The Bloodguilt Chronicles (I wrote this last night in bed)

nutta_99 · February 13th, 2007, 2:54 pm

The Bloodguilt Chronicles

Imperial Meltdown

In the year 4371 Imperial Era, Karn Nagoth held the Burnished Throne on Imperia. A life time of bloodshed and pain had won him the respect of the people, for they revered him, treating him as a king, although the Monarchy had been abolished aeons beforehand. When he had been younger, the XIII Legion had been his to command, and command he had done, on the desolate planet of Triantis. Between the 50000 men he controlled, eight strongholds had been set up at various points of latitude, all following the same degree of longitude. From his command post in the furthest Northern reaches of the planet, he saw off the onslaught of the Aerontis, even after the rest of that part of the galaxy had succumbed to the scourge. This victory won him the respect of the citizens of the Imperial Empire, and a chair in the High Council on Kaeloth. A few years after rising to power in 4352I.E. a new threat became apparent. Civil unrest had taken hold, and the outer reaches of the galaxy had turned on the inner part, the rich, well armed side. The unruly rebels continued to fight, increasing their fame and influence, and many of the poor in the inner part of the galaxy defected, and became spies, assassins, and just about anything else that would pass them off as a defector. The explosives were laid, and the fuse was trailed. All that was needed was a spark.
His boots crunching through the snow ominously, Karn raised the digital binoculars to his eyes. The ruined city around him was tantamount to a mocking laugh that pealed in his ears, making his blood boil. He had been a good leader to the citizens, why did they do this? His taxes were fair; he provided for them, he was open to ideas and suggestions from their governments. He had done everything necessary to make their life as comfortable as possible. No matter, this bunch of rebels would be defeated, and their bodies strewn on the plains for the worms to feed on.
“Commander?” A voice inquired from behind him
“What is it? I’m busy.” He replied, spitting each word out round his thick cigar
“There’s a messenger here from the Rebels. He has come to state their demands”
Karn spun round. The sheer cheek of it! They dare demand, when they are about to be crushed utterly? He fixed his eyes on the nervous looking messenger. He was bare except for a small piece of linen around his groin, to show that he was unarmed. Karn’s battle-scarred face tightened as he smiled pitilessly down on the man.
“And what would those demands be?” He growled
The messenger started at being addressed directly “We rebels want our freedom! We want to be free of taxes, however much they amount to. We want unlimited access to firearms and medical supplies, not just the meagre portions you allows us. This, and a grant of one battalion of cruisers and a mother ship to dock them at. These are our demands, and I am to await your reply.”
Karn sneered. So much for fair play. “Let this be your answer” he said, and promptly ate the butt of his cigar, spitting it at the ground of the messenger.
“And you will not be swayed from this decision? No matter, but I really did think you valued your life,” the messenger stepped back, and for the first time in years, Karn felt a strange emotion… could it be fear? The messenger’s eyes widened and little red lights appeared in them.
“A cyborg!” cried Karn. “EMP grenades, now!” but it was too late. A surge of blue plasma energy from the cyborg’s battery cell rocketed outwards, disrupting all the electrical equipment in the Imperial camp. Tiny nano-cells broke down in the cyborgs body, releasing other nano-cells, which multiplied twice their number each time. In a few seconds, millions, no, billions had erupted forth, forming a “grey goo” that spread and destroyed and broke down all biological matter within the base camp, where upon the perimeter force field turned it back on itself, where, having no matter to consume and supply itself with energy, digested itself and eventually subsiding into a harmless silvery mesh of what looking like evaporating water on the floor. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, nothing lived. Everything made of biological cells had been consumed in that frenzy of activity.
In the commanders’ pavilion, the shell of nuclear armour lay on the floor, vaguely in the shape of a human body. The slogan “Live and let live, unless it shoots first” was tattooed across the base of it. A residing tribute to Karn Nagoth, the last keeper of the Burnished Throne of Imperia.

