The Arkhe Principle (Book Book 1)

by Maxwell Rudolf

  She leaned around and peered through her back door window. Figures moved in through the gate breach, and her pulse shot up even higher and her heart felt like it was ready to pop. From the way they were crouching and taking up tactical positions, they weren't from Emergency Services. They were just like the vids, and she knew why they were here: weapons, ammunition, medicine, and slaves. And once they were done taking their turns with her, they would scalp Uther and enslave Johann. Her hands shook and she dropped them on the carpet.

  They were already at her back window, melting the Plasstien down. The stench burned her nostrils, and she gritted her teeth. Not long now. Why did she bother hoping he would be the man he was never going to be? She reached down and fingered through the keys until finding the one to open up her armory. She thrust the closet doors apart and stared.

  The stench of the melting Plasstien filled her house. She coughed; her eyes tearing up. If she survived this, she was positively going to launch a formal complaint against them and make sure this didn't happen to anyone else.

  She fumbled with the combo. 16-65-92-44

  Damn it! She let out an American hate speech phrase and reset the combo. She covered her face with her sleeve and took another breath, holding in. Her cat-green eyes focused in on the safe dial. 16-65-92-43-21

  *click*

  She grabbed the handle, swung it open, and grasped Uther's Tornado pulse submachine gun. Her eyes fell on the digi-display, and she thumbed the ammunition usage meter to full, shimming to the corner. She gripped both handles. His hand was bigger than hers and the criss-cross texture didn't make it easier for her to hold.

  Burning Plasstien smoke fogged the room, and she ducked into the toilet room, soaked a hand towel, and darted to Johann. She wiped her face down and made a tent over his face. "This will keep you safe."

  Someone was kicking at her back door. She jumped back and edged to see.

  There were at least five, but in the gloom, her eyes failed, so in all probability, there would be several more. Because tonight had to be the night when Uther was so screwed up on drugs, he couldn't even open the armory safe without passing out on the floor.

  She looked down again at the ammo counter and ran the math. Ten shots with this thing to kill one person, if they were trained. At least five people outside. 50 rounds. One for Johann if they got in far enough, and the last for her. Uther though... Well, she would have to get lucky and kill a few with less. He could never be trusted to take care of his own weapons again or much of anything else.

  The front door creaked open.

  Her heart pounded through her sweaty shirt, and she wanted to exit out and blaze away, taking as many of these terrorists down as possible. A shadow emerged down the hallway. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Before she could raise her weapon and fire, the intruder sprinted right past her.

  "I know about you and your family, Rex. I KNOW!" The man's accent rang sour in vulgar Demonic American Tradespeak.

  She wasn't going to answer him in that disgusting language, even if she knew it well enough to write it out in long form. "Go to hell you American piece of shit! Peek your head around the corner!"

  Another voice entered her living room. She strained trying to understand the dialect, but they were inter-phrasing their speech with near silent barks.

  A man in the kitchen peered around the corner and her eyes met his at the same moment. She remembered the voice of her training instructors and brought the Tornado up faster than her adversary. Rosie fingered the trigger, lined up the red laser on his chest, and fired. Three blasts and nine rounds spent. His face, a bloody, toothless mess, smeared across her cooler and all over the floor.

  A blast of hot air hit her in the face. They cut through the darkness like demons. The Martel Knights had arrived—invisible, wearing their trademark Sinsii goggles and black tactical armor. She flinched back and took cover behind the wall.

  The savages died, one by one, their throats slit by the Knights' daggers sharp enough to cut deep past their armored American collars and through the meat. They collapsed to the floor, dead. She risked a look. Blood poured out of their necks and all over her furniture and floor, pooling out, forming a crimson pond. Great. How long was it going to take to clean this up?

  Bowing her head to St. George, she prayed the Gratitude Prayer and stuck her head out of the door frame, Tornado pointed at the ground, her finger a millisecond off the trigger. "Thank you. I am glad you finally arrived. Because those bastards almost killed me! What in the hell took you so damn long?" She let go of the front handle and wiped the sweat from her face.

