
"So I'll ask again. What if there was a way out?"
"I still think I should be down here doing my part."
"And if you could do your part elsewhere? Be the one to alert higher authorities? Get us some real presence down here to stop the Nessies before they do any more damage to England?"
"The Chaplain says-"
"Bugger what the Chaplain says, Sams! I am asking you. Operator Sams. Do you think we need help down here, and are you willing to be the one to get it?"
"I...I would, yeah."
"Tonight I want you to get in touch with Palmer. Yes, that Palmer. Tell him I sent you. And not another word."
"What happens then?"
"I think you'll get your chance to be taken seriously."
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Operations Lower Office. 6/30/13 0327**
"Hayes, sit down."
"Believe I'll stand."
"This is past the point of games, Hayes."
"Which is why I'm ready to run, Chaplain."
"How far do you think you'd make it?"
"I imagine further than ordinary, given standby teams are tending to the incident."
"You aren't in any danger, Hayes. Even now. Just have a seat. There. Now, I don't need to ask you why you're here."
"Something to do with whatever is going on."
"Ever the perceptive one. And yeah, it has something to do with whatever is going on. I suppose when we get a minute and this is over, reviewing the vids, we won't find out you had anything to do with this."
"What is this, again?"
"A half hour ago, an operator, two runners, and an unidentified fourth party left the perimeter."
"Why the alarm?"
"Because they're, for lack of a better term, civilians. We can't have them in danger."
"So you decided to drag them back here against their will?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you ask them what it's about then, not me?"
"They aren't in any state to answer us."
"What happened?"
"Rotten luck, as far as we can tell. It looks like they had a plan. Where to go, how they intended to get topside, precisely the kind of thing you'd expect to see from very capable people. Except for one thing."
"That would be what?"
"Didn't bring any weapons. As close to the perimeter as they were, they probably didn't think they needed any. One Nessie, as far as we could tell. Two of them killed outright, the other two caught running in separate directions. Only one we could identify was Operator Palmer."
"Fuck's sake."
"Pretty chummy with Palmer, weren't you Hayes?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he was a friend. Or at least as close to one as you can come down here."
"If you're finding out this way, and I'm not certain you are, then I'm sorry. What about Operator Sams?"
"Did you find him?"
"We started doing a body count as soon as this all started. There isn't a way of telling with the state of the bodies, but right now we're assuming he was among them. But then, until you were found, so were you."
"Sams. The fucking kid."
"This is a big loss for us all, Hayes."
"Kid never did anything wrong. He trusted you. He trusted me. We fucking killed him. I...I killed him."
"Thought you might have been invo-Hayes? Operator Hayes where are you going?"
**End Recording**
**Recording. Tunnel 9 Staging Grounds. 7/2/13 0750**
"You don't have to do this, you know."
"The needle, please."
"We saw the vids. You're a bullshitter, it's not your fault the kid listened."
"The needle, Chaplain."
"This'll sting a moment. We were missing one other, you know. Tech, worked on the armor."
"Hope he got out alright."
"You hear what I'm saying? Sams might have made it out."
"The words please, Chaplain."
"Stubborn fuck then still? Fine, we'll see how stubborn you are after a few runs."
"The words. Starting to lose my edge to this juice. The words, Chaplain, before I can't muster them any longer."
"This isn't your pla-"
"May this maille."
"May this maille, blessed by Payne, guard thy skin."
"MAY IT GUARD MY SKIN, AS HONOR GUARDS MY SOUL."
"May the servos of thy arms and legs carry thee into peril and back again."
"MAY THEY AID ME THERE IF MY TASK NOT BE DONE, OR LEAVE ME IF MY TIME BE UP."
"May the helm protect thy neck, be thy eyes, and guard thy conciousness."
"MAY MY PRINCIPLES AND FAITH GUARD ME WHERE I SHALL WALK."
"May thy weapon be sharp, and thy skill unerring."
"MAY I BE THE ARMORED FIST OF PAYNE, TO CARRY OUT HIS SENTENCE UPON THE VILE."
**End Recording**
Chaplain's Note: The preceeding logs chronicle Operator Alec Hayes. As of this writing, Operator Hayes is no more.
Operator Sams is still missing, presumed dead. If he was not the unidentified party of the Palmer Incident, I assume he simply managed to run a litte farther before abduction by Nessie.
