Break the Bastion by Christopher Rankin
www.christopherrankin.net
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.
Copyright© 2016 by Christopher Rankin
All Rights Reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Bastion
Chapter 2: Our name is Strix
Chapter 3: Lucas Mucus
Chapter 4: The Beckoning
Chapter 5: Horse Pills
Chapter 6: Mushroom Puss
Chapter 7: The Jellyfish Collector
Chapter 8: Nox Jaborosa
Chapter 9: Elixir
Chapter 10: The Map of Spaces in Between
Chapter 11: Searching for Lost Children
Chapter 12: Belasi LaCrone
Chapter 13: KingSlayers
Chapter 14: Skyscrapers
Chapter 15: Look into Our Eyes
Chapter 16: Lucas and the Ray
Chapter 17: Lucas the Chrysalis
Chapter 18: An Old Friend
Chapter 19: Abandon
Chapter 20: Dark Forces
Chapter 21: Museum of the Future
Chapter 22: We’re your friend
Chapter 23: The Emptiness
Chapter 24: LaCrone’s Island
…
Chapter 1
The Bastion
The crest of a rogue storm wave cracked against the top of the Bastion, sending seaweed and spray thousands of feet down on the sleeping streets of Azurton.
Sirens spun and roared to warn the citizens of falling seaweed and flotsam, which had been known to injure and even kill unsuspecting bystanders. The familiar recorded voice blared though the town, “Danger. Falling ocean debris. Evacuate streets and move indoors or to protected areas.”
That night, the wave sent something the size of a single engine airplane crashing just across the street from Morgan Battle’s house.
When he looked out his bedroom window, he saw a mound of rusting metal and seaweed in the middle of the street. Whatever it was had hit one of the streetlights and bent the pole to the pavement.
Morgan realized the projectile was a corroded steel emblem, probably from a top-floor sign from one of the drowned skyscrapers of the old days. Fish flopped around on the street near the mess. An octopus slithered out of one of the crannies.
The impact also woke Morgan’s younger brother, Brian, who was across the room. He called out, “Morgan, Morgan, where are you?”
“I’m right here,” said Morgan from the window. “It’s just something churned up by the storm. It landed right outside. Looks like a sign from an old building or something.”
Brian was suffering from an advanced genetic disorder, known as Whispering-Keepers Disease, and it was a struggle getting out of bed.
The condition made Morgan’s younger brother so pale that, in certain light, he looked as blue as a wrist vein. At twelve, Brian Battle was as fragile as an arthritic ninety-year-old. His muscles had nearly collapsed to his bones, which were brittle enough to break with even a minor fall.
Yet, he somehow possessed far greater energy and vitality than most children his age, but it all seemed routed straight to his brain.
Morgan helped him up and walked him to the window to see the mess on the street.
“Could be over a hundred years old,” Brian said. “It looks like it reads Bank of Sydney.”
“I guess the building was owned by some banker lady named Sydney before the floods.”
“It’s not a girl’s name. There used to be a country called Australia,” Brian told him. “Sydney was the capitol.”
Twelve-year-old Brian didn’t go to school with Morgan, didn’t leave the house much and spent most of his time reading and watching historical and nature documentaries. He seemed to remember most of what he read and heard, making him somewhat of an authority on a handful of topics, including the old world. The kid aced his home-schooling assignments with just a few hours of work per week.
While they watched out the window, Brian noticed someone across the street, just a few feet away from where the sign fell.
“Who do you think that is?” He asked Morgan. “Who would be out in this storm? He must be crazy.”
The figure stood in the shadow by the bent streetlight. Whoever it was ignored the rain and didn’t flinch when the spray from a wave splashed down around him. He stood by a running limousine with the headlights beaming through the mist. His face pointed straight up to the boys’ window.
“He’s staring at us,” said Morgan. “Weird.”
“You don’t see many limousines around here. Maybe we’re being scouted for a movie or something?”
“I don’t think so.” Morgan whispered.
It occurred to him to lift his hand to wave to the figure. When he did, the man immediately jerked his hand up, waving and saluting.
That scared them. Brian ducked down and Morgan fell to his knees below the window sill.
That night, the citizens of Azurton were trying to sleep through the latest seasonal storm. It was only rated a three on the Lorrance scale but it pounded on the Bastion with such force that merely the sound was considered a physical and mental health hazard.
The local government had rationed sleeplessness and anxiety relief medicine to every household. The walls of the homes belonging to wealthier households had the most advanced soundproof insulation installed, which only blunted the Atlantic’s booms and hisses.
For some, long term exposure without proper ear protection was known to cause Storm Madness. Those afflicted often descended into severe psychosis and eventually catatonia. Over the years, dozens had been driven to deafen themselves by impaling the ear drum. The worst part was that the ocean was so loud that one heard it not with just the ears but one’s whole body.
The hissing and rumbling of the storm didn’t bother Morgan. He had spent his entire fourteen years so close to the Bastion that he could practically taste the wall’s titanium. Sometimes he even enjoyed the way the decibels of sound snaked through his body.
