The bulbous heads of lunar children poked over the walls surrounding the training fields for the Royal Guard of the Crown. This clear breach of security was overlooked as a matter of tradition. When the harvest was done for the day in the surrounding eternal summer young boys deeply comitted to the prospect of causing as much trouble as possible want to make sure they are playing soldier correctly.
In their eyes the men who marched and performed combat exercizes were not real. The halls of the Castle Mechta were lined with myths wrapped in royal dress. Many of the boys who watched were already a full head taller than these guardsmen, but they seemed to occupy so much space. They had all heard tale of criminals in far off places who were unable even to pierce the skin of these monsterous men.
Combat drills were their favorite. Unarmed or armed with clubs they struck each other hard enough to careen across the field. They swung weighted sticks that no mere man could lift, and bounded yards at a time to fall upon their prey. Surely, the weakest among them could break the strongest man from the moon in half without so much as a thought.
Kojo Pierce, translucent shield in hand, was batting away his sparring partner. He was told that one of his fellow guardsmen was as strong as six to ten enraged lunar rioters. Not that he would have to worry about that at the castle. Life was good, if dull, and he had to go out of his way to keep his mind alive during the long hours of standing at attention in front of the gates.
Oddly, he'd been promoted after proving an able marksman on the Wall, protecting the vast network of steam engine trains which rode in and out from under the castle crater. It was gruelling under the constant sun, but he'd learned quick to lead a target and shoot to wound. As a reward for his quality work, he'd been promoted to stand still for long hours and never have to touch a rifle again.
The club wrapped in fome struck him in the chest, knocking him back about 5 meters as he struggled to right himself and catch his breath. he landed inelegantly, was unable to stop the backward momentum, and skipped like a rock on a still pond before planting his shield and feet into the dirt. That had been happening a lot, lately. Losing sight of his surroundings.
Kujo looked up at the young terrors watching them on the distant wall, and envied them their inisght.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Somewhere near Crater Pasteur, 2060
The crooked wings of the owl circling the smoldering ruin of the eternal night's campfire campfire maintained the hush over a small bandit camp. Arthur took off his glasses and peered disapprovingly at the engine before him, grotesquely splayed on the warm tundra. He seemed distinctly out of place, standing straight and proper with a panama hat on his sandy, sunbleached hair. Surrounded by mongrel men in leathers and chains and armed with hand-me-down arms and armor he scrutinized every detail of the craftsmanship at hand.
Clutching a spanner as if to rend it in half, The mechanic Henricks just wished the feared Warboss Arthur Pendrake would start yelling and be done with this infernal waiting. That was the worst thing about riding with Pendrake. When things were good the plains were yours. Even the mad ones, darksiders who ran whooping and blind across the plains, ran off in fear of Pendrake's Knights and their rumbling trucks and bikes.
Arthur returned his glasses, which wrapped around his face and illuminated the darkness in shades of green. From this view, all of his boys had glowing eyes, staring at him like cats in the night, waiting for his decision. He had ordered a Flagship built and a Flagship he now had, the underappreciated genius Hendricks must have sewn and sundered four looted royal caravans. What stood before him was a fortress on wheels - spotlights in all directions and rifleholes scattered throughout the lower and upper decks. The massive engine block countered by the gattlin' gun 'round back. He counted eight tires. He couldn't count the spikes.
What an awful machine. He cleared his throat.
"Henricks, what do you call her?"
Cherrie, was the meek reply, to the warming laughter of the boys circled around their ever loving boss and his pet grease monkey. The tension had broken. No one was going to be shot.
"Cherrie. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He slid his hands along an ugly spike laced with rust, "I'd love to see her in makeup. What do you boys say we ride into town and pick up a lick of red paint?"
There was a roar of cheers and engines as bands of boys leapt into trucks and hollared for blood. It was always a good time when they went over into the light side.