  In silence, they cleared the house, room by room, ignoring any semblance of privacy or of her person. One of the taller ones had his FR-3 at the ready and entered their office. He whistled and glanced over at the safe. "Keep your Tornado pointed down. What's inside?"

  Rosie recoiled at the contraction. "My armory. I am a detective at the E.I.D. The Remi is registered, and I have clearance for this Tornado, too, although it is my husband's."

  Six more marched in, standing around Uther. She retreated and gave them all enough space. The submachine gun sagged and weighed a billion kilos.

  "Inspector Rex, give that to me."

  She looked down at the Tornado and backed up. Something sharp was cutting into her throat, and she let the weapon slip away from her grip. She raised her hands. Warm blood leaked down below her chest and into her bathrobe. It was like when Uther was on one of his out-of-control drug binges.

  "No, problem. Take it. Would you please check on my husband there?" She asked, trying not to move her head. The blade sank a little further in. "Easy, killer." Someone moved behind her and her skin stung as the dagger was withdrawn from her throat. "You guys are supposed to be the good ones. Listen, he took some pretty strong stuff."

  One of them took a knee and made the sign of the cross. "He's stopped breathing." The man straddled Uther, placed his palm on his breastbone, and put the other hand over the other.

  "No. Leave him. He will have a proper rebirth."

  He wiped his bloody hands over Uther's tweed green coat and stood. "Fine. Sorry about your man. I know things can get rough out here. You should fix your house so this doesn't happen again." He sounded exactly like Paul McCormick on the vid show "St. George's Glorious War Accomplishments," with that same distinctly American nasal tone she loathed. "I smelled the synth on him soon as I came in. And good thing is, I don't smell the stank on you, or I'd have you outside digging your own grave, Inspector."

  She cocked an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me."

  "Are you American?" She darted her eyes inside the safe, her Remi still within arm's reach.

  "I'm a Knight and in the employ of the Kingdom." He shoved the door, closed it, cranked the handle down, and spun the dial. "We're leaving. Good evening to you. We were never here." He made a circular motion with his forefinger, signed something to everyone using his thumb, and they all shuffled through the front door.

  * * *

  D.K.E.

  Year 306

  Day 355

  She almost feinted when she was presented with the final coast of the burial. 1,500 Edwards! She gathered up her jewelry and pawned all of it hoping it would be enough. She cried the next day, cursing herself for taking pennies on the Edwards from those rip-off artists on the south South Side. Now, she had nothing but a cheap coffin, a dead husband, and blood-stained furniture.

  Uther's mother, Margaret Rex, was the only one from his family who bothered showing up, and when they made eye contact, Rosie went to the other side of the church and sat alone.

  Thankfully, the service was only set to last a half hour. Flashes of religious iconography on a screen, and a Store Bought Priest read from "Prayers for the Dead" were the fixtures of the funeral. While his co-workers sang their funeral dirges, she stared out the stain-glass window wishing she were anyplace but sitting down listening to out-of-key praises about the glories of being a loving husband.
The priest kept looking down at his timepiece, flipping it open, looking at the time.

  Rosie snapped her fingers to get his attention. Everyone heard her, but he shrugged and yawned. Oh well. She got up and left. Outside, the cold bit into her mouth and ears, but she warmed quickly once inside her Lionheart.

  She punched her dashboard until her knuckles were almost bloody, and grabbed her pistol. The cocking of her Remi made her choice all the more concrete. She stepped out into the winter and fired into the Plasstien windows, blowing out decade's old religious window panels. She tossed her weapon in the passenger seat and sped off down the freeway until finally she put the autocraft on autopilot and banged on the dashboard until she couldn't cry anymore. She vowed to never cry over a man again, not even her son.

  2 Welcome to the Institute

  Domain of King Edward (D.K.E.)

