LotS/The Story/The Search for the Princess/Drekchester (1)
Drekchester (1)
The planet glitters like a gaudy ornament though the flight cabin’s window, a discarded bauble that refuses to lie quiet upon its black mantle. Myriads of tiny lights conspire to pepper the landmass, glowing eyes of the sprawling metropolis that has devoured every inch of it like a creeping contagion. Drekchester. The city that consumed a continent, and still wasn’t satisfied until it had eaten the very identity of the entire planet. Now no one calls the world by its official name. It’s simply “Drekchester”.
She’s down there somewhere, on this cesspool of a planet. One soul amongst billions, a single diamond submerged in an ocean of sludge.
Drekchester has a government of sorts. But though its politicians rival those of other planets in corruption and inefficiency, they will be of little use to you. This isn’t some orderly, disciplined world like Sian, where a diplomatic visit would settle the matter in short order. The place is carved up into territories under the dominion of criminal barons. It is they who see and hear whatever happens in their little corners of the galaxy, and it is to them that you will have to go if you are to have any hope of success.
“We’ll find her,” says Talia, as if reading your thoughts.
“Even if we have to tear the whole planet apart,” adds Telemachus.
“I’ll crack heads until people talk or their brains end up on my boots,” growls Ragnar. There’s a dull thud as he slams his fist against a bulkhead.
“I too will employ whatever violence is justified,” says Lu Bu.
You feel the faintest of smiles flicker across your lips. Your companions are as determined as you are, even those who have only known the Princess for such a short time. That’s the loyalty she instills on those who follow her, those blessed to experience her magnetism, to be swept along by the force of her personality. The Niflung mercenary even refused payment, telling you that this one was for her.
Illaria’s absence is like a tear in reality, a void in the midst of your little group. But at the same time, she’s still binding you all together.
There’s a bleeping noise, and you turn to one of the monitors. Your ribs give a faint twinge of protest in response to the movement, as though complaining at being removed from the healing tank too soon. At the touch of a button, Wilex appears on the screen.
“My ship is in position,” he says. “Just outside of the system. If you need us, we’ll do what we can – short of starting a war.”
Ragnar grunts, as though that qualifier displeases him. But the Chief Assembler is right to be cautious. The Contella Consortium controls this system, and they have a longstanding grudge against TALOS. Any show of force from your allies would only make your task that much more difficult. Better to keep them at a safe distance, unless the situation proves dire.
You thank Wilex, and descend into the neon skies of Drekchester.
“This place is amazing!” says Telemachus.
He gazes around as you halt in a street near the spaceport, beside a public information terminal that Lu Bu is attempting to interface with – the robot wearing mechanical hands at the ends of his wrists instead of his customary weapon attachments. The boy gawps at the sights of this city that’s so very different from anything on his native Gallea, his eyes wide as if straining to absorb everything before him.
You’ve seen far more of the galaxy than the young prince, but even you find your senses hard-pressed to withstand the assault. You find yourself in a world of flashing lights, where garish signs blink, burn, and flicker in every tasteless color visible to the human eye, shrieking the names of businesses and products like electric banshees. Music blares from a dozen different places, an unholy cacophony of clashing instruments and incomprehensible lyrics – rage, misery, elation, and a scattering of other emotions warring in your ears. Denizens throng the streets, bustling along or loitering in packs like wolves in search of prey or sheep fearful of straying from the safety of their flocks. They wear a thousand different styles and fashions, a parade of everything from the elegant to the grotesque.
“Kid,” Ragnar says, turning to Telemachus, “if you were alone you’d have been robbed, killed, and served in a carton by now. Don’t let the bright lights and stupid hairstyles fool you…” Several passersby scowl at the Niflung’s assessment of their appearances. “Drop your guard and this place will cut your throat and violate your corpse.”
“Oh…” The boy gazes around him, his expression shifting as he begins to see the lurking threats where before he saw only strange wonders. “Maybe you should have let me bring my mech.”
“We don’t want to attract more attention than we have to,” you reply.
