The Arkhe Principle (Book Book 1)

by Maxwell Rudolf

  "Yes, sir. What does this have to do with me?"

  "Your bloody wad of Edwards has everything to do with it! Do not play me for a Roman, Rex. I have been doing this a long time." His voice boomed in the small room. "What are you planning?"

  "Sir, even if I was doing something, I would never talk about it with you or anyone else, sir. I do not confess. But I would never act against the Institute. This place is my life, sir."

  "It looks different from here, Cadet. You think you are immune to forced confession? In a way, you have already confessed. You are not exactly denying anything here, are you?" He emptied more Black Watch into their glasses.

  "I am confirming nothing, sir. My silence is not a sign of guilt."

  "Here," he gave him the shot glass.

  It went down smoother than before like the smoothest honey tea promised in the advertisements.

  "What is this all really about?"

  "Sir, I would really rather not say. If you feel interrogation is warranted, I accept my punishment." He slid the glass away.

  "Rex, she poses a risk to the Kingdom. You read the bloody report. We have no idea who her parents are. Tell me if you planning an escape?" Shoehorn reached on his belt and unhooked his lash. "Where were you going to go, Cadet? I suggest you start confessing. Or you will earn the tail."

  10 The MECHA

  Pop Music

  His body was heating up faster than the armor's internal cooling could do its work, and he swallowed Red Zekas to compensate. Grunting, he clenched the tight bandaged left hand around Asger. He would never mistake cutting through one of those types of fences again.

  He recalled his conversation with his other Úlfheðnar warrior. But the data given during their chat wasn't worth the drive to see him. The conversation had flushed into the gutter faster than Gungnir would have liked and when he called Aefweard to talk about the city of Pop Music, the Leading General was in one of his moods again. The foul one. It had been a while.

  "You haven't told me anything I couldn't have found out myself," Gungnir said, holding his silver horn full of stim-mead. "Took me a while to find you because of your state of mind."

  The General had gone native living amongst the ferals out in the wastes and his muscles betrayed the overuse of the runes. They bulged out in all the wrong places, and it was utterly depraved and vile. His mouth was a muzzle now, and the upper rows of teeth were shaven points. This animal was once a human, and it wouldn't be long until he would be eating humans. Then what? Montavon would probably call him in and send him out to kill his friend. He swore he would never succumb, or he would hang himself to the All Father. Yet a kind of internal fear remained buried deep in his mind below the Odin Consciousness.

  "Well, I'm here," he growled. "I've taken my last sedative. Would you happen to have any to spare while I can still think?"

  "Here," he said, reaching into his medikit and gave him the unopened bottle.

  "You don't need them?"

  "I use, not abuse. You didn't do well in Runic Practice."

  "I know what I'm doing!" He lunged at Gungnir snapping at the air. "You know better than to come and challenge me."

  The broken walls of the ruins were head high, and someone had managed to pick up rusted out debris and formed a roof. The pitter patter of rain reminded him of his last excursion to the St. George front line. Maybe someday those days would return, where the only thing he worried about was another like himself. What if someone else had discovered these secrets? He would deal with that situation if and when it presented itself.

  "I'm not here to challenge you, Aefweard. Don't ever snap at me again, or I'll rip your snout off. I'm here for data about Pop Music. What kind of a name is that?" Gungnir popped a stim cherry.

  "Some Pre-Times reference. Don't know what it means, but they dance," he reached over into a blood pile and bit into a handful of offal. Lines of crimson poured over his hands, and he sucked it up and licked them clean. His whole lower face was covered in gore and chunks of flesh clung between his teeth.

  "Some sort of religious ritual?"

  "Could be. Give me more chocolate stims," he scratched his reptilian elbow.

  "I'm almost out. Here's 3. What else? Weaponry?"

  "Didn't see anything. Just walking meat. They dress funny. Walk around wearing headphones." He grunted, and yellow mucus drained from a throat sore, splattering on the ground. "They have a camp. You'll know what to do. I have to go."

  "You still didn't tell me anything."

  "Go in there and do what we do."

