LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/Crush (1)

CRUSH [1] [Intro]

Existence rushes by. Each little piece of creation flashes from future to present before disappearing into history, gone from sight and mind unless you deign to gaze upon its diminishing form in the rearview mirror.

A twist of the throttle. The engine roars -- a demon raging in hell, bellowing defiance at the deity that damned him, promising eternal rebellion and unending war on heaven. The din is utterly superfluous, an unnecessary affectation that could be shut down with the touch of a button. Utterly superfluous, but completely glorious.

Your right hand slips away from the handlebar. The bike veers to the left before you correct it. On a busy road, that might be the first step towards an unpleasant crash or the mowing down of a pedestrian. But here, on the sun-kissed plain, you'd have to go out of your way to find something to hit. Save for the birds gliding far overhead, little black shapes against the soft blueness of the sky, you could almost imagine you had the entire planet to yourself.

The hand celebrates its newfound freedom by passing the wealth on. It taps the button on the right side of your helmet before returning to its duties and spurring the engine to another hellish cacophony. A series of gentle mechanical clicks and clacks fills the space around your head as the helmet gives way. It pulls back from your face first, like a receding tide, before collapsing away from the sides of your head in turn. Tessellating squares of hard armor and softer shock absorbent material withdraw in a waves of geometric precision, retreating and folding in on themselves until they form a collar around your neck. An almost imperceptible bleep signals its new state of readiness. In the event of a crash, it'll reassert itself.

Gusts of wind kiss and caress your exposed face, run their fingers through your hair like ardent lovers celebrating your speed and mastery.

"Come on, captain! You ride like an old woman!"

The voice spirals its way through your memories, its joy undiluted by the years.

You twist the throttle. The bike zooms forward like the magnificent beast it is, turning the environment into a beautiful blur. Talia's remembered laugh expresses its approval.

Last time you were here, you were riding a military issue cycle. A good enough bike, though an obsolete hunk of junk compared with the exquisite vehicle that thrums with power beneath you now.

It was Talia's idea. Something to celebrate your elevation to captain of Princess Illaria's bodyguard -- one of the most prestigious positions in the Sian military. With that promotion came a period of leave. Ostensibly an opportunity for the honored warrior to meditate and contemplate the nature of his new duties. In reality it was seen as a chance to enjoy a little fun before assuming the role.

The gunslinger first suggested an interstellar pub crawl, a drinking binge that would likely have painted several systems with your combined vomit. You declined, however. If word (or worse yet, holo-vids) got out that a person elevated to so lofty and respected a station was reveling like an unruly teenager... The repercussions would have been undesirable, to say the least. Talia rolled her eyes when you told her that. Then she suggested a bike ride.

"Race you!" she yells.

"Where to?"

"Until something gets in the way!"

You're racing the same path now, albeit without your friend to compete against and mock you after her inevitable victory.

It started as an aimless flight, heading from Varlec out into the depths of space. But when you glanced at the display and saw Eclogue's system on the map, you just couldn't resist its allure.

Sunlight warms your shoulders, cooled by the whirling breeze into something pleasant and soothing, as though the planet is celebrating your decision or its own irresistibility.

It's a pleasant place. A lonely little world that boasts only a single colonized landmass, and that sparsely so. A planet for rustic peace, pastoral calm -- dotted with hobby farms and archaic townships in the style of Earth's distant past. The thought that Talia of all people introduced it to you is amusing beyond measure.

But it's great riding country...

The engine growls in approval, giving vulgar voice to its power. The bike is great too... Your friends filled the Silver Shadow's cargo hold with all manner of things. When you went to check on its store of supplies for the first time, you found great stacks of provisions -- sufficient to feed you for months on end. And that wasn't all. There were enough small arms and crates of protective clothing to equip a small army. Perhaps they didn't know what you'd need, so they just packed locker after locker with your vast collection of weapons and armor.

And there it was, standing proud in the midst of all that useful debris -- gleaming with glorious gold and majestic purple, its sumptuous body shaped in the image of a creature from Chinese mythology. The Dragon Cycle. A vehicle you obtained under the strangest of circumstances, both a challenge and a gift from a well-meaning madman. Its draconic eyes seemed to glitter as they met your own.

You tweak the throttle again. The dragon rumbles its satisfaction, roars its acquiescence.

There's a tree on the horizon, a lone guardian watching over the surrounding plain. As it grows larger, drawn towards you by inexorable velocity, you see that one of its long, twisting branches is dead. It's slowly rotting like a gangrenous limb.

Your right hand relinquishes the handlebar again. This time there's no swerve -- your left is ready to compensate.

The pistol leaves its holster and takes aim. This is so reckless, so stupid, so... Talia.

Your first shot goes wide. In your head the gunslinger laughs.

"Nice try, captain. Leave the fancy shooting to me."

But the second shuts her up. It clips the branch, searing its way through the dead wood. You're going so fast that you're beyond the tree before it falls to the ground. You have to watch your triumph in the rearview mirror.

"Beginner's luck..."

"THE DOOM THAT CAME TO ECLOGUE"

The planet's twin moons creep into the still-blue sky, mischievous children sneaking out after bedtime to be part of the diurnal bliss or else to simply watch you ride. The silvery orbs -- one large and looming on the horizon, the other a dainty little sphere above her larger sister's shoulder -- complete the image, turning the landscape into a wondrous painting.