Given the unfortunate fate of these few, I highly discourage "civilian" only positions in our operation. In the future, that duty may be filled by former Templars. We've found that dedication to Payne is drastically increased in those who have faced the Nessie.
"You're at the pub and there's this girl," he started. Lesson one of the class. The briefing room his school. A single Templar his student. Onlookers readying for their excursion subtly strain to hear over the bustle of their routine. "There are plenty of others around, and maybe on another day they'd be the ones on your mind. But today it's this one girl, all the thoughts going through you shared by just about every man in there. That's how the Nessies work."
The lone templar says nothing. He listens to this, his new teacher. In the corner, a chaplain watches the exchange. Hearing the introduction, a few Templars scoff and shake their heads. A few others glare at the ones who do. It is not their lesson, and the instructor pays them no mind.
"It's a pheromone. You don't notice it's there, but you feel its effect. That girl in the bar is putting them off and the Nessie in the tunnel is doing the same. Only instead of going for your prick, it gives you the fear enough to make you stupid. One of the effects of the juice is to stop you noticing it." He's not a big man, like some of them. He's not a warrior like The Old Man, or even just a skilled nut like Tom. He isn't a giant, or a mercenary. He watches.
The ones who scoffed are listening again, but they're skeptical. Pheromone or not, you felt the fear.
"That's one of the many little things that the juice kills. With all of those dead, you can focus on the big things, which is necessary to stay alive when you're first coming down here," the teacher went on. Out of the tunnels, the men talk. There are some that they don't speak about, some whose stories were tragic ones. Then there are some they speak about in awe and reverence. Men like Samson. Then there is this man, the teacher now, asked about from templar to templar in curiosity, sometimes in rumor and sometimes in fact. He wears a watch set eight hours behind, they say. It's because he's living on borrowed time, they say, cheating death not by a step ahead but by a corner behind.
"But you and I need the little things. Giving the little things their due respect is what brings us here, and in time will bring others here as well," he says. Then there are the rumors that he isn't cheating death, but chasing it. That he's been swung upon by Nessies and lived without a scratch. That he even stands and waits for their strike, hoping this will be the one that does it.
"Nessie is not as strong as is rumored. They are fast, and they can destroy us even through the metal, but that isn't from sheer strength. A Nessie strikes like a spring. Before its appendages swing, it winds itself up. In a matter of seconds, of course. Every muscle in its body tenses, lends itself to the blow. Like an expert fighter that uses his whole body to throw a punch."
The templars have stopped readying. To the last, they sit and listen. The classroom of one has become a tutorial to the lot. Seeing this, the chaplain standing by moves the group out. He knows what the man known a The Hessian is about to say. To the average templar, it's dangerous knowledge. It takes a special sort to use it effectively. It takes the sort sitting before him now.
"You can see this in the templars who have survived. The ones whose armor was merely cut, rather than their entire bodies. The strike wasn't wound up, maybe done outside the creature's instinct, maybe interrupted by a blow, a jab to a boxer rather than a right hook. Look at the page in front of you," he gestures to a single sheet given to his student.
"On that Nessie is a red dot, a sizable enough area to hit under normal circumstances, but it might as well be a pinhole when you're fighting. That spot is where the spring coils up, where all the energy that will kill you is stored. I don't know what rests there, maybe some kind of heart. But that's the little thing that you need to know better than your girlfriend's clitoris," he says. He leans in close to the student for the next part, near a whisper.
"And it's dead useless unless the spring is coiled. So you stand before a Nessie and you wait. You hold. You watch. You hold. Just when the fucker is about to unite your skull with the servo suit, you hit that spot. Only that spot," The Hessian stands back again, adopting his casual tone.
"All that stored up energy will release. The pressure of the thing's blood will push your weapon back if you've still got it in there. If not, it'll spray out not unlike a fire hose. That's what I've taken to calling The Burst. You don't need to be a genius to do it, nor a brute. You need to be able to read the things on some level. Now get yourself ready, you and I are heading out. You'll watch me for a few kills and then we come back here to train your striking."
Five armored figures walk in a line down the sewer tunnels of Southampton, England. Adorning each is a cheerful cartoon Lock Ness monster, complete with smile and kilt, of the sort found in the roadside rest areas leading to the attraction. The first figure, the one in the lead, is the simplest. The monster is green, its big watery eyes spared the marks of the large red X over the image. The Hessian moves patiently, and with a nervousness that belies the deadly strike he's come to teach his followers.
