OBT Forum

The chime rang, reverberated, rose to a crescendo and slowly died away. It was loud. Jan Olsen hated that chime. Another customer had entered his private place and that could only mean one thing, work. Grudgingly he rose from his disorganised desk, knocking the half-full glass of brandy over with a twitch of his hand. It was only ever half-full; a magical state which money and perseverance ensured.

He had not meant to be rich. Retirement from the Protectorate had left him with a modest sum, which he had invested in the facilities here. War had carried on; each day the Protectorate expanded its zone of influence and this innocuous rock had turned into a gold mine. A jump point had been found nearby, an unusual confluence of physics and impossibility. It was a nexus; warp space folded strangely here, allowing a myriad of connections and it had become depressingly important overnight.

Little men in grey suits had tried to buy him out, he had refused. Next followed threats, but Jan was not easily cowed. His aggressive demeanour, backed up by a heavy blaster and too many old friends had made them go away. That, of course, and the remains of an overzealous politician which he had nailed to the front entrance.

Eventually he had agreed to lease some of his spare land and the Protectorate had installed their research facility nearby. Things ran smoothly for a couple of years until there was no need, militarily speaking, for the nexus point. Battle fronts change, after all; a circumstance which Jan was comfortable with. He was granted the use of the assets now on his land, with only one condition; he must continue providing the service. This time his truculent nature was of no use, the Protectorate reminding him of exactly what they could do to him if they wished. So, he opened his new business, with his less than silent partner and the money just kept rolling in.

Trade was brisk. It was incredible the amount of people who were willing to pay for what, essentially was a one-way trip. They signed over all of their worldly goods to Jan, and his partner, knowing that there was no guarantee. To arrive here, they at least needed a referral and of course to be rich. All were old, many diseased, but with one thing in common; they did not want to die. The Protectorate�s facility gave them an option; die on paper and wait for the possibility of rebirth. No guarantee was given, no refund ever discussed and once you entered the facilitiy�s double doors there was absolutely no way back.

Jan did not ask what went on behind those doors; the staff was Protectorate recruited, as far as he knew military, and he just did not care. He had an unlimited supply of brandy, his own space, with only occasional interruptions. One of course was too many, but he could endure. The chime had signalled just such a disturbance and with bad grace he entered the reception area.

"Welcome. Please be seated. There are just a few formalities..." he began to slur before his brandy-fogged mind recognized the unusualness of the scene before him.

Something hard, metallic, wavered in his vision. He recognised and did not like it. There were too many people, at least six and all dressed the same. Jan recognised their uniforms and facial features and began to sober quickly. He tried again.

"Welcome...ugh"

The pain resulting from the harsh blow sharpened his senses. This was not how it was supposed to be.

"Be quiet!" This came from their leader, a harsh-faced woman. She was the one who had slapped him.

"Marti," she continued, "are you sure that the cameras are off?"

"Sure."

"Good," she returned to Jan, grasping his brandy-stained shirt and pulling him towards her, "now where is it?"

"Here," he mumbled, his knee slamming up between her legs, as his right hand curled round her throat, "but you're not going to be happy..."

Her hair was long, tied in a pony-tail which he used to good effect, tearing hair painfully as he dragged her round. Drunk no longer, reactions took over. Changing his grip, his hand dropped to her belt, drawing her pistol in a fluid movement. His first shot took a startled Marti right between the eyes, his second blew a hole in another�s chest. They had begun to move, but shock had given him an edge. Jan booted his angry captive towards the tight clump of his remaining attackers; part of his brain laughing at the stupidity of huddling up so close together, even whilst he killed them.

As quickly as it had started, it was over, Jan standing over his first aggressor whose pitiful cries did not move him.

"You'll be sorry," she gasped.

"I already am," he said, as he calmly squeezed the trigger.

The report had barely died away when the front door exploded inwards, throwing Jan back towards his office. Armour-clad figures raced in, spraying the area liberally with weapons fire. Half-conscious, Jan heard the snapped, "Take him!" just before a rifle-butt slammed into his head, relieving him of all the troublesome questions running through his mind.

Good to see this here! Any news if you will be publishing this via Smashwords?

Colonel Radimir Vladic stopped cursing and smiled. It was over. He had the heretic clearly in his sights. His hand hurt, but that was nothing in the greater scheme of things. Carefully he took aim, fired and missed, as the heretic rolled away from the shot and slid out into the void. He took one of the soldiers with him; a casualty of war.

Grinning, Vladic moved to the controls and punched in the firing sequence. The plan could not be stopped now. His name would be remembered.