“Ha! If we wanted to we could walk down the street shooting these people in the head…” Ragnar says, not bothering to lower his voice, as he indicates a nearby group of assorted citizens with a casual sweep of his arm. “…and no one would care. This is Drekchester.”
Some of the people in question scurry away. Others simply glare at the Niflung. A few look like they’re attempting to construct shadow puppets with their hands, though you suspect that they’re actually flashing gang signs by way of a threat or warning.
“Lu Bu, do you have what you need?” you ask, keen to move on before Ragnar’s lack of tact ends up starting a street brawl.
“Just a few more moments. The local systems appear to have been designed not to interface with TALOS technology. I have to access each piece of data separately and commit it to memory through vision.”
You continue to stand near the terminal, Lu Bu glowing with reflected light from the screen, the other four of you casting wary glances at your surroundings. When a man with a tattooed face staggers towards you, four pairs of eyes turn to regard him, and three hands surreptitiously reach for weapons. Ragnar just clenches a fist instead
If the man notices your scrutiny, or your defensive preparations, he ignores them. He comes to a swaying stop in front of Talia, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her. Now that he’s closer you see that the network of purple lines on his face aren’t tattoos, or paint. They’re throbbing as though alive, in some places bulging like pustules. Most likely a side effect of whatever recreational chemicals have blasted his senses.
“How…” he begins. Then he pauses, his face twisting in perplexity. He gropes at the air with a gloved hand, as if trying to snatch elusive, half-forgotten words from the ether. “…how much?”
“How much?” echoes Telemachus, sounding just as confused as the man.
There’s a moment of collective befuddlement. Then you realize that he’s mistaken the gun-slinging pilot for a prostitute. Ragnar gives a bellowing laugh as her face takes on an expression of cold rage. But you manage to stifle your own laughter. You’ve seen that look before. The other soldiers and pilots who served alongside Talia came to refer to it as ‘impending doom’. And when it was directed at them, they knew it was time to get out of the way.
But the man continues to stare at her, waiting for his answer. If his drug-addled mind even registers her anger, he pays it no heed. His answer comes in the form of a pistol butt crashing against his temple. He collapses like a marionette with its strings cut, his limbs simply crumpling as if all the strength has left them in the space of a second.
“I have the information we require,” says Lu Bu, turning from the terminal. “The maps Wilex had access to were outdated, but I’ve stored the versions contained within the terminal in my memory banks.”
The five of you move away, leaving the man on his hands and knees – vomiting purple goo.
Lu Bu leads you through the streets of the sprawling city, and the rest of you are glad to follow his in-built navigation system rather than fumbling with datapads like lost tourists. His mechanical mind now contains an accurate map of the city, along with all the available information Wilex was able to provide about Drekchester’s kingpins and information brokers.
They seem easy enough to track down. You find the first three holding court in their neon and metal palaces, like lords awaiting tribute from peasants who have come in search of a boon, or fat spiders in the middle of vast webs. Credits change hands in each place, and inquiries are made. Asking questions costs money in Drekchester, even if you don’t end up with any answers. You learn nothing of value, and are left to roam the streets once more.
You find yourself passing through a bustling marketplace as Lu Bu takes you towards your next destination. Around you are stalls containing all manner of products, many of which defy identification at first glance. Some are littered with weapons, from jagged blades to monstrous blasters with immense barrels. Others offer local culinary delights, including mutated rats with tentacle-like appendages, appetizingly impaled on skewers or strewn atop piles of writhing noodles.
Your glance wanders from stall to stall in a casual fashion, taking in your surroundings and assessing the people around you as you’ve been trained to do. You see many curious things, though little of real interest. Then you stop moving, as something catches your eye.
“What is it?” Talia asks, she and the others coming to a halt as well.
“Over there.”
The others follow your gaze, which has fastened on a broad-shouldered woman in a thick blue jacket and helmet. She’s standing in front of a stall which sells protective clothing, an object clutched in her hands, making violent gestures as though she’s arguing with the merchant. Her words are inaudible, muffled by the noises of dozens of other shoppers and vendors. But the merchant’s lips are in full view, and your aural implant provides the sound to his words, in the accent which your subconscious imbues him with.
