“Remember when I said the results of my nanite manifestation durin' the French base infiltration weren't optimum? This is what I meant. The first time my nanite activated, it was to punch through a wall inside their main hangar. At that time, none of our nanites manifested anythin' useful, and we were surrounded. I thought things like ‘Is this it? Is this where we die after bein' together for so long? Is this the extent of our power?' Yeah… good times,” Crelyos' lopsided grin slowly faded.
“I decided that, no matter what, I would see us through the situation, even if I had to rip apart the entire base with my bare hands. Ironic, considerin' that's what happened when I drove my right fist into the wall,” Crelyos ran his left fingers along the length of his black cybernetic limb.
“At first everyone was amazed, includin' me. The wall exploded, but rather than send shrapnel or metal pieces sprayin' out the back of the hangar, the tiny fragments just kinda vanished into poofs of glitterin' dust. A second later, however, and I was feelin' awful funny. It started at my knuckles. I'll never forget the pain, it's like time slowed down to a crawl,” he shook his head and frowned.
“A second was a lifetime. Apparently the force of the blow had some kind of backlash, and my arm began crumplin' like a tin can startin' with my hand and movin' down. Several pieces of my arm just broke off and turned to pink ooze. Others sagged and got twisted up as the bones turned to dust. Our amazement changed to horror, ‘specially mine,” Crelyos continued, nostalgically staring at his prosthetic arm.
“Thankfully, so did the French's. They started runnin' as though I was about to explode like some time bomb. It gave Raze and Sarge enough time to drag my ass out of there to the evac point. I was a squealin' pig by then. Terrified, hurtin', and utterly useless.” Crelyos offered me a sidelong glance.
“Right before the world ended, as a last ditch effort to salvage their lil experiment, the top dogs hired a team of guys that think just like Fancypants to construct this arm with the most state-of-the-art technology they had available with the army's limited budget. The movin' parts and rotatin' disks are specifically designed to offset the backlash of my augment, and the tubes carry the nanites down to these black knuckles here,” Crelyos wiggled his mechanical fingers.
“Still, the size of the object I'm punchin' is taken into account, so is the force I transfer. I was warned that if I try to disintegrate somethin' too big, this arm could be destroyed by the recoil just as easy as my real one. As for that stuff…” Crelyos looked down toward the melted latex-looking material that offered his arm near-identical human texture, “That's just prosthetic skin. But it's real elastic, like rubber. So when the backlash gets transferred along the disks in my arm, it just kinda bounces around and absorbs the shockwave. Well, most of the time, anyway. Useful stuff, I guess.”
“So that's why you walk like you're carrying a brick in your right pocket…” My eyes were drawn to the marvel of his prosthetic limb.
The thought that a detail so intricate eluded my attention for so long still captivated my senses. My gaze fluttered to the ring of thugs surrounding us; I noted their feet shuffling back every few moments. Unfortunately, I was unable to discern if it was a result of the intimidation posed by Crelyos' right arm or the thought of Raze arbitrarily igniting one of them. I settled my eyes on my comrade again. Crelyos nodded at my comment.
“It waz… an interezting exzperienze to zay zee least. I zought for sure zat you were, in fact, doomed, Crelyoz. But Sacrebleu, here you are!” Raze daintily clapped his palms together above his head in symbolic applause.
“Harmonic Resonance. It is a vibration all objects in nature possess, and when vibrations approach and match an object's natural resonance, the object suffers such shock that it literally shakes itself apart. The concept's applicability to destruction was first explored by an ancient scientist named Nikola Tesla, who allegedly nearly shook apart an entire neighborhood with a seven inch device. It would appear your nanite is a far more advanced version following similar principles,” Oswald emerged from the shadows beneath one of the spiral stairways. I glanced over at him as he interrupted the faux Frenchman.
“The key difference is the power source and the advanced level of your implant's artificial intelligence. I cannot begin to fathom how advanced that nanite must be. Donovan outdid himself with you, Crelyos. As best I can surmise, your nanite operates in two distinct stages.” Oswald held up a single finger.