Morgan was only two years older than Brian but towered over him as they stood up at the window. Even though he was only fourteen, he was nearly six feet tall. His shoulders were plates of fast muscle and his jaw was chiseled square.
Brian asked him, “Do you think that guy down there is going to wait until we’re asleep and chop us up?”
Morgan smiled, saying, “If he tries, I’m gonna make him regret it. Then I’m taking that car of his. I’ve always wanted to ride around in a limousine.”
“Do you think we should tell Dad about him? Or, do you think he’ll get mad at us for bothering him? I think the storm knocked out the TV and he can’t watch the war. I heard him yelling earlier.”
Morgan’s smiled soured. He told Brian, “That guy out there is pretty weird. I guess I’ll have to tell Dad.”
Downstairs, Morgan’s father’s hands trembled at the ocean rumbling. Killian Battle had never gotten used to the storms and usually became a wreck when they arrived in the middle of the night. He always said it felt like the entire Earth was being swallowed by a black hole.
“It’s OK, Dad,” Morgan said, coming down the stairs. “It was just a rusty sign that splashed over, from an old skyscraper or something.”
“Didn’t say I was scared,” his father’s voice snapped. “Worry about yourself.”
Morgan’s father, Killian Battle, was employed in maintenance of the Bastion and still had his grey coverall uniform on. He was part of a five-man crew dedicated to bilge pump maintenance. The job kept him lean and his shoulders as fat and strong as those of a twenty-year-old heavy-weight boxer. His middle age, frequent double a
nd sometime triple work shifts, and his kelp ale habit only showed up in the bags around his eyes.
“Someone’s out there,” Morgan told him. “I think he’s watching us.”
“Maybe it’s the Grim Reaper,” His father said, pushing out a terrified laugh. “Death’s getting ready. One day that Bastion is going to fold like…” He crushed a kelp ale can between his hands. Then he took the last anxiety pill out of the bottle and chucked it into his throat like a kernel of popcorn.
“It has survived plenty of storms,” argued Morgan. “Some way worse than this. Besides, isn’t it supposed to be indestructible? They taught us that in school.”
His father chuckled. It appeared as though the anxiety pills were kicking in. “Oh well if they said it in school, then it has to be true. I know what they tell you about the Bastion. I know the guy that built it was supposed to be cleverer than Jesus Christ himself, but Blaise Lorrance was just a man and that wall isn’t gonna stop the ocean forever. Nothing’s indestructible. Besides, the rogues have been getting closer to the top these past few years. Won’t be too much longer.”
His father had succeeded. Morgan was finally scared.
Killian laughed when he saw the look on his son’s face. The man seemed to delight in it somehow. “Yup,” he went on, “no way you’re going to make it to be an old man.”
Morgan looked into his father’s eyes and told him, “I know you’re trying to scare me and it won’t work.” Then, before he could catch himself, Morgan said, “Your hands are shaking pretty good. Looks like you’re the one that’s scared.”
“Little shit,” snapped Killian. “Just because I’m your dad doesn’t mean I won’t kick your ass clean over that Bastion.”
“I came down,” said Morgan, “to let you know there’s a weirdo outside, stalking our…”
“Your pills,” said his father, holding out his hand like he wanted money.
“What?”
“Your god damned pills. I’ve gone through all mine and I need to relax. The storm’s knocked out the damned television. How the hell can I fall asleep without watching the war. You don’t take them anyway.”
“I don’t take them because I don’t need them. They slow down my thinking.”
“Well, since you’re such a tough little shit, give them to me.”
“Fine,” said Morgan without looking him. He walked over to the kitchen cabinet, reaching to one of his hiding spots behind several expired cans of pickled lumpfish, and pulled out part of his stash.
Killian yanked the bottle out of his hands as soon as he got near the couch.
“Good boy,” he said. “That’s good, good, good. Now pour me a glass of Red Kelp to wash my anxiety relief down.”
“Pour your own drink,” Morgan told him.
Killian wasn’t surprised by his son’s attitude. He seemed amused, as though he was enjoying the moment just before his inevitable retaliation.
He told Morgan, “There really is some dumb part of you that wants to get killed. That’s why you act like twice the crazy asshole I was at your age. I admit it’s something. But it’s nothing that gives you the right to talk to me like that.”
Morgan knew what was likely to come. He put his chest out, returned his father’s mackerel stare and prepared for impact.
Brian suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs on his crutches. “That weird man is still out there!” he shouted. “He’s watching the house!”
Morgan and his father looked at one another and came to an unspoken agreement to settle the matter later. They both went to the front window.
“What in the name of Neptune’s asshole,” Killian said, whipping open the blinds, “does that prick think he’s doing out there in front of my house?”
The man looked like a void in the rain and fog.
“What do you think he wants?” Morgan asked his father.
“I don’t care what he wants,” Killian nearly snarled, as he put his boots and overcoat on. “But if he’s gonna make me go out into this hell, I’m gonna give him a free sex change operation.”
