Turn 1 - A Friend In Need...You're angry. You didn't do anything to deserve this. One little slip-up.
Breed a lignivore to control the Martian weedtree problem, they said.
It'll fix all our problems, they said.
Of course, the weedtree problem was your fault as well. But then, they told you to engineer a tree species prolific enough to grow the bulk timber required for Mars's booming economy.
Bureaucrats, the lot of them.
Currently you're restrained, and though your Martian blood boils in your arteries, you can do little but shout.
A voice sounds out of the speaker next to you,
"Please note, for the comfort of everyone, that failure to discontinue your verbal resistance will be met by a voltage far beyond your homeostatic capacitance."
This grinds on your nerves further. Whomever is speaking is unaware of grammar, apparently. Still, you've no way to prove their threat empty, and so you fall silent.
You notice the absence of the moans and screams in the vicinity. It must have been broadcast. Trying to settle comfortably into your chair, you wait.
Approximately One Hour LaterFinally, you land.
There is nothing worse than being bored. Sad? People called your Dr Frankenstein on Mars. You don't get sad. Confused? Life is always confusing. People even more so. In pain? Once, in your final year of university, your Masters project escaped and managed to subdue it by feeding it your own finger. You learnt two things from that encounter: the mind is partially stronger than the body; and weasel teeth are adequate before genetic modification.
You waited, avoided electrocution, and now you've landed. The restraints of your harness being ill-fitting, you can feel the gravitational pull of the asteroid. It's weaker than that of Mars. You're relieved. It would have been hell if-
Suddenly your joints begin to throb, sharply and deeply. Is this part of the descent? No! You just heard the landing gear contact the ground. This must be...
The pain fades, and you feel heavier. Dammit.
Artificially Generated Gravity. Hard to make, difficult to maintain, but it keeps people in shape. They never had it on Mars very much. Very few people could afford it. In the Gene-Stock Laboratories and Zoo, a few Terran and Tititian animals we kept under it's influence. Technically, all humans and Earth creatures should be kept at 1 G, for health and compatibility reasons. You never left Mars much. You're strong for a citizen of the red planet, but weak by other standards.
AGG, at at least one Earth gravity unit. This is going to make everything just that bit harder.
Over the course of the next few minutes, you hair the sound of people disembarking. This sucks. You're bored again...
Finally, you hear the sound of your restraints unclasping. A sharp jolt sparks in your back. Yelping you leap out of your seat.
As you suspected, you're in some sort of troop carrier, modified to accommodate the ghastly cryo-stasis units you just emerged from.
You walk along the row, and the gangplank, out in the concrete hanger. Immediately, you're surprised at the sheer size of it. An interstellar cargo vessel could dock in here. Treading slowly, your legs burning under a gravity they're not used to, you wobble over to the line forming a few metres from the ship. Towering over the line of (about thirty) people, a red eyed, cycloptic robot. Humanoid. It's holding a long spear of some sort. Between the twin tines of the spear head, electricity sparks and crackles back and forth. You shudder. Next to weasels, electricution is your greatest fear.
The same sickeningly sweet voice you heard before sounds into the too-cold air, repeating a message.
"Please form a line for primary assessment."
You step behind the last person in line. You mean to speak, but, someone ahead of you in the line beats you to it.
He steps out of line,
"Look, I don't know what kind of penitentiary you're running hear but-"
He's cut short as the lightning charged spear prods him in the head. He screams, writhing on the ground. You smell burning hair.
The robot speaks, uncanny with the absence of a mouth, it's voice inappropriately cheerful,
"Please cooporate so we can all get along and have fun. Remember, you won't be warned again."
The sweat, disembodied voice continues,
"Please turn to face our Happy Protector Playwatcher, for primary assessment of physical viability."
The members of the line do an awkward, hobbling right turn on the spot. Most of them are Martian, you realise, and this gravity is hurting them, too.
The robot speaks out again,
"You, Friend," it says, pointing at one old and bearded man, "You seem to be beyond your range of valid years of usefulness. Please step forward to be eliminated."
The old man gapes at the robot, but before he can act, you see a young man further down the line leap out of and grab the shaft of the spear. He grapples with the robot. It seems to be caught off guard. Maybe people don't resist often. The robots grip less feet skitter for purchase on the ground, but by sheer length and strength it begins to overpower the man. You look down the line, noone else seems about to help.
What do you do?Author's Notes (ie, apologies)
I would like to apologise about the delay here. I intended to update about twice a week, but things keep popping up. Additionally, I am sorry about the massive chunk of text you just read. Eventually there will be drawings, artwork, external linking to music, etc, etc. Things to actually make this entertaining. I am just short on time right now, with exams coming up. So again, my apologies.
I promise this will become more regular, and more entertaining, and with greater reader imput.
Thank you for your patience.
Author
Topic: Chiron-Beta-Prime: Revolution in the Sirius System (Read 3447 times)