Clutching a spanner as if to rend it in half, The mechanic Henricks just wished the feared Warboss Arthur Pendrake would start yelling and be done with this infernal waiting. That was the worst thing about riding with Pendrake. When things were good the plains were yours. Even the mad ones, darksiders who ran whooping and blind across the plains, ran off in fear of Pendrake's Knights and their rumbling trucks and bikes.
Arthur returned his glasses, which wrapped around his face and illuminated the darkness in shades of green. From this view, all of his boys had glowing eyes, staring at him like cats in the night, waiting for his decision. He had ordered a Flagship built and a Flagship he now had, the underappreciated genius Hendricks must have sewn and sundered four looted royal caravans. What stood before him was a fortress on wheels - spotlights in all directions and rifleholes scattered throughout the lower and upper decks. The massive engine block countered by the gattlin' gun 'round back. He counted eight tires. He couldn't count the spikes.
What an awful machine. He cleared his throat.
"Henricks, what do you call her?"
Cherrie, was the meek reply, to the warming laughter of the boys circled around their ever loving boss and his pet grease monkey. The tension had broken. No one was going to be shot.
"Cherrie. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He slid his hands along an ugly spike laced with rust, "I'd love to see her in makeup. What do you boys say we ride into town and pick up a lick of red paint?"
There was a roar of cheers and engines as bands of boys leapt into trucks and hollared for blood. It was always a good time when they went over into the light side.
Friday, July 10, 2009
2060, Castle Mectha, Copernicus City
The firm clip of the marchioness' heels echoed up the duststone walls of the spiral staircase. Even through the myriad stained glass windows the shock of autumnal leaves from the royal forest reminded her that there were matters to attend to at home. She had been saddled with the responsibility for her people beyond the sea of tranquility, and her life as courtesan would have to come to a close.
Her husband had died, and the Archduke of Luna had inited her to the Royal Aviary.
The wisp of a boy who had brought the message as she had sent the last of her husbands things to be shipped and unpacked before her arrival had offered no explanation before turning neatly and marching away. She had allowed herself only a sip of red wine for courage lest she keep his excellency waiting. Her face untouched by makeup and dressed for travel rather than an audience, she did not hover before the glass double doors. As soon as they had clicked shut she exited the cage and into the wirecrossed dome at the height of Castle Mectha.
The Archduke stood, book in hand, staring at the upper crescent of Earth. The molten landscape, indistinguishable from its leaden seas, lit up with constellations of tiny white flashes. She had learned long ago not to comment on the beauty of such distant explosions of light and smoke in front of the earthborne. The men grow quiet and distant, and women cry for no reason. The Archduke Turned.
Like all men from Earth he was short, barely over a meter and a half tall. Earth was a savage place, she had learned from a young age, where even the size of the planet itself drags you down. From such an upbringing, it is not surprising that one grow up short, inelegant and impossibly strong.
"Nino," the informality struck her, "Your husband was a good friend to the Crown." The depth of his voice gave weight to his suddenly personal tone. "And I'm sorry he spent we spent our lives as enemies."
At this, even the birds ceased to sing.
"His lands, now yours, are far beyond the Sea of Tranquility. Far from Mectha and its comforts. Plagued by bandits. I have no business there and even if I did, my guard would deny you my presense. It is a hiding place for rebels and saboteurs, like all places. Unlike all places, it is known as such."
As the duke ceased to speak, Marchioness Nino Tamar of the Crater Taruntius swallowed her rage. Baseless accusations which had plagued her late husband until his death. He, a petty noble, held dominion over the lands which ran through her family, in her blood and through her veins. From the shores of the Seas of Tranquility and Fertility to the south and the Sea of Crisis to the north, traders from the dark side came to her ports and hid in her firmicus mountains. It was her navies, not the crowns, which kept pirates at bay. Her soldiers that kept what little peace that could be had. And their reward for this service? The chance to beg for funds and men enough to continue the labor.