“Is junk! You think I buy junk? You stupid! Get off my stall!”
The words only register in passing, however. Your focus is on the thing she’s holding. It’s General Rahn’s faceplate.
Whether it’s by chance, some extrasensory ability, or because her instincts have been honed by life in the neon jungle, the woman turns her head with a sharp jerk, and casts a furtive glance straight at you. Her body shifts as she registers the five people staring at her. You break into a run only a fraction of a second after she does.
In spite of your eagerness to grab her, to find out what she knows about Rahn and the Princess, you turn round as you move – about to yell for one of the others to stay with Telemachus. If he were left behind here, there’s no telling what might happen to him. But even as you’re opening your lips, Ragnar lifts the boy off the ground, ignoring his yelp of protest. He charges after you with Telemachus under one arm, like a thugby player carrying the ball, scattering the men and women he barges into.
You look forward once more, catching sight of your prey’s blue jacket and helmet as they slip through the crowd.
Grand Theft Auto
You weave through the gaps in the throng of people where you can, and barge straight through them where you can’t. Some leap out of your way, and others are sent spinning. A thousand swearwords and insults rain down upon you, and even a few punches. You just bat them aside, or ignore them as they thud against your body. You can’t let the woman get away.
The crowd clears ahead of you as the rows of market stalls end, giving way to a broad street. The woman looks over her shoulder as you emerge from the press of people, and puts on a frantic burst of speed.
Then she swerves, and you spit out a curse as you see what she’s doing.
Across the road is a bar, with rows of motorcycles beneath its blazing sign. Groups of bikers are gathered round them in small packs. Some are in the street atop their vehicles, preparing to ride.
You run for all your worth, but you’re too far behind. She leaps at one of the bikers, lunging out with a flying kick that catches him in the side of his head and sends him tumbling across the ground. The same deft movement lands her in the seat. The engine roars as she hurtles down the road on her stolen bike, leaving the biker and his friends yelling in anger.
You’ll never catch her on foot. You run for one of the other bikers.
Road Rage
Ragnar, Talia, and Lu Bu are still brawling with the bikers, trading blows with those who aren’t already groaning on the ground, keeping them off you. By unspoken consent, none of your companions is using the lethal weapons at their disposal. Even Ragnar seems willing to refrain from slaughtering people who are understandably angry at having their vehicles stolen before their very eyes.
You get on the bike you procured, and reach for the throttle.
“Hey! Wait for me!”
Telemachus ducks under your arm, and climbs up in front of you. Then you’re off, zooming down the road after your target.
The lights of the city flash by in long streams of color, like lasers searing through the air. The road hurtles by, a rushing black river.
It’s been years since you’ve ridden a motorcycle. But as the woman and her bike grow larger and larger in front, you know that you’re a better rider than her. With a skilled pilot’s reflexes and nerve, the balance of someone trained to deal with disrupted gravity and ships rocking beneath the impact of explosions, you can push your vehicle to the limit.
But the arrogant smirk falls from your face as something lashes against your shoulder, causing you to grit your teeth at the sudden burst of pain.
Another bike pulls alongside you, its rider swinging a slender chain around his head as he prepares to deliver another blow. It seems the bikers aren’t going to let your theft go unpunished.
“Tel, help steer!”
You move one of your hands from the handlebars, the bike lurching as Telemachus grabs hold of it, and raise it to defend yourself.
Dangerous Driving
The biker yanks at the chain, either trying to free it from where it’s wrapped around your arm, or intending to drag you from the bike. Your hand closes around the metal links, seizing them in a death grip, and you yank in turn – hoping to deprive him of the weapon.
The bikes swerve back and forth as the two of you struggle, seeming as if they’ll crash at any moment but somehow returning to stability each time.
Your bike wobbles like a drunkard, and you see Telemachus reaching for something – leaving only one of his hands on the handlebar. The other hand reappears a moment later, clutching a small laser pistol.
