I've been working on a new piece of fanfic for the last few days dealing with perceptions of Nation. If this pans out I'm thinking of possibly doing a couple pieces. What I'd like is some feedback, especially from the pro-Nation folks. Am I at all on the mark with how loyalty implants might "influence" a baseliner's attitude towards Nation, or is this skewing too much towards the cultish area? Comments and suggestions welcome!
- Cmdr Baxter
The Caldari Border Zone, Location Classified They came to fetch him from his cell after he was asleep. Without a watch it was impossible to know the time, only that this was the fifth time it had happened. He suspected weeks had passed. Even as the prisoner awoke on the stiff, thread-bare cot with metal springs, he knew that this would continue. He also knew that they expected no resistance, and the voices urged him to cooperate with their expectations. The prisoner agreed with what he was told. Instinctively he knew that he
liked it; where this desire came from and what it meant of his own freedom of will meant nothing. He desired it with all his heart and with such passion that any notion of disagreeing with the voices was nonexistent. A feeling of warmth - of belonging - spread across him like a warm blanket as a blindfold was tightly stretched across his eyes and bound until it cut deep into his freshly-shaved scalp.
Two sets of armored hands grabbed the bare skin of his arms and dragged him through the doorway and into the hallway. One of his knees banged the doorway roughly and then his feet began to scrape across the concrete. He had no urge and no inclination to walk even though he knew what would result. Sure enough, after only forty paces he felt pain in his feet and toes as the blood began to flow. It left a broad crimson streak that the maintenance drones would clean up. They always cleaned it up.
How ironic, the prisoner told himself,
that I have so much more in common with those machines than my guards. Again, his faith and confidence was rewarded with warmth and continued happiness.
He noted that the guards weren’t talking today. It struck him as strange. Normally he would have heard whispers and voices from sentries who feared him. There would have been the sound of the guard at the second security checkpoint nervously fingering the safety on their rifle, or the noise of the sergeant barking orders through the closed doorway after the third turn. For a brief moment he considered the idea that maybe there was something here that was even more fearful than himself.
Could there be something here that We should fear, he asked. The prisoner was immediately crushed beneath a tidal wave of loneliness and desperation. He felt …
empty. There was nothing for him it seemed. No purpose, no unity, no sense of belonging. He gasped and writhed as tears filled his eyes and soaked the blindfold.
The guards dropped him to the floor and hurriedly backed away. All of them had weapons pointed at him. “The fuck?!” someone barked in a voice riddled with fear. A nearby door slid open and another set of boots were heard on the concrete. The prisoner was sprawled on the floor by now, lips moving as he hurriedly whispered something.
“The hell is going on here?” the noisy sergeant barked. “You there! Get this man up and to his …”
There it was again. Fear of something else, as shown in how the sergeant’s voice trailed off. The prisoner’s concentration, the whispering barely-heard pleas that begged forgiveness, were momentarily abandoned and he was again swept with a more intense feeling of having been abandoned. In an instant he was on his knees, rocking back and forth in an act of contrition. That the act was not of his doing was irrelevant. Boots thumped on the concrete, slowly and patiently. They approached the prisoner with a methodical pace. A darker shadow passed over the blindfold, obscuring the hallway lights with a silhouette as the boots swept to his right. Apparent unspoken words were exchanged and he was quickly hauled to his feet and hustled down the corridor.
This time, instead of halting at the door into the interrogation room, they swept through the already-open entrance and onto the cold metal plating. His bloody feet banged the steps and slid on the metal, streaking violent swirls of blood, as they roughly shoved him onto the cold metal bed and fastened the restraints. His escorts worked with rapid efficiency; strapping his arms into place, positioning his head just-so to allow the shock collar to fasten around his neck, elevating the table and observing as it tilted into an angular position near-perpendicular to the floor. They quickly withdrew from the room and shut the door behind them.
The prisoner was still begging forgiveness and pleading for the Others to return, tears streaming down his face. He was unaware of his surroundings by this point and was so deeply-rooted on the need for Their companionship that he almost missed the fact that the boots were again back. Suddenly he was aware of that fact as the metal plating creaked and tilted under immense weight. Fear swept over him in an instant. What could produce that weight? But then the Others returned, roaring in from the deepest recesses of his mind. They showed him the error of his ways, that His Word would prevail in the battle yet to come. In
all the battles yet to come.
The man strapped to the table smiled broadly and basked in Their warmth and love and attention. His sense of unity and belonging was restored, and his Faith was indeed strong.
* * * * *
The elevator rattled as it continued to descend. Lights flickered through the open sides, and sparks occasionally showered down through the grating. Baxter glanced up in time for another cascade to land on his face and shoulders. He turned away, brushing sparks from his armored-plate chestpiece. One of his escorts raised a boot, shaking off a few stray embers. They tumbled on the rusted metal before flickering out. The other soldier was busy rechecking their rifle. Overall, all three people in the open-side elevator looked considerably at ease. Considering where they were going, that was a good thing.
A built-in speaker clicked open in the hollowed-out former mine shaft and a female voice filled the air. “Roger.” Both the escort and empyrean looked at her as she turned away from a study of the passing rock wall. “Sir the prisoner’s in transit to the interrogation room. Three minutes to arrival.” The black visor of her helmet stared at him; even as he watched it flickered with pulsing lines of energy and cleared, revealing the young and alert blue eyes that peeked out over the up-armored faceplate. It was hard to believe that the person to whom they belonged had seen so much combat.