  He was an easy spear throw distance to the tower, crouching behind a bio-recycler. Vents fanned out disinfectant spray, and the stench of decaying bio-matter filled his nose. Whatever the machine was making, it was something not even the thralls down on The Hot Streets would eat.

  The inhabitants wore orange audiophones covering their ears, and their clothing, multi-hued metallic triangles, bent with the shape of their bodies. Shoulder pads extended past their shoulders. Their colors ranged from sparkling gold to luminous silver, bright hues of banner red and sea blue, to royal purple and grass green.

  Some of them danced to their destination, taking their time. They dragged their feet, walking backward, looking over their shoulder, arms waving like loose strings. The ones wearing red shook back and forth, moving erratically along as the music evolved into something of a rhythmic noise gate.

  Everyone stopped and threw their hands up in the air, jumped, crouched, extended their arms, and wiggled their fingers with wild abandon. Gungnir snarled. Preparing for murder, he thumbed Asger on. His left hand tremored, and he reached inside and popped another chocolate stim. It melted down to the cherry, and he bit down on it, letting the jelly brighten his senses.

  His suit warmed again, and he clicked the internal control panel open. Eleven percent efficiency. One more ought to do the job. Much better.

  He pulled the straps tight on his pack and started the ascent. His hands dug in, looking for something to grab. Asger helped him climb, acting as a new anchor, and he pierced the tower, climbing up, using it as a one-rung ladder until he was at the top, and with a blind swing, he jabbed into the Plasstien window and hurled in. The inside was small, barely enough room for him and the three guards.

  Gungnir thrust death into the first man's forehead, searing it off with the sound of razored nano-carbon steel splitting through bone. The second guard opened a panel with a yellow button but his spear severed the man's arm off above the elbow, and blood spouted out.

  He screamed. Gungnir moved in fast and broke his neck before he hit the floor. Idiot, trying to give away my position to your friends. I am going to break this whole place asunder under my wrath!

  "I want to get in there." He said to the remaining guard.

  The woman, still sitting at her desk, looked lost and put up her hands.

  "I said I want to get in there, you worthless vermin. You damn maggot! Open the gate!" He slammed his boot down on the fallen guard's face and with a crunching sound, broke the rest of his skull, blood gushing out and painting the floor.

  He pointed. "Open it!"

  The women shook and he whiffed her piss. She put her hand on her chest and sang, "Oh darling! Ain't right the way you been treatin' ole sugar. Been on time since we've been datin'. How long is you gonna be there, cause I gotta love that can't be shaken!"

  He held his finger to his lips and marched towards her, the full fury of the gods searing into his consciousness. The adrenaline surge was wonderful. "I'm going to choke you to death, not because I think you're important, but because I can't stand your singing," Gungnir grunted in American Tradespeak.

  She kicked, fighting back with her legs and fists, but his grip was firm. He squeezed hard, making it quick, and after her face went blue, he twisted his wrist and broke her neck. Then he searched their pockets, and, after finding nothing but scraps of personal details, he piled the corpses in the corner.

  Three sets of bright orange audiophones hung on t
he wall, each connected to a small rectangular machine with a clear Plasstien window showing its inner workings. The set was identical to what everyone else was wearing. Seeing the outside button, he pressed it and it opened. A thin Plasstien rectangle ejected with a sticker across the top. He carefully pulled it out and sniffed the inside. Oils, metals, electronics. Useless trash and not a weapon of any kind. But these things were controlling these idiots somehow.

  He discovered a well-concealed fully-loaded stun gun underneath a desk and strapped it to his belt. The grip so annoyed him, he almost flung it down. Worthless junk. Like the rest of all Roman equipment. When the war with St. George was over, The Empire would literally walk across the Romans and crush them within months. And he was going to be present when it happened.

  Glancing down, the inside distance marker on his front face plate read 20 meters. He jumped and when he landed, shooting pains needled up through his foot and into his ankle. He rolled to his side, clutching his foot. Breathing in, he rotated it. The coupling joint on the foot's armor inner plating had broken.