He levels the weapon, pauses for a moment as he takes aim, and fires.
The beam lances your enemy’s dashboard, bringing forth a flurry of sparks. A second shot hits the handlebars, and a third. The biker hurls his end of the chain aside as his bike veers out of control, needing both hands to avoid a collision.
You shake the chain free from your arm, letting it fall into the rushing road, and take control of the vehicle once more.
The woman has gained ground, thanks to the biker slowing you down. But she’s still in sight, riding across an empty intersection. Then you notice the lights, and grimace. They’re changing. That means…
Sure enough, traffic begins to hurtle along the perpendicular road, a stream of vehicles hiding your quarry from sight.
“We won’t make it!” Telemachus screams. “Too many cars! Too many cars!”
But if you stop, she’ll get away. So you accelerate, your eyes darting left and right as you scan for gaps in the moving wall of multicolored death.
Death Race
“Open your eyes, Tel.”
The boy’s eyes flick open, and he looks in front of him with unconcealed surprise, as if he can’t believe you’re both still alive. He laughs, a manic, boyish laugh. What a childhood…
The road ahead of you is empty. There’s just you and the woman, as if it were built for no other purpose than for the two of you to race along.
You draw closer to her, and sense her frustration as she looks over her shoulder and sees you approaching. You both know she has no chance in a straight race.
She reaches a hand into her jacket, the bike rocking to and fro beneath her, and pulls out a laser pistol. You lean as low as you can, Telemachus doing the same, as she opens fire.
Nathanial Vorden
Somehow the woman manages to avoid crashing, or toppling into the street as her bike jerks from side to side. You dodge the last of her clumsy shots, and she lets the pistol drop from her hand as she focuses on steering once more.
There are buildings on either side of you now, bright lights that seem to encage you. People are thronging the sidewalks, and there are other vehicles zipping across the road. But she’s slowing down, instead of making use of the extra cover, or trying to dart down a side street.
She comes to a stop a short way ahead, in front of a building with a long line of people massed outside it. A club of some kind.
The woman leaps off her bike, and yells something to the two burly security guards outside the door. Then she runs inside, to yells of annoyance from the people at the front of the queue. The two bouncers look in your direction, and crack their knuckles in anticipation.
You glance down the road behind you, and see Talia in the distance.
“Wait for the others, and come in after me,” you say. “If anyone gets near you, shoot them.”
“Got it.” Telemachus nods, and draws his pistol.
You walk over to the waiting bouncers, taking their measure. They’re big. But there’s a layer of flab around each of their midriffs that makes you suspect that they’re out of training. From the look of the queuing clientele, this is a respectable place – by Drekchester standards. They probably spend most of their time ejecting tottering drunks, not brawling with serious fighters…
They don’t even try to talk. The moment you step into their range, one throws a cross at you. Catching it on the point of your elbow and injuring his fist is child’s play. A knee to the groin finishes the job, and leaves him moaning on the ground. Pathetic.
The other one is just as bad. If he knew what he was doing, he would have been on you while you were fighting the first guy, instead of standing there looking dumb. But at last he steps into range, too late to do any good. He raises his leg for a kick, and you intercept his rising shin with a stomp. You don’t even bother putting your leg back down. A simple upwards thrust to the jaw with the same foot is enough to send him collapsing into the queuing club-goers, who send him to the ground with a collective, unceremonious shove.
You pass through the doorway, ready for an ambush. But if there are other security guards, they aren’t here yet.
The inside of the club is surprisingly tasteful and subdued. You expected a riot of neon and bright lights, like the street outside. But instead you find yourself surrounded by soft blues and whites, and hearing music which actually sounds intelligible. An upmarket place. That probably means…
You give a slight nod as you catch sight of the woman you’ve been pursuing. She’s at the far end of the club, talking to an elegant if outlandish figure wearing a top hat and leather coat. His outfit and long moustache seem familiar. If you’re not mistaken, she’s led you right to her boss – one of the people on the list Wilex showed you. You cast your mind back, and a name rises to the surface of your thoughts: Nathaniel Vorden. Yes, that was his name.