*

Desperation is a funny thing; Jan�s choices were extremely limited. He took his decision quickly, grasping the still groaning soldier by his belt and taking him with him as he fell out of the ship. One of his hands half-worked, and it was the fingers of this hand which activated the contra gravity belt. It struggled with the extra weight but his feet caught over one of the stanchions helped. The upwards motion twisted him round, leaving one of his feet half in the bay and his torso crushed against the underside of the craft.

The wind tore his breath away, the soldier beneath him struggling for air. Jan saw the external hatch controls and clumsily punched the standard entry code. As the door slid open, the belt�s action pushed him chest first into the widening space, stripping skin from his face as he was forced inside. There was little chance of releasing his foot and he screamed in pain as ligaments tore in protest. He was inside, the soldier pushing him further, although incapable of joining him there. One more ridiculous decision to be taken; he entered the code to close the hatch.

A cry of agony was torn from him as his ankle broke, twisting at last free from the stanchion�s hold. He used his knees to effect, pushing up on the body below him, but it was taking too long. The door closure was mechanical, ignorant and uncaring of his predicament. He screamed once as his ankle was crushed between flesh and metal, his frantic movement and distorted bones releasing the bindings. One free foot was used to push himself up on the now terrified soldier, who grabbed onto his ankle. Jan screamed again. There was nothing he could do.

Momentary relief came as the door slid shut, cutting off both the soldier�s pleas and Jan�s right foot.

*

Colonel Vladic ignored the alarm flashing on the control panel; he was far too interested in the numbers counting down on the display before him. Soon, very soon, all of their wishes would be fulfilled. A beatific smile crossed his normally grim face as the bomb began to move forward, servo-mechanisms positioning it in its optimum launch mode. He laughed as it was elevated hydraulically and cried in salutation as its rockets fired.

The insistent alarm broke his jubilation. From the video feed inside the emergency capsule, he saw Jan Olsen as he lay bleeding out. Life was good. Perhaps the heretic could not physically join the bomb in its righteous journey, but he could at least share in its final deliverance. Grinning savagely, Vladic sent Jan to meet his fate.

Sterilised Theatre
Protectorate Facility
Euthan Palace


Bang!

Jan opened his eyes.

Crash!

Someone had dropped something. He strained to activate his muscles. No response.

�Wh-aa-aa-a...�

Even his mouth did not work. What had happened?

�Aah, Mr Olsen, I see that you are awake.�

He recognised that voice. Doctor Alberto, the Protectorate�s liaison officer. Now he remembered; the crash, the psychotic Colonel...his goddamn foot! What was he doing here?

�No doubt you are wondering why you are here,� continued the Doctor, �well, it�s really because of me. I�ve had my eye on you for a while. Never forget a slight, my father taught me, and I never have. Your treatment of my men, when they were trying to reach an accommodation with you, was less than civil. So, circumstances have given me another chance to convince you to sell, one which I will use wisely.�

Jan found himself raised upright, he was strapped to some sort of medical gurney, which the Doctor had manipulated.

�I could, I suppose, be gentle,� said the Doctor, �but I really have not the patience...haha...a medical joke.�

He moved to a nearby table, pulling back a covering cloth to reveal a series of horrific implements. A serrated knife appeared to take his fancy.

�You are drugged, neurally blocked, but will remain awake throughout the procedure. By the time I�ve finished, you will sign away your life...�

Jan screamed silently, neck muscles taut with agony, as the knife broke his flesh and began to saw back and forth.

�This,� commented the Doctor, �is but the beginning. The Protectorate has a use for you, don�t worry, just not in the form you are now.�

There was nothing Jan could do, but watch, as the Doctor dropped his bloody implement and reached for another...

*

�Schedule him for full resurrection...� the Doctor seemed preoccupied.

�Did he sign the papers?� laughed his hulking aide.

�Who cares,� replied the Doctor, �we never needed his signature, I just wanted to break him. Sane, he would have been useless to the programme. Thinking machines are not what we are looking for.�

�Well,� his aide grinned as he looked at the drooling and blood-soaked body which had once been Jan Olsen, �no worries there then.�

Man I got to get writing. Keep up the good work Rayo!

Jersey City
Walton�s World
Protectorate Disputed Zone


�What�s that?�

James Cameron pointed skyward where blue-white flame burst into life. His Sargeant looked once, shrugged and continued cleaning his rifle.

