"There are some extra uniforms back here, and both of us could use a change of clothes. I'm chafing."
"Fine. You want me to turn my back?"
"If you don't mind," she said. She tossed him a bag of Sani-Wipes. "Don't forget to clean around your ears."
"Oh shut up!" But he remembered.
During their attack, Gungnir spotted a guard who'd fallen asleep on duty, snuck up on him, dragged him away, and beat and broke his fingers on his left hand until he talked like the bitch he was. Then, using his right, he'd drawn him a map of the area and told him the location of Site 13. The torture was a lovely affair and one that Gungnir relished in. He'd even threatened to rape him with his spear, but he complied without the need to sodomize him. When the man gave no more data, he pulled him away and hung him from the nearest tree despite Victoria's protests. That's what Wotan demands, he'd said, and she didn't belabor the point.
She took his telecaster and overheard the code phrases and numbers crackling over the comm-net, but neither one could make out what any of the data meant. They listened for another ten minutes before giving up, keeping the device just in case.
"Could use another one of these." Gungnir said. The newer version of the St. George telecaster amazed him, and he found the comm's system intriguing. Its sleek, ergonomic design was something the Empire should've adopted ages ago if only the techs would listen.
"Maybe we'll find the same one so we can communicate to each other."
"Bad idea. They're using the same frequency." He pressed a few keys, testing it out.
They descended down into the forest where the park regrew from decades of warfare. Vast swaths were blown to pieces, and several craters marked areas too dangerous to travel. The forest reminded him of the Great Philosopher Forests back home, and he longed for the day when he would be able to relax with Eyvindr, drink ale, and get his revenge in a game of Beowulf.
After another day of traveling, they discovered an abandoned campsite several hours away from Site 13, and they both stopped and snacked on the rations they'd found. He used a St. George Thermal Cooking Packet to heat up their potted meat so as to not create a fire.
"We are getting close," she said. She withdrew a strawberry mix from her pack and emptied the contents into her mouth, and sloshed it down with water. He followed her lead and frowned after discovering how sweet the mix tasted.
"This crap is terrible. How can they drink this? How do you like your necklace you stole from me when you knocked me out?"
She pulled it out from under her clothing and caressed it between her fingers. "It's great. Something about it I really like. Where did you find it?"
"Does it matter? It's yours now, and it looks right on you. You're beautiful. I'm never going to say that again, so you better have heard me say it this time. Don't think anything by me saying it. It just means you would make a good concubine from time to time."
"You make me sick! How dare you talk to me like that! I know you like me."
"Don't get your hopes up, Victoria. If I wanted to mate with someone, it wouldn't be with an American. I can tell you that with utter confidence. While I find your general form and facial features to be 'nice,' I guess, you're just not proper breeding stock."
"Whatever. You swine! Someday, you'll have a heart again, and when you do, I'll be there. So..." She looked at Asger. "What time do you have?"
He checked Asger. "05:29."
"Damn. I have to write something. Quick! Do you have a pen?" She started patting herself down, looking for one he knew she didn't have.
"You need to write something?"
She flung her pack off her shoulder, and she stretched out a pad of golden paper flat on the ground. She dug in her purse. "Yes! Do you have one?"
"Calm down." He reached into the side pocket of his bag and gave her one.
She looked up at the sky, closed her eyes, and started to write.
She wrote the note in a few seconds and finished without looking. "...Victoria Tesla. Remember? Sorry, my time is up. XOXO." Then she blinked opened her eyes. "What time is it now?"
"05:29. 05:30," he answered chewing on a piece of paste bacon trying to rid that himself of the sugar taste.
"Just in time!" She breathed out.
"What did you write?"
"Nothing worth mentioning. We can continue on now."
"Don't try to evade the question. When I ask you something, I want an answer." He reached for the note, but she pulled away. Victoria put the paper behind her back and took a few steps back from him.
"I had to scribble a message. The supply truck had a pad of quantum paper. Stuff is almost impossible to find, even in places like Niflheim, the Underworld." She shredded the note as he looked on impotently.