  Universal sirens horned out and neon spotlights twirled from every rooftop. From all around him, through the loud speaks, a voice said:

  Outsider #^^, enemy is {+|. Salsa. Tacos. Zero him. Repeat, coupon limit reached. {+|... {+|... {+|?

  Waiting to upload location. Stand by.

  "Love ya moment, sugah, love ya day

  Cause momma's comin home, don't ya say

  Ain't been time, since I quit pimpin'

  Got my gun, bitches, quit bitch trippin'"

  The P-8 gate opened and something loud and heavy crushed the ground beneath it, coming towards him, still out of sight. Its bipedal walk and sheer mass as it broke the Plassticrete underneath its armored feet gave itself away, and when it came around the corner, he spoke his least favorite Apache hate speech phrase and backed up.

  Looking like a boxy arena player, the MECHA hunched over, its human pilot encased in complex macro carbons and Poly-Plasstien. How many manuals did he own on them? Its legs mounted stability and thruster Roman mods and St. George multi-flex arm and hand attachments. Perched on its right shoulder, a 100-mini rocket pod connected bundles of tight-woven armored coiled carbon fibers to its combat cortex. The Onyx-95 Quad Plasma Cannon was another unwelcome change in design. But the way the monstrosity wavered, barely able to walk, the pilot had probably no training and had been in a handful of battles, if any.

  He bounded and leaped back through the fence. Sizzling rockets exploded, ripping up the ground, sending Plassticrete into the nearby trees. He smiled and dashed towards an apartment building across from him, plasma bursts blasting the dirt behind him. Gungnir vectored the sprint, dodging left and right. He was outgunned but not necessarily outmatched. If the pilot was new, he would make critical mistakes. They always did, and if he was a good shot, he'd be dead already.

  The MECHA didn't follow. Disappointed, he took in the recycled air inside his armor. He was burning up and wanted to strip. His whole body was drenched in sweat, and the suit's internal temperature regulation system flashed in the red. Gungnir risked a drink of cherry water. Delicious.

  The wall shattered with a thunderous explosion knocking the bottle from his hand and splashed. People emptied out on their balconies, pointing at him like a hive of sick, mindless dead, talking into their comm devices.

  Blue plasma superheated the rest of the wall and melted it down. The dreaded beast emerged through the dust and debris, gun waving. Gungnir lunged and jumped two stories, landing on one of the balconies. An old man wearing a black bathrobe glared at him and put his hands up in front of his face.

  "Take my coupons!"

  He thrust Asger into the man, splitting him in half. The spear penetrated through him far enough to shatter the P-1 glass door behind him. Bloody entrails plopped to the floor in a steaming mess. The man's eyes blinked, and he reached down to pick up the lower half of his body.

  Gungnir kicked the screaming half over the top of the balcony, and the gore flopped on the ground. He laughed and ducked inside. Oh, the joys of combat! Killing was so much fun. Vid media sleeves hung like awards around the room, and an old vid caster 3D casted women dancing in yellow paisley jumpsuits. The wallpaper was coated with various pictures of men, dressed in leather, performing sexual acts with neo-pigs. To his left, another man, bearded this time, with pink hair and in a bathrobe, stood in the kitchen with a box of blue sugar cereal.

  The man sang, "#$&&($%? Baby, I need you now more than ever... #$^. Help me @#$&**, oh for ya now baby! I have coupons!" He pissed himself and continued his off-key singing.

  Gungnir didn't have time for coupons, whatever those were, nor this idiotic nonsense. The man went for a drawer. Gungnir trotted forward knowing anything he would pull out wouldn't be enough to get through his armor. Should he stun him with that silly pistol? No. Better to make this little thing cower under his full power.

  When the bearded man withdrew a Clemkin autopistol and took aim, Gungnir splintered the front door with Asger and dove out. A burst winged him in the side, but his armor deflected it off into the wall. He spun and flung the spear through the wall, piercing him in the face, crushing his forehead and braining him. Then he pulled it out and sniffed the blood. What a kill.