When he opened the front door, the noise shook the furniture and television. The rain seemed to fall like supersonic asteroids. Shreds of black fog whipped across the near perfect darkness.
Killian eventually pushed himself out the door and Morgan was close behind him. “Be careful,” he told his father. “We don’t know who this guy is.”
“This bastard is the one who should be careful,” Killian yelled through the storm. “Hey!” he shouted to man. “If I see your hand in your pants, you’re dead!”
The man lifted his hat, smiled and waved to them. His hair shined white and his face looked like a pale, sagging triangle. The old man wasn’t alone. There was a driver and several other men inside the limousine.
Before Killian and Morgan got to him, he slipped back into the limo and nearly hydroplaned away.
...
Chapter 2
Our name is Strix
Two days later, Morgan spotted the same strange man when he arrived home from school. The same limo rolled its windows down and the same triangle face appeared from the night before. The old man was dressed in a black business suit and had four other men with him.
When Morgan got off the bus, the man got out of the car, and started to walk to the front door. Four other, younger and much larger men, followed behind the elderly gentleman. The burliest of the group carried an odd container, a polished metal box, about as large as a toolbox, made of the same grey titanium as the Bastion.
“You’re home a bit early, Morgan,” said the old man. His face looked like a drooping triangle, with a broad forehead and a pointy chin that sagged like a rooster’s. His eyes seemed too wide, showing too much white.
“What’s this about? Am I in trouble?”
“Of course not,” the old man beamed. “We’re here to speak to you and your father, I’m afraid, about something. We believe you’ll find it a very exciting opportunity.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be happy to see you again.”
“We were hoping,” said the man in a slow, friendly tone, “to speak to your father first and explain last evening.” He stopped, saying, “Well since we’ve already run into each other, I should introduce myself. I’m Doctor or Mister or whatever Lorrance. You may call me Blaise.”
“Blaise Lorrance.” Morgan smiled. “Sure. Yeah, right. Definitely give my dad that story when you see him. He’s into history.”
“History is the story of ghosts,” said the old man. “I’m fairly certain I’m still alive.” He smiled. “But then again, who knows, I could be a ghost.”
Killian Battle finally noticed the visitors outside. He came to the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. “What the hell were you doing outside my house last night!” He shouted. “And what the hell are you doing here now?”
The old man’s face went blank. Then his mouth sprung into an unconvincing, almost threatening smile. Without a word, he nodded to one of his four associates, who handed Killian a black business card.
“Bullshit,” said Killian, throwing the card on the ground.
The old man didn’t respond but one of his assistants did.
“This isn’t bullshit, Mister Battle,” said the middle-aged assistant, looking gravely serious. “This is Blaise Lorrance and he’s asking for your family’s assistance.”
The burly man held up the titanium box. “Lorrance alloy,” he said. “You work pump seven in section forty-one A in the wall. You know no one can forge this alloy, you know no one cut it from the wall. You know that very, very few men have access to this material. You know that, Mister Battle. He is Blaise Lorrance. Now, may we please come inside?”
Killian considered the proposition before quietly stepping out of the way and waving them in with his hand. He told the men, “I better get an explanation why Blaise Lorrance was standing outside my house in the middle of the night.”
“Forgive us for that,” said the middle-aged man
, who seemed to be Lorrance’s chief assistant. “You see,” he went on, “my employer has been searching the entire district for the right group of children.”
“Does the good doctor here talk for himself?” Asked Killian, while he stared at Lorrance.
“I’m afraid not,” answered the assistant. “We’re aware it may seem peculiar but please be understanding.”
“Why the hell am I not good enough for Blaise Lorrance to talk to?” Asked Killian.
“Let’s just say it’s one of Doctor Lorrance’s idiosyncrasies,” said the assistant to the left. “We ask that you be understanding for the time being.”
“So you’re telling me this is really Blaise Lorrance?” Asked Killian. “I mean you look pretty old but, shouldn’t you look like a corpse by now? I’ve heard rumors of you being dead for years now.” He looked Lorrance right in the eye but the old man just stared back like a reflection. “Fine,” he went on, “don’t talk to me.”
“Our employer takes very good care of himself,” said the other assistant.
“How is that possible?” Morgan finally spoke up. “Blaise Lorrance designed the Bastion seventy-five years ago. That means you would have to be over a hundred years old. You look old, but not that old.”
Blaise Lorrance smiled and laughed genuinely. “It’s technology, my boy, just technology.”
“So you’ll talk to my son but not a word to me?” Killian asked him.
Lorrance just looked at him while his assistant responded. “Please excuse our employer’s unconventional behavior. He doesn’t speak to adults.”
Killian had reached the end of what little patience he had. His eyes were angry and his arms were wrapped over his chest. “Fine,” he said, “but I better hear someone explain to me what the hell you’re doing here, and,” he added, sitting forward in his seat, “what were you doing watching my house last night? You better answer that one quick.”
“It’s not in your best interest to be difficult with us,” reminded one of the assistants. “Perhaps you should calm down, Mister Battle. We are here with an important matter.”
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