Behind him the Loch Ness monster shares the same colorings, down to plaid of the kilt. The exception is its eyes, which are scratched out in a scribbling angry hand. Its bearer, a Hessian. They are, all of them, The Hessian's students and they bear his name. But they are a Hessian, and their leader is The Hessian. In the rare times the other Templars question it, this is what they are told. The eyeless monster moves like a panther.
Following, the third in the line, a deep red color for the drawing. At times a thick coagulation and at others a flaking crust, the monster is made of blood. Blood of Nessie or blood of man is unknown; blood is in no shortage here. An air of nonchalance shows itself in the movement.
Second to last the Loch Ness monster is black on a painted white background. It has no eyes or smile, its drawing is crude, and like the rest its X is bright red. The look is almost that of a chess piece. It gives little to the answer as to which side is winning the match. The wearer walks as one with the man behind him, their movements practiced as they tread back to back in the narrow walkways, steady visors scanning their sides and rear.
Finally, a monster of what appears to be rust. He is a mirror of the man before. Back to back, eyes always scanning. He feels the group halt without seeing it. The first of The Hessian's students, the most apt to guard their secondary point of vulnerability.
They stop. Each of them questions why, silently. The move again. Passing the spot they'll search for the reason behind their pause. No reason will come from the scene, but it follows shortly with the song. Nessie's song the sweet lullaby the concert the show the sorrowful and angry death bell of the sewers, the sultry voice behind smoke and golden liquor the mockery of beloved music for its, more than anything, foreignness. And the Hessians know the pause was the fear.
Nessie came, fast violent shadows and death in four forms.
"They're attacking the center," said The Hessian, "take your targets."
The line broke, as always, while the fighters moved to their assailants. They moved to wait for the blow that would kill them. It did not come. Another blow came instead.
"I'm down," the rusted one cried.
"Down," the eyeless monster.
"They're pushing us out, glancing us to get us out of the way! Get back up, they're surrounding the others," The Hessian shouted. He worked with the servos to haul the weighty metal from the slime and muck of the bottom, desperate to stand before the attacking creatures. It made too much sense.
All four Nessies coiled at once. The figure with the chess piece charged. He threw himself with all the weight of the armor behind him at the nearest attacker. While his weapon pierced its flesh, he bowled forward still, with the faintest hope his momentum might take him beyond the reach of the second set of limbs.
The figure of blood took his target. His second Nessie struck home.
Three fallen Hessians joined the fight again, squaring off as they'd been trained. The Burst came appropriately, this time, with surprise no longer against them.
Two of them tended to the wounded man, the one with the Loch Ness monster of black. His suit was malfunctioning and he bled and he moved, weakly.
The Hessian stood above their fifth. Behind the visor lay eyes no longer lit by the spark of curiosity that set this group, not above, but aside from their peers. They were the eyes of a young man. They were the eyes of two others before him that walked beside their leader in the sewers. And before even them, they were the eyes of a young man whose foolishness was not to tread through the death wish tunnels, but merely to talk to the wrong friend.
The Hessian surveyed his diminished crew. Even the other two healthy remaining fighters seemed less than themselves. They wore their lack of wounds just as their comrade wore his freshly healing wounds. The one with the chesspiece monster was alive, and for that they were all grateful, but he would never again fight in their number. The Hessian invited him to the session because, like the rest of them, his body was merely one way his weaponized mind let free.
Their most recent excursion, several days gone now, they were lucky, he'd told them. Recognized and outmaneuvered by the Nessies it was purely good fortune that stopped them all from dying. As they hurried through the sewers half-dragging their downed men, they were even so lucky as to not encounter another enemy. The Hessian kept his helmet on until the moment he lay in his bunk; anger and hatred and disappointment working their way across his features. Others probably thought him half crazed that day, yet he'd rather they think that than know the doubt that plagued him.
Worst of their troubles was the mythology they failed to kill. It was not the Nessies their attacks struck, it was the stories that surrounded them, that made them holy adversaries of the most brainwashed Paynites. With failure, though, such tales only cemented themselves in the drug crazed vision of the Templars.
Four sat in the room. The Hessian stood before them. Behind him, in the corner where he was wont to observe, was the chaplain.
