From quinn@fazigu.org Sat Jun 21 12:02:59 2003 Return-path: Envelope-to: quinn@fazigu.org Received: from constr1-host1.corridor.net ([66.100.236.130] helo=yami.57thstreet.com) by requiem with smtp (Exim 3.36 #1 (Debian)) id 19TkpO-0003SW-00 for ; Sat, 21 Jun 2003 12:02:58 -0400 Received: (qmail 885 invoked from network); 21 Jun 2003 16:14:11 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO moo.ghostmoo.org) (127.0.0.1) by localhost with SMTP; 21 Jun 2003 16:14:11 -0000 Date: Sat, 21 Jun 2003 11:14:11 -0400 From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" To: quinn@fazigu.org Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 61 from *storylines (#5236) X-Mail-Agent: Ghostwheel (moo.ghostmoo.org 6969) Message-Id: Status: RO Content-Length: 3767 Lines: 65 Message 61 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri May 9 20:34:49 2003 EDT From: Elendil (#2237) To: Elendil (#2237) and *storylines (#5236) Subject: Highway dreamin' He was afraid to move. Three blades of rough wasteland weed brushed his cheek in the low wind, glancing his narrow eyelashes, but he could not blink. His arm was twisted painfully beneath him, forearm throbbing where the high velocity round had caromed off his lacquered vambrace. Various grains of sand sharpened and faded in his frozen vision as he stilled his breathing, gathered himself. The crystal hunter's foot still twitched although his life had gone, and closer to the nondescript steel door the scorpion recomb lay in a pool of its own ichor. Its obsidian-plated hide was thick, but not thick enough. His ear pricked at the whirr of the tiny servo-motors, following the ceaseless scan of the autogun assembly as it turned on its concealed pivot. Back and forth, back and forth, invisible targeting sights swept the dry gully. A mk III, possibly even a mk IV.. CPU advanced enough to wait until all targets were in range, and then still to engage the farthest first, so none could escape. He was grateful the gate was so obscured, that the gun had not fired in so long.. uncalibrated, the first burst of the double barrels had stitched the sand around him instead of coring him out. The other two had not been so lucky. It was too much to hope that its ammo belt was nearly empty. It was too much to hope that it would power down or the ancient gun mount would freeze up and eliminate its killing field. All that was left was skill. He drew down into himself, listened long and deep. Individual teeth of the cogs clicking inside the hidden armored mount became clear, tarnished poly-steel wheels spinning ceaselessly now that the security device was angry. He was angry too, and his own wheels turned. An hour passed, then another, and suddenly he had it. Two rasps at the end of the sequence was the end of the pivot sweep, and now he could move. The heavy twin barrels swung away from him once and he tensed his frozen muscles slowly, working out the kinks. The gun swung by again, stretched far to the right at the end of its sweep, and he was moving. He could almost hear the electrical nodes firing as the CPU transitioned, Kill #141 suddenly moving, reflagged Hostile #156, retarget engage engage engage. Gravel crunched as he found his feet, slipping left instantly in a halting stutter-step he had practiced on great whites. The autogun started firing even before it had tracked back around, the deep baritone thundering in the dusty air as rounds flew. He kept sliding left, half-falling, ragged cloak thrown up and aside to conceal his frame as he closed on the steel blast door. A round passed by his ear and then a tracer through his cloak, which caught with white-hot fire. The air seemed filled with angry bees, and then one caught him in the shoulder. The heavy dweomered steel gave with a horrible shriek, stabbing fire through his chest. In a moment he would be dead as the gun tracked fully and it filled him with an intense, unknowing rage. The door loomed silver and red in his vision and he drove his fists against it, indicator bar in his helm going blue-green as the power cells drained. Pistons fired at his shoulder and elbow joints and the door buckled. Something in the darkness beyond snapped, and the door's resistance ceased. It fell inwards with a report like a mausoleum door closing, carrying him forward into darkness to sprawl in the cold dust, cloak smouldering around him. Outside, the autogun gave one last burst at nothing, almost pathetically, and powered down. He was in. --------------------------