**********************

On Ecthelion, the rebel leaders were celebrating. The death of Karn Nagoth had sent the Empire into turmoil, as the High Council was shunned. The decision to withdraw troops from the outskirts of the galaxy to defend the interior was a poor choice, and this now became apparent to the people. A little known moon, Echelon 7, orbited Io. On this moon was an old, but still functioning nano-factory and bio-engineering plant. This, coupled with the rich mineral resources from moon itself let the Rebels manufacture many a cyborg and nano-enhanced robot, strengthening their numbers, and creating a formidable army. The real breakthrough came when the engineers came up with a form of nanobot that could be controlled to take on any shape desired, and to do anything it was told to. Anything it was told to, providing that the engineers in question were skilled enough to code it correctly, as a wrong coding could be fatal. This was of great importance. It meant that transport ships could be made quickly and cheaply, whilst not draining on the Rebels funds, scant though they were.
A few die-hard troops who had been on stand-by when Karn had been killed had scavenged armour from the destroyed Imperial camp, and wore it with great pride. They named themselves “The Righteous” and called upon their gods in their holy crusade of cleansing the galaxy. It was these soldiers who, at this present moment were on their way to a small outpost on Atbara. The five and two score men were on a mission, to gain access to the command-frame network that linked directly to the Empires’ mainframe and to send a virus to them, shutting down their primary defences.
A cool female voice rung out over the speakers “Ten minutes until touch-down. Ten minutes until touch-down.”
The troops nervously fiddled with gauges and settings on their weapons, awaiting the initial assault they would encounter. Last minute checks were made, jokes were cracked to try and relieve the tension, but it was in vain. Quickly, the soldiers occupied the captured ion tanks and half-tracks they would use to quickly cover the distance between the drop point and their final destination. The cool female voice rang out again.
“Two minutes to touch-down… one minute to touch-down…thirty seconds to touch-down… drop initiated…”
The back of the transport slowly opened, and the sleds that the vehicles were mounted on started to move backwards towards the gaping maw of the transport. Snow and hail blustered outside, buffeting the first tank as it fell, aided by parachutes and thrusters. One by one the vehicles landed on the open plains, and off they drove, towards the outpost and an uncertain future.
Upon reaching the first town they saw, it appeared that no-one had lived there for many years. They proceeded with caution, and were wise in doing so. The first shell landed almost directly on one of the half-tracks, making it burst into flames, and throw itself and the people inside twenty feet in the air, killing all. The second and third shells fell harmlessly in front and behind them, but close enough to pose a threat. Soldiers leapt from the vehicles and took up defensive positions around the convoy. Now, the imperial troops could be seen, and were hesitant to fire upon the group. They wore the same armour and appeared to be from their alliance, so why were they firing at them? No matter, if they valued their lives they must fire back. The Rebel troops fired indiscriminately, giving the tanks a chance to load up and lay down covering fire. The Lieutenant of the company started issuing orders, watching his men fight heroically to their death. It appeared they had the upper hand, however.
Firing his bolter with pinpoint accuracy, the youngest recruit of the squadron, Octavian, landed a hit on an enemy that was pulling the pin on an incendiary grenade. His armour absorbed the shot, but he stumbled, dropping the live grenade, and it exploded, igniting several of his friends, and cooking them alive. Next to Octavian, Baal has been wounded. He had been hit on the less protected part of his elbow, on the inside, where the armour was thin to provide movement. A nasty smell of burnt flesh emanated from it, and it was obvious that the arm was useless. Drawing his energy blade, Octavian looked him in the eyes and prayed for the man. Baal nodded, he knew what must to be done to save him before he lost too much blood. He gritted his teeth and looked away, squeezing a stone with his good hand and clenching his jaw. Octavian raised his arm and brought it down on the bleeding limb, severing it halfway up the upper arm. The heat from the blade sealed up any veins or arteries that were loose, and melded the skin together, forming an oozing scab over the stump. Crying out, Baal stuffed his fist in his mouth and whimpered. The agony was worth it. Octavian has saved his life.
One of the three cyborgs that were with them stormed past. Liquid metal exploded off it, and dribbled down its front, before being re-absorbed by its body. Bullet holes riddled it, and black plasma scorch marks covered the surface. Relentless, it fired its integrated laser and machine gun, oblivious to shot and shell that would have killed a human. Until, that was, a very lucky sticky bomb hit it. A .34 calibre bullet had just pierced the bot, going right through the thing. As its nano-bots repaired themselves and multiplied to fill the gap, the bomb landed in the hole, where upon the nano-bots continued to repair, and closed the rent around the bomb. As the cyborg reached down and felt its stomach, it uttered a profanity, knowing what was about to happen
“Oh, shi…” and it exploded, showering everything with droplets of liquid metal, which solidified and shrunk. By the time Baal and Octavian had seen this, the fire fight was over. Amazingly, from just the fight, only three rebels were dead, although 13 were wounded. Only five of these, however, were major, and the rest were patched up quickly enough. They convoy moved off into the gathering darkness, but not before its grisly trophies were taken. Metal uprights had been welded to the tanks, and dead bodies from the Empire had been impaled on them, making five or six grotesque puppets. This was taken along with an Old Norse tradition, a punishment reserved for traitors. The Blood Eagle was preformed on the carcasses, whereupon the ribcage was cut open at the middle and pulled outwards, breaking the bones and making a pair of disgusting wings out of them. The entrails spilled to the ground, where they were picked at by carrion.
Thirty minutes after the convoy had left, a small red display in the middle of the town beeped, and went blank. From the convoy, the smudge on the horizon showed the activation of the mini atomic bomb, eradicating everything that was once in that town, and the town itself.

The Bloodguilt Chronicles (I wrote this last night in bed)

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