"Again we adapt," he started slowly. "We're going to get rid of these little paintings, first. Darling as they may be, they're another way for the Nessies to identify us. I want them off of your armor by the end of the day." The words were methodical, almost robotic. He meant them to sound determined but they warped and twisted in his throat and came across, more than anything, as disheartened.
"We're going to randomize our positions. I doubt very much there was a coincidence in Nessie attacking our greenest members. Keeping them in the center isn't protecting them." There was a finality to the statement common at the end of The Hessian's longest sessions. Following it, silence, briefly, in a world of noise from the moving waters of the sewers to the raucous echoes of its inhabitants and even the songs of the Nessies.
"So what do you have for me?" It was the question that he continuously hoped would be met with brilliance, something that would lead to the next crucial upper hand against the onslaught.
Four men held their breath, their leader staring at each other three in turn as though they concealed some bit of wisdom. They did not. The disappointment in the air was palpable when a voice, uncharacteristically meek, came from behind The Hessian.
"Mirrors," it said.
"What do you mean," he asked.
"One of our teams found a journal. It documented that the Nessies appear to be confused by mirrors. We're looking into their practical application," the chaplain revealed. He rose and turned to leave.
"Wait. How are you looking into it?"
"Mirrored armor is one possibility. Mirror shields another," came the almost casual reply. This time, he did go.
They watched him leave for a moment as though the weight of his words left a mark on the spot where they were spoken. Finally, The Hessian addressed them again, "You may all go. Think on this, and dig around to see if anyone will tell us more. I want one use for the mirror suggestion from each of you at our next session. And don't allow that to come in the way of your reflection on our general tactics. Not you, Miller, you stay here."
"Yes?" Miller inquired.
"You were the first one I trained. You've had the most experience Hessian or Templar out of any of us. You're going to start having a bigger role in our foolish little family, starting now. Scout around for recruits, start training within the week. Three of them."
The younger man nodded and departed. Blessedly, he didn't ask why three were needed to replace two. The Hessian sat and, with a head in duress, thought.
"How do you like it here," the chaplain asked a former Hessian. He was ambulatory again, a speedy enough recovery. Jokingly he'd been calling himself Chesster. The chaplain started calling him by his proper name after his injury.
"It's loud," Chas replied, "the helmet was so much quieter. Or, I guess it just blocked the sound better. Like when you're sitting around the flat and the refrigerator motor shuts off, you only notice how loud it was once its drone is gone. Anyway it seems like a busy job."
"It is. Operators keep this all running," The Hessian said simply.
He and the chaplain stood behind Chas' chair, all intent on the screen before them. On it, five figures moved in a very familiar pattern. Miller was quick in selecting his recruits, and quicker to show them the rudimentary skills. Each of the five were armored identically now.
"Get in Miller's helmet," The Hessian said, "Tell him to get their movements less synchronized. They don't need to be indistinguishable from each other, they need to be indistinguishable from the Templars."
Chas did this while the chaplain asked of the leader, "Are you asking too much? This is their first foray and it isn't even a combat run."
"If I think they're conspicuous, Nessie will think they're conspicuous. If Nessie thinks they're Hessians, they'll treat them as such. I'd rather surprise the monsters than the other way around like..." he did not finish.
Like last time, all three men thought at once. Like when their bloodied man fell and when Chas' remarkable instinct barely saved him from the same fate. Like when they realized that their thinking man's outfit was only as good as its ability to stay a tremulous step ahead of the nightmares in the sewer.
"I'm curious, Hessian," the chaplain annunciated the title strangely, with a barest hint of an A in the beginning and pause before the end. "You're referring to your outfit as 'them' instead of 'us' presently. Does it have anything to do with our present environment?"
A glare shot its way to him. After a moment, it was accompanied by, "When I'm with them, and note chaplain I'm saying 'when,' I'll refer to such an instance properly. They will need to know how to function, though, should anything happen to me."
"Which is why you're training one more than our agreement allotted?"
"Our agreement allowed for a team of five. As you can see, on that screen right there, a team of five is currently at work."
"What will become of the extra man when you're among them?"
"I imagine he'll be with the Templars. I think you'll agree this lengthy period of inactivity is rather bad for us all. If we keep reserves we'll be able to avoid it happening again. So right now we train one reserve, and when he's finished we train another. We train as many as are able to be trained in our way, actually, and we run more missions by rotating team members out to rest. Chaplain."