He shrugged. "Fine. You want to play? We can if you want," he said. "But you don't want to test me."
She gave him a smile that melted him down like butter on an engine block. He didn't answer for a while, admiring her and wishing he could kiss her on the mouth without feeling like a total bag of useless weak flesh. He would just rather rip her clothes off and take control of her. The sex was all much simpler that way. Why was she so different, this woman? This girl who had these powers over him?
He sniffed the air again, looking up towards the stars for a sign from the gods. Gungnir said a prayer to Wotan in his mind, but again, his mind heard only silence. His flesh goose-bumped. "Like I said, you help me get in there so I can grab a few things, and I will help you find this guy you want to find. This Captain Johann Edward Rex, or whatever the Hel his name is," he said, invoking the name of The Great Adversary's daughter who was appointed by the All Father to rule over the realm of the dead. "Besides. You need to be kept safe."
"You're a bowl of targgerts! Keep me bloody safe? You do remember me beating you in our fight by my cave?" She giggled softly and smiled at him.
"Yes, okay." He dusted himself off, his face red with embarrassment. "You were lucky, and I fought sloppy. Never again."
"You're so cute sometimes."
He blushed, recoiled from her and almost lost his grip on Asger. "Don't say that."
"Don't worry, Gungnir Odinson."
His stomach tightened up. He wanted to scream at her to make this feeling go away forever. What caused this sensation? This desire? This lust to be with her? He didn't need anyone, and yet when he looked at her, he saw another human being, standing in front of him. Not an enemy to be overrun and destroyed or his mother or brother, but someone else. A person. He took two more steps back, almost falling down. He wanted to ask who she really was. She must be sent from Freyja!
"When my parents rescued me, they told me to go to the far north. The very Far North." She looked that direction.
"There's nothing out that way." He looked across the wood line, hoping to see something. Just more winter green stuck on the sides and tops of mountains. The cold blew, and they both turned away from the draft. "I drove out there for days looking for something... anything. That's why they call it 'The Land of Nothing.'" He didn't appreciate being lied to either, as her story crawled into Make Believe. He scowled at her and spit on the ground. A translucent beetle crawled on his boot and left a slime trail, snailing away. He stabbed the bug with Asger, watching its tiny legs kick as it died. He flung the thing off.
"That's the name people gave so others don't go snooping around there. If you still wanted to know who taught me the things I know how to do, it was them."
" You're full of shit. First the Santa cult, then this. The things you say, well, they are so absurd." He stared at her chest wanting to rip her St. George uniform off and grab her breasts. He sighed wanting her more every second.
"What did they teach you then?"
"I know this will sound strange. I can't remember most of the training, and when I fight, my instincts kick in. When I fought you, I had never done anything like that before in real life. They said I was special."
He expected her to start crying, and he was getting ready t
o yell at her for being weak, but rather than her becoming emotional, she became a stone and crossed her arms.
"You aren't." But she was and he knew it.
"Thanks," she shrugged. "But you and I both know I am. Who else could beat you?"
"Shut up." He grabbed Asger and started kicking over the stones that made the fire pit. "Let's go."
The ground swelled then banked down, ending in a shallow ravine where rain runoff had sliced through the tundra. The water had been ice for many months now.
"Check the time, please," Victoria asked. "We can't be late."
"07:54."
Her mouth fell open. "07:54?! We must hurry. We can't be late!"
"Late for what?"
They both ducked down. Footsteps. Slow, and creeping towards them. There were a lot of them, and they'd snuck up on Gungnir. They were ugly, feral things wearing Plasstien strips as armor and wielding great, razor P-6 blades. Some of them had fusion rifles at the ready or a grenade tied to their belt. All of them had painted their faces red, and some of them wore American fetishes on their armor. The one in front had a face the color of charcoal and three, finger-wide white lines extended from his chin to his cheek. He held a massive axe in his hand he perched over his shoulder. It glowed silver; a modified Plasstien tomahawk with a silvery long handle—no doubt a Pre-Times artifact of immense power and significance.