“First, it moves faster internally, that is within your thick skulled body, than any nanite I've ever heard of. When your fist directly connects with an object, the initial vibrations sent from your fist resonate with the object in question. The waves are then sent back through your body like an echo. Here is where it gets interesting my boy, so pay attention,” Oswald's eyes lit up with the thought of discovering such technological advances right under his nose. Despite the danger of our situation, and everything else, Oswald was a true scientist at heart.
“The nano perceives the echo sent back and processes the information faster than an electric impulse to derive the object's natural resonance,” Oswald held his second finger up for the next part of his explanation.
“This information is then transferred to a second wave of nanites that store vibrations at the perfect frequency to disintegrate the object. And when I say perfectly, I mean a number that matches the frequency to several million decimal places. That is the only way the vibratory force would be so powerful and accurate as to completely disintegrate an object to its molecular level instantly. It is astounding. No, it's stupendous. It's a work of genius!” Oswald excitedly pressed his finger against the bridge of his spectacles and shoved them up his nose. When next he spoke, his voice lost its tangible excitement and a frown touched his lips.
“However…” He glanced at Crelyos, “Like all amazing things, it is not without its repercussions. The transfer of waves, while precise and purposeful to the processing power of the implant, is erratic and dangerous to its user. The nanite's flaw when it conceived its unique ability was that it failed to consider the frailty of the human body. You mentioned before that the scientists warned you of disintegrating things too large…” Oswald shook his head and paused, as though giving careful thought to his next words.
“I would assume you misunderstood them. It is not size but density which you need to be concerned about when utilizing your ability. The more dense the object, the more recoil from the force when the waves are transferred. While it is unfortunate that such a discovery cost you your arm, I am quite relieved to hear my suspicions were correct.” Oswald smiled.
“Your suspicions, Doc?” I arched a brow. He clenched his fist excitedly and shouted at me from his position of relative safety.
“Nanites are not miracles, they're not perfect, and they most certainly are not magic! You can do this, Ihlia! Bring this pompous bastard down a peg or two!” Oswald's shout caused one corner of my lips to tug up into a quirky grin. When the “pompous bastard” in question shot the old codger a poisonous glare, Oswald sank back to his dark retreat under the stairs. I spun my daggers for visual effect and took up a fighting stance.
“Well, then, I guess we should get this party started.” I stepped over to Crelyos and placed my back against his once more.
“Hm, quite an informative explanation zat waz, Doctor. However, I am afraid you are quite miztaken. Zee nanite iz not zee miracle, perfection, or zee magic. I am!” Raze worked his hands in their usual fluid motions and extended his fingers in pre-snap position toward his minions. They groaned; their quaking voices rose through the dim light of the ballroom like the slow sound of a siren approaching on a highway.
Raze smirked, “If you do not want to be burned… zen you will fight!” With a snap of his fingers, the thug on the outer ring of the gradually retreating horde burst into a blanket of orange. His cries far outclassed the cries of his companions as he frantically swatted his body an
d rolled around on the floor. There was no alleviation for him until his motions stopped and he lay as a blackened corpse. I began furiously grinding my teeth. It was the second time he killed one of his own.
All at once the group resumed their savage, bloodthirsty cries and charged at Crelyos and me as though their boss had nonchalantly called out, “Break's over! Get back to work!” I held fast to my daggers in reverse grip and braced for the onslaught as one might have braced for a rolling wave on a beach. I suddenly felt the back of my trench coat firmly entrenched in Crelyos' fleshy left hand. A soft gasp of surprise escaped me when he drew me back with the ease of a pitcher preparing to throw a baseball.
“I'll handle these guys, girly. You take out Blondie.” Crelyos grunted and tossed me up to the balcony. Though unprepared, my feline reflexes activated and I turned a handspring over the guard rail only a few feet from the pompously primped prick. A quick glance from the corner of my eye beheld Crelyos' defiant stance as he unleashed an enraged roar. The ensuing sounds of battle drifted to my ears as though they took place across a vast ocean. I focused my attention on the duke.