  Year 317

  The Rex's cabinets were stuffed with low-grade non-prime foods and discounted grape juice the Military Coalition was phasing out. Rosie had been searching the E-Network for months trying to find different ways to cook the same bland protein-vegi mix, but eventually, the recipes repeated. A few people gave her some extra Edwards to buy some meat at the butcher, and it helped offset their diet somewhat. It was rough and had to be boiled. Johann, who insisted on being called John, stopped complaining after a few years. At least they had something to eat.

  Jake Backwater, their house, became non-functional last year and it showed. The artificial projection zeroed hard, taking down the features making their life easy. Cleaning the dirt and dust was more effort than the lecture John would always hear afterward. Most of the faucets leaked, but stuffed rags stopped the constant dripping. The hot water regulator operated at 37%, and the manual on how to fix it was way too expensive. Both of them resorted to boiling water and taking baths rather than enduring disquieting showers. The Cain Brand bio-grass grew past regulation height, and the garbage collection system had ceased relaying messages. Overflowing trash bags piled up outside the front entryway, and Rosie set out several neo-rat traps to kill the vermin scrounging for scraps of anything they could eat. Emptying them was the worst. Hearing the shrieks and their attempts at human speech—well, the nightmares plagued her every dream.

  After she arrived home from work, the last thing she wanted to do was housework. And she desired nothing more than to relax to a fireplace, peel a purple garparl, and get nulled out on some quality wine. She plopped her keys down and peeled one of her last protein fruits for dinner.

  "Did we get anything in the inbox?!"

  "I didn't check. I've been busy," John erupted back.

  "How dare you talk in here like an American. What did I say about using contractions?"

  "Sorry, mom."

  She slid her I.D. card in the E-Reader and opened her mail. A 200-E Red bill stared back at her and she read it with all the passion of a cancer diagnosis.

  Further violations of your green-work could result in a 30-day sentence in the south South Londun Rehabilitation Facility.

  "John!" she shouted from across the house.

  "What is it, mom? I am advancing through this last level. Give me thirty minutes."

  "This is our tenth violation about our bloody yard. What is going on with you? I told you to work it." Her son waltzed in the kitchen with his head held high, gaming controller in his hand. He resembled his mother, but his eyes were emerald green, darker than hers, and his chin was stronger and more defined. The girls loved his dashing looks and would stare at him during Culture Week when the two genders were allowed to mingle.

  "Damn, son. You're 11 now. You know what responsibilities are expected of you in this house. To fix Jake Backwater, we would need thousands of Edwards. You think the church is going to bail us out every time something like this comes up?"

  He folded his arms. "Is this why you took me from my game?"

  "Do not get smart with me. Shall I provide another lecture?" She poured herself a glass of Berry Red and panned down at the bill again. 200 Edwards.

  John grabbed the last garparl and started peeling it. "I was going to do it this weekend."

  "Too late now! Where we are going to get that kind of money? Get out of my sight! You are just like your father!"

  John walked back to his room and finished up his E-Network game of Grav Tank Slaughter Factory. After he lost, he nulled it out and listened to his mother drink, and talk to someone named Reginald through the telecaster.

  "Where I am going to find the money to pay for this?"

  The man's voice came through paper-thin and hard to understand through their old speaker. "What are you going to do?"

  "I wish I knew."

  John came back into the kitchen, and Rosie flipped the off switch.

  "I am going out," she said. She slammed the front door.

  * * *

  After Rosie was tried in the Family Court, she was found guilty of failing as a Primary Life Counselor. The courts took him out of public school and enrolled him in the 1st Edwardian Military Discipline Institute in Olde Londun. The boarding school was known for its share of anti-social, violent youth, and he didn't want to have anything to do with a place like that.

  "You will fit in," Rosie said, helping him pack his bags.

  John didn't say anything, and when they had finished packing, he locked himself in the toilet and cried, making sure his mother didn't hear. His gaming accounts went into remission, and the courts blocked his access.