�Concentrate on the task in hand,� snapped the older man, �we know they are here and daydreaming is a luxury we can�t afford.�

Cameron shaded his eyes, but whatever it was had disappeared. He picked up his own rifle and followed his senior�s example. Jersey City was expecting an attack; professional soldiers and conscripted troops busied themselves with final preparations. The Protectorate vessel had been identified as soon as it exited from fold space. This was no diplomatic mission; grey-suited men were no longer thronging the Presidential Palace, the time for discussion was over. War had come to Walton�s World and James Cameron was about to face his first battle.

�There it is again!�

This time there was a blinding flash and the distinctive fireball of an explosive impact. A roar of sound quickly followed.

�Tell me you didn�t hear that!�

The Sargeant stood, lowered his weapon and slapped Cameron harshly.

�I told you what to do, boy,� he snarled, �pick up your frakking weapon!�

Shock made the boy slow in responding, and the veteran swung back his fist to reinforce his command. He never connected with the blow as the world turned upside down. Men screamed in terror, firing their weapons blindly at the rapidly approaching shape. It powered towards them, jinking away from the anti-aircraft batteries which had now opened up and slammed to earth.

*

Oh, yes! Jan revelled in the power which surged through him. His legs absorbed the impact and he surged upwards, arms raised instinctively towards the incoming missiles. Numbers streamed across his screen; vectors, distance, weapons choice. Now he had what he wanted. He screamed in sheer exhileration as beams lashed out from his arms, which he could see for the first time, silvered metal framework, within which span a triple tube.

Crazed laughter ricocheted around his head as pulses of raw energy speared into the oncoming munitions, turning them into miniature suns. Jan roared his anger to the skies. What had they done to him? Small weapons fire interrupted his thoughts and he span, his display automatically targetting his new enemy.

*

James struggled back to consciousness, his first vision that of the monstrous shape which towered above him.

�Die you frakker!� he heard the Sargeant shout once, followed by the sound of rifle fire.

�Wait!� James screamed as an enormous foot narrowly missed his head.

Further action was negated by the brilliant light which flashed across his vision. Just before he lost the ability to see, he captured the disintegration of his erstwhile tormentor.

*

Kirby watched the lights wink green and then one by one turn red.

�It`s done,� he grunted to the Technician, �one less problem to worry about.�

�Maybe��

�What?�

The Technician pointed to the tactical display from which all of their missiles had disappeared. He then tapped one pulsing icon, which expanded to show the first RPD weapons blazing as it cleared its landing zone with cleansing fire.

�It seems that we were mistaken,� mumbled Kirby, �it�s following its programming.�

�I don�t think so,� the Technician disagreed as jets flared and the RPD took to the air, aiming straight for them.

Protectorate Facility
Euthan Palace


�What now?�

Alberto�s rhetorical question floated enticingly round the laboratory. There were, however, none willing to interrupt the doctor�s musings. He paced, muttering first in anger, then frustration. His finger flicked across a holo-screen as he passed, opening its core directory and shouting in triumph.

A flurry of activity answered his shouted commands, technicians hurried to mimic his rapidly moving fingers. Calculations scurried across the main data-screen, as did an unending stream of data. At last Alberto was ready. He sat back, stared at the output in front of him, and allowed himself a brief, but satisfied smile.

�That should do,� he muttered, any doubt now cast aside, �I want these other units modified immediately.�

Doctor Alberto prodded his Aide, emphasising which of the highlighted machines he meant.

�I will carry out the lobotomies of the remaining RPD�s personally. Euthan Palace will become impregnable.�

�What of the earlier models?� the Aide asked querulously.

�Recall them,� snapped Alberto, �I want them taken care of. Send the order that if there are any doubts in their behaviour, destroy them immediately.
 

Jersey City
Walton�s World
Protectorate Disputed Zone


Insanity is a personal thing, of degrees and unlimited shading. Jan flitted in and out of madness, never one realising that his actions were destructive. The change of body had left his mind intact, but with a lack of reference points. Anger threw missiles into buildings, pain chattered via auto cannon and destructively coloured beams were tinged with ennui.

There was no-one to talk to, no human who could sooth his troubled brain, nor evaluate his temporary psychotic behaviour. So he killed. Ruthlessly, passionless in the extreme, but people died.

Data streamed across his vision, but it was ignored, instead visceral mayhem was his only release. None of the soldiers, nor armour who faced him, could reach his fevered thoughts. There was no right nor wrong, good and evil ceased to exist, and the only thought that recycled constantly was that of Euthan Palace. Where was it? There were debts to pay and he meant to cover in full.

A figure was recognised; a young soldier who wandered as lost as he. Jan followed him automatically, smashing his way through buildings and opposition. Perhaps through this one, he could find some answers?