The former Navy commander with the snow-white hair flipped the helmet in his hands and inspected the lined interior. It consisted of standard-issue military webbing, a protective lining, a built-in microphone/headset, and an integrated heads-up display to provide a full range of tactical data. The up-armored faceplate, that covered the lower half of the face from the eyes down, was a custom addition. He slid it onto his head, giving it a rap to knock it into place. It clicked into place, latching onto the shoulder gauntlets, as the HUD flickered alive. In a moment it was displaying readouts of air temperature, depth below ground, and ammo count for the sidearm that was strapped to his thigh. Satisfied, he shifted in place, making his armor clank as the web vest creaked and stretched. The speaker clicked in his ear and an icon winked on the screen, indicating a private channel.
“Doing alright sir?” the lieutenant asked. The commander glanced at her, ignoring the green wireframe outline that appeared around her figure. Her devotion to duty was one reason that he’d pulled a few strings and gotten her assigned to his personal squadron. Before the Accord, she’d been a Navy pilot in Black Rise with a string of medals and commendations to her credit. But then the Provists had found that business with a Gallente uncle and hounded her out of the service. The stupid -
He realized she was still waiting for an answer. “Fine lieutenant.”
Her eyes lingered on him for just a moment longer. But then she glanced at the other escort and keyed her visor, disappearing behind the black non-reflective screen. The empyrean did the same a moment later, noting that the private channel had been closed.
Hiring the lieutenant had probably been one of the better personnel decisions he’d made, Baxter reflected as the lift car began to slow and approach the bottom of the shaft.
Ancestors knows we need the personnel, he thought as the gate was being pulled aside. It revealed a squad of armed troopers with the Accord’s logo emblazoned on their shoulders, standing in the hollowed-out mine shaft and waiting for his arrival. Once this facility would have been crawling with personnel: scientists, technicians, security personnel, prison security staff, medical staff. Now there was barely a handful, a consequence of reduced public interest in the Sansha menace. Their lieutenant found his senior escort and stepped aside with her, the two of them conferencing on a private channel. The fact that they were gesturing at empty air and pointing various ways made him feel like seeing only half a conversation.
Less than half a conversation, really. He took the opportunity to pull up the files sent to him during descent to the asteroid facility. From years of experience he quickly skimmed them, tagging particular sections and sorting based on his level of interest. Reports of unrest in the Minmatar Republic.
When were the damned tribals not
fighting, he asked himself with a derisive roll of his eyes. More commentary and arguments on the InterGalactic Summit about the suspected Angel Cartel-linked Stillwater Corporation.
Still? He looked beyond the highlighted text and saw the two lieutenants turning away from their private discussion. It was clear from body language that the one who’d been waiting down here was not happy with what had been said.
“Sir, we’re good-to-go,” the female voice said in his ear. She sounded cross yet somehow relieved. “The prisoner is -”
She was abruptly cut off by a blood-curdling wail that bounced off the rock walls. The helmet’s built-in VI immediately muted it to a tolerable level as variety of weapons were rapidly produced to cover both ends of the corridor. Someone was yelling something over external speakers, but Baxter ignored it and focused on his HUD. Sonic indicators were pointing in the southern direction, towards the cellblocks. He keyed open a private circuit to himself and his two escorts. “Lieutenant.” He saw her helmet turn towards him and he pointed in the direction of the ruckus. “That way. Let’s move.”
“Yes sir.” She didn’t sound terribly happy with the idea.
Tough, he told himself.
They stormed around a corner in the hallway, weapons drawn, to find the guards at the guardpost all facing the wrong way and with their weapons out. Two of them were off-post, standing on concrete and eyeing the source of the disturbance. A man, writhing on the floor and screeching like a banshee from hell. He was doubled over on his knees, hands clasped as if in fervent prayer. There was a sergeant standing there barking orders for his troopers to get the man up and on his way. Baxter’s HUD was going crazy with anomalous medical readings on the prisoner. One moment the man’s body temperature was up two degrees, the next it was down by four. His pulse was erratic and his breathing shallow. Yet he strangely didn’t appear to be in pain. To the contrary he appeared to be whispering something. The empyrean tightened the audio pickup of his armor and squatted, listening as the man’s words filled the helmet.
“
Forgive me Master, I did not mean to doubt you. There is no death in Nation, only unity. There is life where our enemies face death. I wish to return as your humble servant -” The commander widened the audio pickup and decreased the sensitivity. Gradually, he became aware that the sergeant was staring at him from beneath his ballcap. Several troopers were standing uneasily nearby, clearly caught between a desire to stand at attention and wanting to do something about the man praying on the floor. Baxter glanced at his lieutenant and gave a nod, pointing to the Civire in the dirty rags and manacles with bleeding feet. She approached the prisoner, gesturing marines to work on picking him up and getting him to the interrogation room at the end of the hallway.
The lieutenant waved the other escort past both her and the former commander, pointing in the direction of the yawning pitch-black doorway into the interrogation room. Both of them stood there in the hallway and watched the procession of personnel file through the doorway and disappear into the black. “What the hell was that about sir?” she asked over the private circuit.
“That man was a true believer in a higher cause; nationalism at its very finest,” the capsuleer finally said after a pause. There was something in his voice, a wistful tone of longing that caused her to look at him as he spoke again. “For a moment, I almost envied him.”
Author
Topic: True Believers (Read 1872 times)