The man said a word in some guttural groan and waved his hand. The men behind him did as he commanded, and they awaited his next command.
"My name is Apache Vick, Gungnir Odinson! We mean you no harm, but do not attempt to impede our travels or you will be crushed."
They were surrounded.
Gungnir smiled. "Time for war, Tesla."
49 What Digi-Prints Tell
John parked the autocraft down the road from Elizabeth and spotted Roger standing alone on the street just meters from his house. His arms were folded like an impatient child, and he wore a pin-striped suit with digi-holo prints flashing different advertisements. A golden cross hung from his neck. He gripped a briefcase as if it contained a bomb ready to explode in his hand.
They exited the Lionheart, feeling the cold crunch their bones, and carefully approached him, weapons in hand. Neil kept his wife close, both shivering in the freezing wind, and as John glanced up into the sky, the clouds began to dissipate, the sun blazing down on them. The streets were soaked, and a swift breeze combed through his wet matted hair.
"John Rex. Pleased to meet you."
"This better be worth my time. I've watched you in the news for far too long to trust you. You're a lowlife that should have his head blown off. Because of the day I've had, I'm half-tempted to do it myself. If you have anything in that fucking briefcase that could harm us in anyway, we won't hesitate to make short work of you."
John led them all inside, and a blast of vanilla sprayed into the air. He went into his kitchen and motioned for Neil and Emma to sit down at his table. Roger shuffled in behind him and placed his briefcase neatly on the counter.
His new guest looked up, stopped, and nodded up towards the hole in the ceiling. "How would you like your burger cooked? We have coupons! Breh, lol, bracktish, matchibokmortian, but if you look at Great warnuses Tern Boork, then vectum silly string, tangy Baken Potatoen, BBQ sauce. Coupon code X-23467d," Roger said in perfect Fast-Food American.
"Sorry, it's been a while. Are you saying what I think you are?" John asked, looking up at the hole where Elizabeth projected from. His thick accent and use of idioms were difficult for him to translate in his mind, but he had a rough understanding. He was referring to The Tamper Conspiracy, the highest secret in the Kingdom.
Roger cleared his throat, and moved his head forward and jerked it back in a neo-chicken like fashion. "Can you speak Draconic Tradesmen Fast-Food American?"
"It's easier than American Fast-Food. Yes. Go ahead." John's mind began to translate the difficult language in his brain, remembering what he learned from his NCO's in the 2nd.
His hands moved like lightening, back and forth, and the rest was spoken with a dark, rich accent reminding him of why he disliked it in the first place. "Every house in the Kingdom is connected to each other. None of them understand Draconic Tradesmen Fast-Food American because it adapts too rapidly for house algorithms."
"Well, say what you have to say. I don't like having your type in my house. I know what kind of a murderous, scum-sucking animal you are. My mom knows too, and I question her motivation for not removing you from the Kingdom and collecting the bounty."
"I'm your uncle. Uther was my brother. Your mum ain't never told you that? Sorry. I hates to be the ones to break it to ya's."
He snatched the Remi off the counter with a blur and aimed directly down at the ridge of Roger's nose ready to pull the trigger should he say one more word. He closed an eye, looking down the sight with his other. He gave a prayer to St. George and waited.
"Don't ever say you're my uncle again, you bastard. My mother would have told me, and I would have hunted you down." John nailed down every syllable of the vulgar speech.
Roger, with his hands up, probed down into his jacket. John nodded and he withdrew his wallet. Opening it, he showed him digi-print after digi-print showing Uther, Rosie, and himself hanging out at different bars. From the way they were taken, the recordings came from a grav-ball digi recorder. He clicked one.
They sat at a lighted booth with a digi table displaying the latest blood sports highlights from last night's game. An air filter whined at their table, cleansing the jaga smoke away while digitized fairies cavorted around tables. Walls of bio-engineered vines, deep indigo, devilish black, and fanciful green, danced with each other, mocking crude human sexual practices. Huge phallus' sprayed clear protein fluid on them from their tops and marched around like Saxon nutcrackers.