Her husband had been a lot of things - soft in the head first and foremost. Her soldiers were caked in grime and vulgar. Her traders were dishonest and farms and businesses corrupt. Crown Taxmen were chased away by ugly mobs, and caravans were beset by bandits. Her estates were hardly fit to recieve the Earl of Lawrence or DaVinchi - even the Baron of Watts had complained.
But they were not traitors, and to hear the accusation coming not from the whispers bored courtiers trying to stir up trouble but from His Excellency Archduke Regolith Peter Constantine Zond broke her heart and blinded her with rage. She concealed both with a glance to a fat and happy raven perched on the spindly branches above.
"Until we are sure about the circumstances of the late Marquis' death, I must assume the worst. Protocol demands I extend a member of my Royal Guard to ensure your safety. He will arrive within the week."
"Good day, Marchioness"
And with that, he turned back toward the crescent Earth.
Her husband had died, and the Archduke of Luna had inited her to the Royal Aviary.
The wisp of a boy who had brought the message as she had sent the last of her husbands things to be shipped and unpacked before her arrival had offered no explanation before turning neatly and marching away. She had allowed herself only a sip of red wine for courage lest she keep his excellency waiting. Her face untouched by makeup and dressed for travel rather than an audience, she did not hover before the glass double doors. As soon as they had clicked shut she exited the cage and into the wirecrossed dome at the height of Castle Mectha.
The Archduke stood, book in hand, staring at the upper crescent of Earth. The molten landscape, indistinguishable from its leaden seas, lit up with constellations of tiny white flashes. She had learned long ago not to comment on the beauty of such distant explosions of light and smoke in front of the earthborne. The men grow quiet and distant, and women cry for no reason. The Archduke Turned.
Like all men from Earth he was short, barely over a meter and a half tall. Earth was a savage place, she had learned from a young age, where even the size of the planet itself drags you down. From such an upbringing, it is not surprising that one grow up short, inelegant and impossibly strong.
"Nino," the informality struck her, "Your husband was a good friend to the Crown." The depth of his voice gave weight to his suddenly personal tone. "And I'm sorry he spent we spent our lives as enemies."
At this, even the birds ceased to sing.
"His lands, now yours, are far beyond the Sea of Tranquility. Far from Mectha and its comforts. Plagued by bandits. I have no business there and even if I did, my guard would deny you my presense. It is a hiding place for rebels and saboteurs, like all places. Unlike all places, it is known as such."
As the duke ceased to speak, Marchioness Nino Tamar of the Crater Taruntius swallowed her rage. Baseless accusations which had plagued her late husband until his death. He, a petty noble, held dominion over the lands which ran through her family, in her blood and through her veins. From the shores of the Seas of Tranquility and Fertility to the south and the Sea of Crisis to the north, traders from the dark side came to her ports and hid in her firmicus mountains. It was her navies, not the crowns, which kept pirates at bay. Her soldiers that kept what little peace that could be had. And their reward for this service? The chance to beg for funds and men enough to continue the labor.
Her husband had been a lot of things - soft in the head first and foremost. Her soldiers were caked in grime and vulgar. Her traders were dishonest and farms and businesses corrupt. Crown Taxmen were chased away by ugly mobs, and caravans were beset by bandits. Her estates were hardly fit to recieve the Earl of Lawrence or DaVinchi - even the Baron of Watts had complained.
But they were not traitors, and to hear the accusation coming not from the whispers bored courtiers trying to stir up trouble but from His Excellency Archduke Regolith Peter Constantine Zond broke her heart and blinded her with rage. She concealed both with a glance to a fat and happy raven perched on the spindly branches above.
"Until we are sure about the circumstances of the late Marquis' death, I must assume the worst. Protocol demands I extend a member of my Royal Guard to ensure your safety. He will arrive within the week."
"Good day, Marchioness"
And with that, he turned back toward the crescent Earth.
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