by Daniel Moore
flesh could be healed by the drive, and how the drive would take over if harm came to the body. He explained how the drive could not be prevented from maintaining its user’s life. “Short of taking the chem vial out of the drive,” Luke explained, “or running dry of chem, your drive will sustain you through grievous injuries, self-inflicted or otherwise.” Luke explained how you needed less food while you had chem, and how chem could be used to quench thirst – “a drop of chem,” Luke said, “is like drinking from a stream, pure and cold and refreshing.”
Time flickered onwards, a year passed. Daniel was accepted into the Red Guard, given his uniform – red suit, red tie, red dress pants and red dress shoes. He didn’t look a soldier, but a businessman. He was sent to Lenossa with another group of Businessmen, Red Guard recruits to be retrofitted. Luke watched them go. He would wait, he told himself, until the baby David was given his drive. The infant needn’t be retrofitted, and the day came quickly. David was carried in his mother’s arms to the administration terminal wrapped in pale red cloth, a quiet red – almost pink.
The terminal was a butchers shop. Blood soaked a counter, fresh spilled over-top of dried black. Katelyn stood in line behind dozens of mothers, each of the babes wailed until they entered the tent, then the crying stopped and the mother returned empty-handed. Some mothers left bright-eyes and smiling, but more seemed to leave with looks of horror on their faces. One mother ran from the building tears streaming down her cheeks.
All the women stood alone except for Katelyn with Luke and as they neared their turn, they had to watch. Babes were placed one at a time on the counter, their pale skin dyed by the blood of the child before them. They squirmed horribly, crying and reaching for their mothers. Two red guards stood nearby, ready to stop the mother from interfering, and then a huge man in the black cloak of Michael’s high priests held a cleaver to the child’s arm, slightly above the elbow. With a small push, the large man forced the blade down to sever the limb. Always the crying stopped and the child stared stunned up at the priest’s uncaring face, unable to weep. The high priest never met the child’s eyes, but turned away and reached to a shelf behind him for a blow-torch, the type used in welding. With a flip-top lighter the priest lit the flame, and then cauterized the wound, stroking the flame back and forth over the stump of the limb. He would finish by closing off the flame and handing the infant to an assistant. Scraping the cleaver across the counter he cleared the severed limb into a waste basket. Luke was horror-struck by the cold efficiency and by the waste basket, as high as a man’s hip, filled with the left arms of babes. They still dripped blood, pink and alive at the top, white and used beneath. Luke and Katelyn stood still in the line.
Third from the front. Luke looked to his right and down at Katelyn’s face. Her hair drooped over her eyes, and he couldn’t be sure. Second from the front. Luke turned Katelyn to him, grabbing her by the shoulders and swivelling her to face him. He brought his hand gently to her chin and lifted her head to look in her eyes. Front of the line. The smile which greeted him as her brown-grey hair fell away, and the truth of that smile in her eyes, broke Luke’s heart. She was genuinely happy.
Fear and pain. Hatred and anger. Emotion filled Luke as only humans can be filled, and motion grasped the soldier dressed head to toe in red-silk business attire. He tore the babe from Katelyn’s arms. She didn’t resist immediately, she didn’t clutch the child closely, only let David go and looked to the Red Guard on either side for help. They moved, but they weren’t fuelled with fire as Luke was, their movements seemed cold and slow against the heat of Luke’s passion. He wrapped his hands around the infant protectively, as Katelyn should have, and took a knee as the guards approached. For a second he looked into their faces, and then away, down at the ground. Hard asphalt met his gaze, and then he closed his eyes and the world went away. When he opened them again he was elsewhere, baby David still clutched in his arms, a cold wind whistling through his hair. It had grown long, uncut since he had arrived on the outskirts of Sansolace more than twelve months prior. Snow fell in gently twirling arcs and the infant cried out with all its voice.
It was natural to cry Luke thought as he rose and stepped into the white, natural to call for a mother or a family. It was not a peaceful sound, but neither was it an ill song. A cave ahead called to Luke, opened and free of cold. Inside the sharp spark and hiss of an arc welder could be heard. It was the only place he had to run, the only man Luke knew who was not Michael’s. Cryos. Luke looked down at the child in his arms. He felt the cold seep into his bones, the snow well over his army shoes, and the red of his uniform darkened by wetness. The boy in his swaddling screamed and writhed in Luke’s embrace.
Luke stopped, a few feet from the shelter of the cave – he raised the boy in front of him, hands under arms he smiled and brought the child close kissing him on the forehead and whispering in his ear, hugging David to his shoulder. “Quiet, young David,” Luke had never spoken so gently, used to speaking with adults and soldiers. Used to being quiet. Luke frowned inwardly, stern for a moment, and then a smile lit up his face and the soldier-no-more was laughing. “Let it all out then, boy! Scream until your face is blue, and let no one say that David Orange’s lungs are those of his elder brother.” Luke stepped into the cave, warmth, and for a while, peace. David Orange stopped crying.
About the Author:
My name is Daniel Moore and I live in Hamilton Ontario where I attend McMaster University. I am a writer in my spare time, dreaming of sometime ‘making it big’ and I am a full-time student working towards a B.A. in English and History. My favourite books (I don’t like everything from any one author.) are George Orwell’s 1984, Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, Guy Gavriel Kay’s Tigana and William Gibsons Mona Lisa Overdrive. I am the Warhammer Executive of the McMaster nerd club and love to talk about writing. If you are interested in what I have been writing, or what I plan on writing in the future you can contact me directly at [email protected]. I’d love to hear from anyone who enjoys my work and PayPal Donations are appreciated. And look out for the next in the series: Cryocaust, available soon on Amazon for only .99 cents.