“Hmph, he intendz to leave me wiz zee dog? Zat iz most unfortunate. What incroyable mannerz. Very well zhen, if I am to put down zee dog, zo be it.” Raze tossed aside his blond tresses of hair and swiftly unsheathed the rapier resting at the side of his frilly pants. Tucking his left hand behind his back, Raze cut a few patterns into the air while maintaining immaculate posture. As I watched, something about his weapon bothered me. It was the blade length; it was far too short for a rapier.
“I'm impressed. In a world of rusty metal cleavers you have quite the exotic weapon. Never seen a rapier quite so wanting for length, though. Run out of fancy metals?” I chirped.
“And to zhink you almozt imprezzed me by recognizing zis weapon az a cut above zee rezt. But zis iz no rapier, wee puppy. Zis iz zee zmall zword.” Raze lifted the inconceivably thin blade in front of his face as though showcasing its stunted length. He maintained his stiff pose, keeping his left arm pinned to his back. With his perfect posture and the angle of the blade, the “small sword” almost appeared to vanish in front of his nose.
“Small Sword? Never heard of it,” I sank into a battle stance.
“Oui, zee zmall zword. It iz far more zuitable a weapon for tight quarterz. Quarterz such az zee onez in which we find ourselvez, no? But zhere iz little reazon to teach an old dog new trickz. Engarde, puppy!” Raze extended his right foot forward; lowered his center of gravity; and extended his small sword with a flourish. When he finally took his fighting stance, I twitched in shock. As one who specialized in short blade fighting techniques, I recognized his readied position as one similar to my own. Maybe even better.
When Crelyos had recounted on the drive to the fortress that Raze was the best knife fighter he had ever seen, I discarded the information as a lack of experience on the former soldier's behalf. But witnessing Raze's stance for myself, I understood the gravity of what it meant to be the army's best. His aimed his small sword with deadly precision at the area of my neck which would guarantee a piercing straight through to my medulla oblongata. His free hand hovered above his head with a flair I attributed to his exotic tastes.
Despite the professional demeanor with which he stood, however, rapiers possessed a fatal flaw. Their wielders attacked utilizing extraordinarily linear thrusts, and even minuscule redirections from an expert hand rendered them futile. Considering the likeness his small sword bore to the rapier family of weapons, I assumed it was not exempt from the rapier's flaws. I could only hope my assumption would not prove fatally misguided.
I rushed forward and lifted my left dagger. As I neared, Raze lunged forward with an advance typical of those utilizing bladed weapons to fight. As anticipated, the point of the small sword drove toward my throat with fatal accuracy. Following the instinctive rise of my arm, my left dagger shot up and barely tapped the side of his flimsy blade.
A look of confidence washed over my face; I predicted the blade's path would carry it harmlessly to the left of my neck. As I prepared my right dagger to counterattack, a searing pain shot through my throat near my left collar bone. The sound of his blade penetrating my neck forced a gagged cry from my lips. I recoiled back, and his blade slid from the puncture wound it created. But how? I definitely parried the attack. As Panacea worked to seal the wound impeding my breathing with gargled blood, Raze wasted no time in closing the distance between us.
A flurry of thrusts propelled him toward me, and with both daggers I began swatting his wobbling small sword from the air. The concept that Raze drove me back with a single weapon against my dual wielding frustrated me. But worse than that, each parry attempt that I made seemed off if only by fragments of distances. If he aimed his attack for my stomach, I parried with gratuitous space in mind to send the blade whizzing by my body. Instead, it would puncture my side just next to my stomach and leave a thin hole seeping blood. Similar wounds continued peppering the outskirts of my body, always to the left or right of his targets but always connecting with my flesh. The sting was maddening and the accompanied anger I felt toward the dainty man in frilly clothing began clouding my judgment. Even I could feel it, but I was unable to stop it.