  He jetted toward the bottom of the staircase and slammed the door open. The walls were all digi and played soft-core porn. Degenerates! He sprinted down the hall. Halfway down, the doors in the hallway blasted open, and he was met by burst fire, the shots missing. He aimed his spear and vaporized a woman's head before she could rip off another burst from her autopistol. And as she and the pistol were falling to the ground, he snatched it from her dying hand. In a fluid motion, he slid it in his belt.

  A woman shouted in the next room, and the apartment smelled like children. An easy way out. He ducked in catching several Pop Music civilians running away. He drew his autopistol and shot them through the back, slaying them all. They collapsed down like American dominoes.

  The murder rage had overtaken his senses and undulating power blurred hot beneath his flesh. Asger glowed, and his muscles burned with energy. The Wotan option was his favorite, and now that his mind and body were united in a torrent of murderous death, nothing could stop him. Well, maybe something could.

  The MECHA clanked down the hall near him, and Gungnir bolted, hopping over bloody arms, legs, and ruined bodies. He kicked open another door, discovered a back room with another window, shattered it, and jumped through.

  He ducked behind a rusted-out tractor and spotted five armored vehicles, each armed with a 120mm quad cannon about ten meters away. Those might be a problem. Marching along with them, twelve camouflaged Mountain Tribal Pop Music soldiers probed in bushes and behind storage containers. Their St. George weaponry, more than impressive for this trash, would also be problematic if they were trained. But who was training these fools?

  Coded net traffic came through their telecasters. They were coordinating quickly. About 35 total combat personnel had surrounded the apartment complex. The MECHA might be a better fight.

  Gungnir reexamined the hole in the gate and waited. He spun hearing commands from behind him, and he dove, dodging a rain of fire, and hustled, hoping to Freyja it wasn't going to be there but praying to Wotan for the challenge. And when it wasn't, he continued back inside the apartment, climbing the stairs, keeping his back to the wall. At the top, it aimed its Onyx-95 Quad Plasma Cannon at him.

  "What do you want?" Its baritone, modulated voice was unimpressive in its authority. The voice, designed and programmed to terrify as well as command, amused him.

  He held Asger by his side. "You speak Saxon."

  "What is your operation?" It deactivated its camo field, and he admired its off-the-shelf look. Someone was taking care of it.

  Below him, officers flooded in the hole, firing. His anger rose; the ambush was successful. But for some reason, it made no aggressive moves. The Comm traffic became louder and once he saw the tip of an
officer cap, rising from the stairs, the MECHA blasted a five-round burst from his Onyx-95 and buried the staircase, killing everyone trapped in the rubble. It lowered its weapon. "Why are you here, Saxon?"

  Gungnir's eyes opened wide. Might as well talk to it. Buy time. "Collecting tech." Feeling his spear in his hands, he inhaled, searching for any other hidden threats. More Comms cracked the silence—reinforcements. "Give me what you can spare."

  "Not permissible."

  He bent his legs, tightened down, clenched, and shouted a sonic blast hoping to blind its sensor array. His voice ripped the air, and the walls shook and almost broke apart.

  Somehow, it had punched into the armored plating, penetrating the left elbow, shattering the armor and turning the interior into non-functioning Planks. What the Hel? Not possible.

  He threw his weapon at its head out of instinct, and Asger thundered home, and by the time his spear was deep into its carbon fibers, Plank fluid was gushing out like blood spray from a neck wound, trying to repair the damage. Its combat cortex split open like an egg shell and was pinned against the wall. He pulled it out, shook his head, and climbed another set of stairs. He should be dead right now, and he gave praise to the All Father for another day of life.

  Knocking the ceiling with the tip of Asger, he punched through a trapdoor leading to the roof and he opened the door and peeked out. Hundreds of civilians surrounded the building. Most had American rifles and full Roman combat body armor. All wore orange audio phones and danced in unison, robotic, like the machines at the automated Plasstien recycling plants.

  He ducked back down and waited if any of them approached the trapdoor and was saddened when none did. Climbing out and stealthing to the northeast corner, he took a moment to eat two more chocolate stims, letting the cherry flavor coat his mouth. His heart rate shot up; his pupils dilated. More choc stims were needed. No matter what.

  He crouched down to the center of the roof and made for the edge, high jumping off at the last second.