  Over the following days, he threw away his football trophies, digi-prints of his mother, and sold his consoles. He stayed up past his bed hour making lists entitled, 'Why Did She Do This to Me?' Why was he being sent to the boarding school? It made no sense. His mom was a fine parent. He got to do what he wanted most of the time, but not always, and he helped clean up around the house when she nagged him. The sitcom vids were always like that so why should his life be any different?

  The rules were similar to his mother's, only the school was attentive to misbehavior and failure to follow correct procedures resulted in harsh treatment. Scrubbing the tiles and the toilets was nasty because, like at home, the smart features were stripped out. And cleanliness was enforced by the lash. Demerits and beatings were administered on the regular.

  When not working, he basked in the sun's rays as the ceiling opened each morning at reveille. Giant space heaters pounded hot air everywhere but the dorms. Students fought over how far away their bunk was from the main entrance, and the weakest slept in the back, sometimes freezing to death when the temperature dropped enough. Crosses of St. George hung in every room and exquisite antique paintings of famous royalty provided enough pomp and circumstance to last a lifetime.

  After a few months, he became accustomed to the lifestyle, and although he hated every minute of it, it wasn't so hard. It was like being grounded every day, only the teachers meant what they said.

  * * *

  "All rise," Dr. Bells said.

  Rising from their seats, they all snappy snapped to attention and saluted the flag of St. George.

  A voice came over the telecaster. "Students. Repeat after me. Lord. My savior. St. George. I give thanks to you for allowing me to serve our beloved King. May my service to the Kingdom be immortalized. Amen."

  "Amen," thirty students reiterated and sat down.

  The professor for 4th period was one of the meanest men ever, a prickly man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice and would pontificate on the importance of obedience and duty. The months elapsed and John grew to be a decent artist while he lectured.

  "Now students open your service E-Modules to Core History, Section 4. Cadet Rex, go ahead and start reading to the class."

  He sifted through the screens until finding the proper readout and lowered his vocal register. "Yes, sir.

  "Core History. Section 4.

  "The Battle of Labor's Park 198-199

  "Background: Labor's Park comprises an area of a hundred square kilometers. Initially used as a training a
nd reclamation site, Labor's Park has been declared Off-Limits by order of King Edward."

  Someone squeezed a silent fart behind him, and the reek, combined with the hot air, made it all the worse. It was Henry again. His ass always had that same smell. He took a deep breath through his nose and continued.

  "4.10. The Battle of Labor's Park qualifies as one of the great examples of St. Georgian prowess and should be studied thoroughly. Precise application strategies must be understood and applied by all."

  Dr. Bells slammed his hand down on his desk and glowered the class. "Whoever just passed gas, this is not a joke. Hold your fart in or I will stick something up your ass you won't forget. Continue to read."

  "Yes, sir. Um... despite repeated guerrilla raids made by the 3rd Navajo Tribe from the mountain region, the 61st Parawind Division held the park throughout spring 199, taking massive causalities from hit and run attacks. Traitors to His Majesty attempted to dissuade the government and end the conflict."

  As John read on, the digi-print on the page showed ranks of St. George coppers smashing and killing hundreds of protesters in the streets of Londun, Manchester, and York. Riot shields were splattered with blood, and the razored batons of the Emergency Services weren't subduing. They were cutting them down like wheat. He watched the bloodshed on the display. To him, it was just like The Last Stance game, but he always played the civilians.

  "What are you waiting for? Keep reading!" Dr. Bells commanded.

  "Sorry, sir. During summer, elements of the Saxon Úlfheðnar broke through the defenses surrounding the 61st. They fought a retreating campaign until the Legdeferd's Dragoons, led by Sir Hensworth, was sent in to break them out on Day 67, Year 199."

  Below the text, an elongated digi-print of the Navajo's, the 61st Parawind Division, and the map of the park became blinking dots.