Perhaps it's the moons' appearance reminding you of the passage of time, or else their tidal effect on your water-based biology. But whatever the cause, you feel a sudden pang of hunger. Your stomach seems displeased at being neglected for so long, and is making its feelings known in the disagreeable way of disobedient innards.

You didn't leave the Silver Shadow empty-handed. Even amid such bucolic beauty, it never hurts to have a few weapons to hand. It's not likely that any of the UHW's agents could have tracked you here. Not when you flew into the atmosphere aboard a stealth ship. But there's no sense in tempting fate. If someone does confront you, you'd rather they did it whilst looking down a potentially death-spitting barrel.

However, you didn't bring any provisions. And a man can't live off munitions alone.

When you rode here with Talia, the two of you bought your meals along the way. There were farmhouses and small settlements dotted about the landscape which were keen enough to offer a little rural hospitality to a couple of off-world visitors with credits to spend. Wholesome rustic fare is tempting (your stomach bubbles in agreement) -- and it'd be much quicker to reach a town than return to your ship.

So you turn the bike, placing the moons straight ahead as though you yearned to ride all the way over the edge of the world and onto the larger one's argentine surface.

The ground becomes harder, the grass patchier. Little clouds of dust caper in the air on either side of the Dragon Cycle's wheels. This terrain is familiar. The nearest town is one you've been to before. A quaint little place, built in emulation of a settlement from America's Old West. You remember walking into the saloon and being swamped by the wave of history -- the archaic photographs of long-dead lawmen and criminals on the wood-paneled walls, the pseudo-antique furniture and dialects. If you hadn't known better, you'd have thought the place a tourist trap. But it was how its inhabitants chose to live, with a historical veneer overlaid upon the comforts and conveniences of modern technology.

To each their own. You've seen far stranger things in this universe.

A smile crosses your lips when you recall Talia at the makeshift firing range behind the saloon, a revolver in each hand -- exact reproductions of historical armaments, the names and importance of which now escape you. The barman said he was the best shot in town. But after he saw Talia's marksmanship, the look on his face made you think he was about to drop to one knee and propose.

The smile remains there for some minutes, sustained by pleasant remembrances and anticipation. Then the town comes in sight, rising over the horizon to slap the happiness off your face.

A button on the left handlebar makes the bike fall almost silent, its powerful engine shunning affected anachronism and demonstrating its true capabilities. Another one opens the communications system. But all channels are as noiseless as your vehicle. Something's blocking the signal. Or else the local coms satellite has been disabled...

You twist the throttle. The Dragon Cycle zips across the dusty plain, bringing the grim sight closer and closer, throwing atrocity into sharper and clearer focus.

Buildings have been ravaged, ripped open -- as though ruthless explosions gutted them from within. Ruined structures stare at you for several moments, like the corpses of prisoners mutilated and then strung up as a warning to others. It's only when you get nearer still, slowing the bike and drawing your weapon, that the true extent of the atrocity is unveiled.

The town square is a scene of slaughter. Pools of blood glisten in the sunlight, crimson lakes and rivers that assail your nose with their coppery tang. And the bodies... They've been smashed. Strewn about the square and crushed into great depressions in the ground. It's as though meteors rained down from above in apocalyptic judgment, annihilating the population.

Your gaze roams the sky, searching for a ship or aircraft. But only circling birds mar the blueness.

You dismount, letting the bike's stand hit the dry ground with a soft thud. Weapon raised, you move across the square -- searching for survivors to aid or enemies to punish.

• Path of Destruction*

Inside the buildings there's only wreckage, the detritus of old-fashioned facades and the technology beneath -- an eclectic scattering of electronics and wood, historical clothing and the gadgets of modern leisure. Not a single survivor. Or a single body. The townspeople were all killed outdoors, slain in the streets and the square by whatever weight descended to crush them to death. It's as if they were herded outside for execution.

But of the murderers, the vicious forces responsible for the atrocity, there's no hint -- not a single clue as to their identity.

They haven't left without a trace, however. On the far side of town you find more impressions in the ground, shallower than the impacts which annihilated the victims. These lead off in two directions across the neighboring countryside -- stretching to the horizon. But only one contains crimson, painted with blood from the massacre. Whoever did this went that way, their vehicle marking the route with casual nonchalance.

Perhaps heading for another settlement...

You sprint back to the Dragon Cycle. In moments you're zooming across the plain once more, following the tracks, your mind swimming with images of broken bodies and flowing blood.

It's a walker. Nothing else leaves prints like these. And from their spacing, it's a large one. But who the hell would bring a walker to Eclogue? It's prime terrain for wheeled or tracked vehicles, or for aircraft. Generations of cartoons, toys, and videogames may depict giant mechs in gleeful abundance, but no serious armed forces employ such walkers when another form of vehicle will serve better. This isn't a military assault...

Theories flash through your brain as the ground zips by, still indented with the machine's passage.

You've never heard of space pirates possessing anything like this. And that level of wanton carnage, of casual destruction with valuables left among the debris instead of being snatched up... It isn't their style.

A small building comes over the horizon. It's a farmhouse. Or at least it was... It's been torn apart, just like those in the town. You slow down, scouring your surroundings for any sign of survivors. Again there's only death.

You're no scout, but the signs are so clear that even a simpleton could read them. The walker's footprints leave its former path. They approach the farmhouse. And then...

Two crushed bodies, a man's and a woman's, lie framed by blood and compacted soil.

After that, the tracks continue onward.

A turn of the throttle. Rapid acceleration. You have to reach the next town before the walker does, warn them, rally whatever defense forces they have...