"Did you intend to request the authorization to do this?"
"You'd prefer we not create more effective soldiers for you?"
"I'd prefer we didn't have a multitude of armed men whose loyalties are primarily to you and not to Payne, ready to answer whenever you see fit."
"You worry too much. All I want is to kill Nessie, and the simple fact is that some people work better when they don't think thrusting a spear is some kind of religious ri – "
"Hessians have contact," Chas interrupted, "looks like, yes, it's one."
Its speed was, as always, disorienting. Immediately it became clear which of the five were accustomed to Nessie without the emotional numbing of the Payne juice. They froze.
"It's going to bowl past the veterans," Chas predicted.
"And with the others standing their shitting themselves it'll make quick work of them as well," The Hessian realized.
They watched as the creature flew straight down the sewer tunnel. It would be upon the group in seconds now. Miller's shouting at the recruits seemed to have little effect at first, the fear deafening them in the most important moment. Then one figure in the rear regained its senses and adjusted itself to a fighting stance, ready at least for the inevitable.
The Nessie came upon an intersection right before the Hessians. Without a pause, it bounded down the right tunnel, ignoring them completely.
"It'll be back," they could hear Miller say to his men. "This time, do not stop to think. When it's ready for the Burst it won't be wearing a sign and it won't be –"
A series of shouts stopped him. Operations was flooded with the noise of men crying out and the softer, muffled sound of a Nessie's shriek. The three observers stared with horror as Miller turned to see the commotion, putting his back to the intersection. Even with his experience, he was too slow. He faced a monster tensed to strike, and he without his weapon raised.
The whipcord limbs fell upon Miller. And he stood. As he watched the thing collapse, its strike now the limp falling of a lifeless monster, blood washed over a recruit in the rear.
In Operations they sighed as one. Miller's voice came to them, congratulating and thanking the new Hessian, the one who'd been quickest to recover from the fear. "We're moving back," it said, "I believe that'll be enough for today."
The Hessian nodded, still looking at the screen.
"For many of you, this is your first actual excursion," The Hessian addressed the four of them, "and for the others it's the first in some time. We're going to take our time. You might all be old timers in the tunnels, but as a unit we're green. First item: mirrors. What have we found out?"
One of the new Hessians spoke up first, "The Paynites have been using mirrors in combat to some effectiveness. There are rumors about a bigger plan,"
"We've heard the rumors, we've seen the fighting. Do the rumors have any credence, or at least any details?"
"A siege weapon, basically. Made of mirrors, allowing access to the Nessie's, er...hive or what have you," another said uncertainly.
"You know what," The Hessian spat, "we proceed as normal. There are enough uncertainties right now without us adding one that we aren't even sure about. Best of luck to the Templars. Miller."
"Yes?"
"What do the reserves look like?"
"Two trained and working with the Templars. They'll be rotating with the main force and participating in the training exercises."
"That'll be fine. All of you put on the skin. I'll be waiting for you at the entrance." The Hessian put on his helmet and strode off.
The remaining four looked at each other quizzically. They'd always gone together, from the briefing room until their return. It was hard to think of him as their leader. Certainly he was in a position of authority, but such was a product of their surroundings more than of his demeanor. He'd stated, even, that their independence was crucial, to allow for intellectual freedom encouraged in their group.
The Hessian entered a small room off the tunnel. An armored figure waited for him there, holding a map. He asked it, "Are you ready?"
It nodded.
"I'm using you to test them, and you, of course. You'll be going ahead and waiting at this intersection here," he pointed at the figure's map. "When I break off, it'll be you returning to the party. Are you clear on that?"
It nodded again.
"Good. It'll be safe up there. Head out and wait for my arrival."
His replacement did as he was asked. Such is the trust I've built in them, The Hessian reflected, his eyes downcast for a moment in that little room. They'll be alright. I'm not what keeps them together. A few breaths calmed his nerves. Those had been acting up since he made his decision, for the first time in a long while. He never thought there would be much to leave, but now he imagined there was even less to return to.
Four armored Hessians made their way to his position. "Miller," he called.
To his surprise, it was the third in the line which answered. Good. "Disregard. Let's go."
Through tunnels more familiar now than their homes, the five Hessians moved. Dread filled their leader's chest, a song more insidious than that of their enemy. It wouldn't be long.