Vorden glances at you, and nods his head in a small bow. Then he turns to his right and makes a flourishing gesture with the glowing cane in his hand. You look in that direction, and see half a dozen more bouncers emerge from a doorway, clutching neuro-shock batons. Vorden returns his gaze to you, and twirls the end of his moustache in satisfaction for one brief moment. Then his hand falls to his side, and he seems taken aback. He’s not looking at you now. He’s looking behind you.
“We miss anything?” Ragnar appears at your shoulder, closely followed by the others.
“Nothing important.”
Nathaniel Vorden takes his hat off, and this time gives a low, sweeping bow. Then he turns, and heads towards a door in the far wall.
“Talia, Tel, with me,” you say, already moving after him. “Ragnar, Lu Bu, deal with the security. Let them live.”
The robot and the Niflung charge towards the bouncers and intercept them, as the three of you head out of the back door after Vorden.
You find yourself in an alleyway, facing a tall, graffiti and poster covered wall. You look to you left, then to your right. There’s no sign of him. It’s a long alley. He should still be in sight, unless he went into another building or…
You and Talia leap in opposite directions, the same thought occurring to you both. She’s closer to Telemachus, and pulls him along after her. A fraction of a second later, a blast of pink energy strikes the ground where you were standing.
All three of you whirl round, and raise your weapons towards a ledge – where Nathaniel Vorden is crouching, his glowing staff in one hand, a strange ripple around the other.
Vorden lies sprawled on the pile of trash that broke his fall from the ledge, somehow still managing to look the very picture of deportment as he reclines upon the refuse. Lu Bu and Ragnar emerge from the doorway behind you, and the Niflung strides towards his supine form as if in the mood to inflict more violence. But you wave him back.
“Nathaniel Vorden,” your vanquished foe says, in a cultured accent that has a slight twang to it. “Terribly pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“So pleased you set your guards on me and ran off?”
“From what my lowly and frankly idiotic minion told me, you seemed… dangerous. I never meet a dangerous stranger on their own terms.”
He gets to his feet, wincing in pain, and begins to brush the dirt from his coat.
“Now, I suppose you didn’t come here simply for the pleasure of causing me physical harm,” he drawls.
“We saw your ‘minion’ in a marketplace, trying to sell a piece of armor. That armor came from General Rahn of the Centurian Collective, and I want to know how she got it.”
“Funny…” Vorden glances around at your group. “You don’t seem awfully much like agents of the Collective. If you’re here to avenge that dead general…”
You grab him by the lapels of his coat, and shove him back against the wall.
“I don’t care if they killed Rahn, ate his kidneys, and stuck his head on a spike. What about her? The Princess?”
“Ah, of course… Well, I can assure you that she’s still very much alive. So, there’s no need for any murderous violence.”
You release him, and step back – your relief over what he’s told you quelling your urge to destroy him.
“Where is she?”
“The Blood Alley Gang took her. She and the general appeared right on the edge of their territory and my own humble dominion. My minions killed the general when he proved… less than cooperative. They were going to… aid the lady… when the Blood Alley vermin showed up. They claimed her, and I’m afraid they had superior numbers on their side. Of course, if I had known at the time how valuable… I mean, who that lovely lady was, I would have commanded my minions to fight for her. But by the time I found out, it was too late. A little border scuffle is one thing, but invading Blood Alley territory? Far too costly for my liking. Now those miscreants are trying to sell her to anyone willing and able to pay the exorbitant price they’re asking.”
Lu Bu steps forward as Vorden finishes.
“Based on voice stress patterns, and other indicators, he appears to have spoken the truth,” he says.
“Then he gets to live,” you reply.
“So delighted to hear it,” says Vorden. He stoops low, and picks up his top hat. After brushing it a few times, he places it on his head. “Now, I suppose you’ll want directions to the Blood Alley Gang’s base?”