All around them, other couples sported gemmed masks with immense diamonds, emeralds, and rubies of all karats and shapes. A large percentage of them imitated, in a twisted hateful way, ancient animals ready to bite or scream, and some of them had digitized displays on them displaying their sexual preferences. The club dweller's masks bore great multi-colored plumes, and they held hands, kissed, and whispered into each other's ear. Some were having sex on their table booths in front of everyone while others rubbernecked, watching with pure pleasure and lust.
Uther and Rosie snuggled up to each other, their eyes barely open. Both of them dressed in yesteryear's fashion: a mix of blue lace and cheap flexi-Plasstien with metallic ornamentation. Rosie's plumed beret sat slightly off kilter on her head, and her makeup was dark and sexy and wild. Uther's lips were painted carmine, and his eyes were thick with heavy eye shadow.
Roger, on the other hand, wore a business suit matching his high-and-tight haircut, and his golden cross of St. George hung about his neck with pride. His attention was split between his E-Reader and a black line of stim on the table next to it with a straw awaiting his nose.
"Bloody hell! These prices are shooting up. I'm going to be fucking rich!" Roger laughed. He put the device down and snorted a line as long as his forefinger. Shouting out in hate speech, he rose and pounded his chest. He took out a Plasstien box from his coat, opened it, poured some more out on the table, and chopped it up with the edge of an E-card.
Rosie moved away from Uther, and he fell into the booth asleep. She licked her lips, took the straw, and snorted one herself. Her eyes blossomed wide, and she glared into Roger's eyes, closed them, and started making out with him.
They became much more passionate, their mouths all over each other. He tore open her velvet purple blouse and attacked her breast with his mouth. She grabbed his head, moaning, holding him close, and he ripped her clothes off knowing exactly what he was going to do to her.
It nulled out to the original image.
Roger, with the dexterity of a career pickpocket, shifted the next digi showing Roger and Rosie on a mountain high up in the air. She was far along in her pregnancy, and she was leaning
on his shoulder. He shrugged, folded up his wallet, and put his hands back up.
"When was this, you piece of shit?" He asked.
"Don't worry. I don't think I'm your dad. You do have a half sister though."
John shot, but missed on purpose, zinging the bullet past his ear.
Neil landed a perfect blow across Roger's face, and as he fell, he grabbed the wallet from him and threw it across the room. He towered over him, and when his fist smashed him in the face, Roger was sent spinning and collapsing to the ground.
Roger rose slowly, raising his hands and nodded ever so gently to the briefcase. John pulled the pistol back slightly and nodded. Using one of his free hands, Roger bio-opened it and stepped back, eyes on John, hands up in the air.
"I don't believe one fuck of this!" John shouted.
John thumb-cocked the hammer and dragged his vision inside. Within it lied a Pre-Times black book with a red silk ribbon around it, secured by straps. Atop the ribbon, a darker "1" was sewn into it. The word ARKHE was inlaid with Oracle White Plasstien in beautiful King Edward script across the top. He brought the heavy tome out and closed the briefcase, keeping his vigilant eye on Roger should he try to do anything at all. The ribbon slid off with ease, and he cracked open the ancient Pre-times tome and scanned its interior for any markings. A red number one caught his eye, dead set in the center of the page. It pulsed like a heartbeat, glowing, pounding, like a force of boundless energy.
"What is this? This number one matches the same one from Pilly's Peak. Is that where you got it?" John asked.
"Yes," Roger said wiping blood from his mouth.
VVVVVVVVVVERRRRRRPOOOOOOOPPPPPPP!
Elizabeth appeared as a kind of sexless figure, body straight down, like a tube, producing her cleaning wand, and repixilated into her curvy body self, wearing her adorable, sexy short, black maid outfit with stockings that stretched up to the ceiling. She giggled and pointed the wand at Emma and clicked it at her feet. Emma's shoes dissolved into Planks, pooling out into the viscous black fluid, and disappeared into the floor.
The Arkhe Principle (Book Book 1) Page 32