As he'd stated, their pace was excruciatingly slow. It was deliberate, but whether it was proceeding with care or avoiding his next step, he could not tell. When they arrived at the spot, he paused. He signaled for them to wait, and he walked to the right.
Around another bend was the armored figure he'd met. They faced one another. Each of them nodded. The figure swept past him to join the others. The Hessian placed his hand on the figure's chest, stopping him. For a while they were like this as The Hessian shook his head, looking in the other direction. The recruit stepped back.
When their fifth finally rejoined them, the Hessians continued along the path. They would push forward, as always. Sometimes they would notice that as hard as they fought, as dangerous as it became, their fight the next day would still be closer to home than it was the day before. Today was one of those days. Nessie's song began faintly, a lone singer, then another.
They tensed, almost as one, and began to move their backs to one another, ready for a rapid sweeping attack like the last time. It was hard to tell with the echoes and the beating of their hearts how many Nessies were coming. Or how close they were. With all the nerves they mustered in their training, this part never became easier.
There were seven, when they finally charged around the corner. Ready to strike at the first sign they might bowl past, the Hessians watched as monsters came.
"They're stopping the charge," Miller shouted, "ready for the strike, just like training."
A Nessie was before him. It drew itself up. Miller thrust his weapon forward at the precise right moment. His attack was perfect. Exactly how the Nessie was anticipating. The strike did not land.
"They're feinti-" came a voice in their helmets amidst the rest of the noise.
Already a Hessian had fallen. His target, wounded but not dead, joined the other two focusing on a single fighter. Templar instincts kicked in as the remaining four realized their well controlled thrust would not work. A Nessie went down as Miller threw himself about the chaos.
Another cry came out, blood lust or pain none could tell until a second Hessian was struck by the flailing, merciless limbs of the Nessies. They could disguise their fake strike, but the real one still looked the same. Each of the three standing managed to kill their attackers, evening their numbers.
The remaining three Nessies turned and fled, their exit as quick as their coming. In the few seconds in peace, the team still living breathed and slumped. They glanced at the two laying still, just briefly, before returning their eyes to the tunnels.
Nessie resumed her song.
*********
After a few turns through the sewers, he arrived at an alcove. In it, a small pack.
He removed his helmet first. Piece by piece the suit was dismantled like so many times before. He piled it as neatly as possible. They would be by soon enough to recover the equipment. And by then, he thought, as he put on the last of the surface clothes that survived down in this world of filth.
He was swifter without the cumbersome servo-powered steel. And more silent. The walls were sweeping past at a speed their regular pace left him unaccustomed to. There, ahead, lay another pack. This one was beside a ladder, and beside the latter, a man.
"Chaplain," he said, unable to even pretend surprise.
"Hessian," said the chaplain.
"Not anymore," he told him, "there is none anymore. There are The Hessians, but I suppose they'll have to call Miller something else. Make sure they do. I don't want myself confused with some punk like him. Your armor is back a ways. You shouldn't have trouble finding it. Now if you'll excuse me."
"And if I don't?"
"You know, it never occurred to me."
"This isn't some little rule that you're bending this time," the chaplain told him.
"I've done all I can do. The rest of them will keep it going. You don't have any reason to keep me here."
"You're only a nuisance down here. Up above I think you might be a real problem."
"Only a nuisance? Now you're just insulting me," he grinned.
The chaplain stood there a moment, then held out his hand. "Best of luck to you, Hayes."
Sweet. You have the makings of an Asimovs or Analog story, here.
He sat on a little hill with his back against a poplar and tried to smell the ash on the breeze. For once, in his many visits here, he hoped not to catch the scent. Before he might have convinced himself that it was her, still on the wind and in a way with him. This time, though, it would mean something else. It would mean his country was burning.
So he sat on the grass in the patched sunlight and tried to think about what to think about. There were the times he came here with her but he found them faded. Gray, somehow, and not whole. And he could not focus on a single memory. All of them were tied together in the proper little image of his wife, zoning out his motor mouth and shrugging off his cynicism. A bit of feeling came and he tried to seize it and let it wash over him but it escaped, so ethereal, taken by even the day's gentle wind like the fine ash years before.
The meager brightness proved too much through his sunglasses. Adjustment to the overwhelming natural light of the world above was taking a long, painful time. England, it seemed, was too sunny. He closed his eyes to shield them and to force the memories to dance upon the lids. He squeezed them tighter as though it would help and he slumped against the knobs and rough bark of the tree in frustration.