As the dance continued, my parries gradually became shorter and less polished. Eventually his attacks struck closer to their original marks, and before long I felt the tip of his blade enter my flesh long before my dagger connected to swat it away. After a few moments of stepping back defensively, my back thudded against the wall. As though he waited for that moment with immaculate patience, Raze drove his slender blade into the center of my chest with unrestrained ardor. I felt my flesh part for the thin sword and heard the dismal click of the blade hammering against the stone wall when its tip burst from my back. I coughed blood.
“Well, iz zat all zee dog haz to offer? Juzt as zee French outclazz every country wiz zhere brazen warriorz, so too are you outclazzed by moi. It iz zee hard reality. All you can do iz face it bravely before I cut out your heart!” With his venomous words, Raze twisted the small sword in my chest; the sudden pain sent a gargled cry racing up my throat. It exploded from my lips with a fresh splatter of crimson life force. I clenched my scarlet stained teeth and narrowed my eyes at him.
“Don't you… know what dogs do… when cornered? They bite…” I growled and rushed forward. My charge buried the blade into my chest at the hilt, but it was enough to startle the pretending Frenchman. I sent my right dagger in a swift arch toward the side of his temple. Just as when I shot him, a strange feeling overtook my hand. The picosecond of awkwardness was all that Raze required to jerk his head backward and avoid the full force of my attack.
My dagger scraped across his pristine forehead and split the flesh like a third eye slit. My left dagger followed suit toward the center of his chest, but the same odd feeling accompanied by a quick twist of his agile body changed my dagger's impact site to a meager impaling of his shoulder. I stepped forward to prevent him from drawing his small sword from my body and continued my onslaught with a gurgled war cry.
His eyes were wide, but his face remained impartial and calculating. As I elevated the tempo of my assault, my blows seemed, even to my own frustrated eyes, more like wild flails and less like the careful, deadly strikes I intended them to be. Thankfully, though the strange feeling in my arms never subsided, the sheer speed with which I executed my attacks seemed to be catching up to him.
Raze's left hand, still dangling with fragile poise above his head, began the familiar fluid movements, and his face contoured to a display of panic. He instantly recognized that I had gained the advantage. The duke swiftly lifted swiftly his foot and drove it into my ribs. With a brutal rock of his hips, he kicked my body off his blade as though peeling a fly off a swatter. I rolled back into a crouched position after releasing a sharp cry of pain from the sting of his small sword's exit.
The
same strange smell that permeated the air just before Crelyos' arm burst into flames suddenly assaulted my nostrils. I gazed up at Raze long enough to see his fingers snap; just as the sound echoed, I felt an overwhelming need to move. My body acted instinctively; I dove to the side over the balcony. As I fell, I clamped my palms down on the protective railing. I hung over the side of the balcony awaiting the hissing sound of fiery combustion, but it never occurred.
When I vaulted back up and perched atop the rail itself, I was met with Raze's fingers already prepared to snap. The sound echoed once more, and again the sense of impending doom welled in my chest and motivated my body into a diving roll. But the sudden change in his pattern caught me off guard. Before, the flamboyant duke would wave his hands about in a graceful show before snapping his fingers. But during my dive, he merely executed a quick snap; the brevity of his snap proved effective. Even as I tumbled from my original location, the back of my right shoulder burst into flames, flames that quickly raced across my back and right arm. I howled in pain and rolled across the ground trying to relieve my body of the scorching agony tearing through my flesh. Finally, I wriggled free of the burning trench coat and lifted myself to a single knee.
My right hand hung limp next to the partially gooey coat. Black charcoal holes dotted the right side of my tank top. A raw mix of scarlet and black patches marred the skin exposed along the right side of my body where the leather coat and my flesh melted together like star-crossed lovers. I choked back profane shouts and cradled my right arm with my left hand. Despite the searing pain, I kept a tight grip on my daggers.
“It burnz, no? Zhere iz no zhame in giving up, little canine. Zhere iz no pozzible way zat you could beat me.” His eyes radiated a sense of supremacy. Like a king overlooking a suffering subject, the man dared to allow a gleam of pity to twinkle in his ugly pools of azure.
NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire Page 19