A memory, just one here, just a single day that wasn't presided over by the fragile, cold light of the hospital. Even the bickering or the anger, the days when he swore it was over and hated himself for his inability to reconcile. He'd feel that again if it meant he could feel anything.
Finally, one came. He and his fiancé and a friend of theirs with whom he'd long since lost contact, strolling about and laughing about nothing in particular. And there was even a song with it. It was sung by a voice at once mocking and hateful and triumphant and sorrowful, conducted in the darkness of the Southampton sewers.
He rose, now, from his rest against the tree. Walking away he did not take even a moment to look over the view from the hill or back at the spot itself. Because he found what he was looking for, that memory, and even that had become tainted by the other woman. His new love and reason for existence that consumes his past in his own mind just as it consumes his life in the present.
Her name is Nessie.
Alec Hayes looked into the glass he held. It was smudged with fingerprints and ringed with head, and at the bottom waited one last swallow. This was the point where things became contemplative. It was always at the end of that second pint where the mundane became complex and his usual unnatural focus widened considerably. He upended the glass and drank with the lazy slowness of a man who just wants to pass the time.
The pub was emptier these days. It changed hands a few times during his stay in the cozy Inn of the Screeching Servo. Follow the money. That's what he'd told Sams way back, follow the money and you'll find out what the Paynites have for an angle.
The Paynites aren't the problem anymore though, are they? Exactly what he knew would come to pass had come to pass. They were losing steadily. They were losing, actually, precisely slowly enough to not know they were losing and that they needed help. It wasn't a matter of being overwhelmed. Being overwhelmed once would be enough to spur even the most stubborn of the chaplains into taking action. It was the case of the novice chess player. He couldn't grasp the grander strategy employed, and so when he eliminated the odd rook that bishop waiting in the back became a lot more real than it had previously been.
Worse than that, they couldn't be blamed. In fact, they were even doing well. The servoheads called the Nessies monsters, aliens, demons and mutants. Whatever they were, their mind was too foreign to comprehend. Humanity, in comparison, was predictable.
As he sighed deeply and set the glass down, a call came from somewhere else in the pub, "The volume! Hit the volume!"
Accordingly the noise in the little place shifted. Quiet chatter gave way to the excited and professional voice of the reporter.
"We are unaware at this time of the names of the young man and woman who brought us here -" her sentence was cut off by a series of ear splitting clangs.
This was his cue. Hayes set down a few notes for the drinks and rose to leave. He couldn't think in this kind of racket. With his hand on the door handle, he froze at what came next.
His blood froze and beer nearly came back up. He felt naked and vulnerable in the presence of that sound, a hundred Nessies wailing, without his team or the protection of the powered armor. The other patrons were unblinking with mouths agape. It was not the fear they felt, but the mind shattering realization beyond even modern skepticism that this was something new and terrible.
There was yelling and frantic movement. The cameraman and reporter were running, panting, through corridors. The screen was blurs and rushed footsteps, several dozen pairs of them, all seeming to be journalists. It changed from concrete to tile, from tile to gravel, and from gravel to grass where it stopped. The camera refocused, finally, and steadied following the frantic escape, to focus on a school, almost serene in the darkness.
The reporter was speechless for a while. Her well tailored appearance all that of a crazy woman now, hair wild and eyes wilder.
In the pub there was silence. Hayes still stood with one hand on the door, breathing with the deliberate pace of someone who might forget to do it if they don't focus. Hands on glasses were stiff and white knuckled and claw like and shaking.
The ensuing few minutes were like hours, even to them in their safe little corner drinking hole. The reporter tried, haltingly, to say a few words, to explain the scene before her but she failed and she gave up and she looked around uncertainly at her colleagues, some rivals, and she never turned her gaze far from the dark, still school. It was nearly serene. Like a bomb awaiting some silent inner mechanism before becoming fire and agony.
Suddenly, echoes mingled as they escaped from the empty hallways. A lone figure ran forth from the building, the devil on its heels. The camera followed him and zoomed.
The pub saw a young man who would likely die. Hayes saw a young man who already had.
"Sams!" he shouted. The first sound in the place since they started watching. He opened the door and left. Behind him, a horde of the creatures he'd come to know as Nessie swept outward from a decimated building and threw themselves in their elated fury at the gathered crowd, and the camera died.