The following is set in the BrikVerse, the community based setting for the BrikWars wargame. It was written for the 2016 BrikFiction Festival held on that community's forums.
Dashiell Sloane slid free of the horizontal, minifig sized compartment and looked wearily around as he stretched his muscles. The place was empty, white walls and harsh fluorescent lighting stretching out in either direction and the cold, steel swinging double doors that lead to the mess directly ahead. Behind him, the wall spread out in an unbroken line of Transmission Chambers. Several hundred of them were still lit up with a calm, cyan glow, illuminating the sub-conscious officers within. Several hundred more were dark and silent.
Dashiell Sloane slid free of the horizontal, minifig sized compartment and looked wearily around as he stretched his muscles. The place was empty, white walls and harsh fluorescent lighting stretching out in either direction and the cold, steel swinging double doors that lead to the mess directly ahead. Behind him, the wall spread out in an unbroken line of Transmission Chambers. Several hundred of them were still lit up with a calm, cyan glow, illuminating the sub-conscious officers within. Several hundred more were dark and silent.
Dashiell thought he might grab a bite
to eat and reached up to shut the Chamber door when he caught his
haggard reflection in the glass. He wanted to punch it but he knew
that wouldn't accomplish very much. Glass clad polycarbonate,
Trattorian make, he thought, though he wasn't entirely sure. He was,
however, pretty sure he could set off a grenade in here and no one
inside the Chambers would even feel the concussion. Wasn't really
his area of expertise, in any case, but that didn't mean he didn't
have one.
He left the door open and spoke to the
open air, “Hey, Dot?”
“We've been over this, Detective
Sloan. 'Dot' is very informal and, as such, is improper for our
working relationship. Please refer to me as Dispatch or Tactical.”
“C'mon, Dottie, I told you I'd call
you Dispatch if you called me Dash.”
“No--”
“--Dashiell, then.”
“Detective Sloan. This is a waste of
time and resources. Did you require assistance?”
“Yeah...I need you to...compromise
and call me Sloan.” Dashiell was grinning now, his mood much
improved.
“I...fine. If I might make a small
suggestion...Sloan?”
“Sure, fire away.”
“Make friends with some of your
colleagues. These late night talks are eating away at my valuable
time.”
“These Koffin Jockeys?” Dashiell's
tone was incredulous.
“These minifigs are the fine Space
Police Officers of One PP, Detective Sloan!”
“Sloan.”
“Whatever! Your record as Sheriff
out on the FringeWorlds may be impressive but I won't have you
standing here denigrating the good--”
“--Alright, alright, don't get your
panties in a bunch, Dottie.”
“I don't wear panties, Sloan, I'm a
SuperComputer.”
“Say, that's fine. Listen, almighty
grand machine brain, think you can scrounge me up another case?”
“Are you bucking for a promotion? I
would advise against going under again so soon. You've just
completed sixteen hours, twenty four minutes, and thirty two seconds
in the pod.”
“So?”
“So, you should seriously consider
getting sustenance and rest. Give your body and mind time to
recharge.”
“I'm fine. Gimme.”
“Sloan...officers begin to make
mist--”
“Gimme, Dot.”
“Fine. But I've got to log it with
The Brass.” Dispatch tapped into Dashiell's neural receiver and
uploaded the most recent active case file into it. Within moments,
the detective had transferred it over to his visual heads-up display
and was manually flipping through its holographic contents. ABS
Refinery, under siege by unknown forces, reports of massacre.
“Uh-huh, yeah, whatever...all those
guys care about is results anyway...the fresh hell is this?”
Dashiell yanked his head up angrily and addressed his questions once
again to the vague direction of the ceiling. “When did this come
in?”
“About an hour ago.”
“There are,” Dashiell looked back
down and flipped back to the cover page, “exactly zero officers
assigned to this case right now, Dispatch. What in BrikHell is going
on?”
“Sorry, Sloan. No one was available.
Brass sent in a programmer last week with a new priority list. I
have a lot of autonomy but I'm still limited by my programming.”
Dashiell could almost feel her shrug helplessly.
“It's fine. Damn bureaucracy
anyhow.” Dashiell levered himself back up onto the cushioned
rolling pin bed of the koffin kubicle (as he liked to think of it)
and slid in, shutting the door behind him. “Alright, Dot, load me
up.”
“Well...”
He didn't like the sound of that
'well.' “What's the problem?”
“Enforcement presence is already
onsite.”
Dashiell thought about that for a
moment. There was no other agency anywhere near the refinery.
Nearest standard Merc base was three hours out. Even gang presence
was low in the area. There was a SP Reciever Block on one of the
moons orbiting the planet with the refinery but there weren't any
officers assigned, so none of the units could have been dispatched...
“Oh. Oh, no, tell me you didn't?”
“I had to. Standard Procedure calls
for the Animation of Receiver Units in the event that Transmitting or
Actual Officers are unable to respond in a timely fashion. Better
some police response and presence than none at all.”
“Are you kidding? You let
those...those...Dicedamned Dimmies loose on an unsuspecting
populace!”
“Well, they're not technically
Dimmies, Sloan. They're just really stupid clones until you transmit
your consciousness into their bodies.”
“I don't care! I don't want some
half-baked version of me running around doing the Great AFOL knows
what unless I'm piloting it! Just...send me in.”
“Yes, Detective Sloan.”
“Sloan! Dice be Damned, Dottie!”
The erstwhile fringer
sheriff was used to stepping into strange situations. Out there, one
had to be prepared for anything. But Dashiell still hadn't quite
gotten used to Transmitting. The body was his (usually), an exact
replica scanned down to the last detail from his last scheduled
physical, so he was (usually) very familiar with all the controls.
The problem was in the way the core consciousness remained seated
back at One PP while a tethered remote copy consciousness was cast
out and into the body of the waiting clone. It felt foreign no
matter how familiar the sense experience was to him. The safety net
of it all struck him as somewhat cowardly, also, and that didn't sit
well with him at all. Though, the tether was more for the protection
of gathered information than it was for the protection of the
officer, but still. What really bothered him most was the numbness,
a subtle lack of both physical and mental acuity. In the field,
whether in combat or collecting clues at a scene, he relied on the
natural precision he had developed over so many years as a lawman.
But this. Well, this was
ridiculous. Dashiell decided to add it to the 'Cons' column for
Transmitting. Two minifigs were standing nearby, rifles slack in
their hands, nearly doubled over in laughter. One was wiping tears
from his eyes as the other engaged in a comical reenactment of what
must have been the past several minutes of comedy. They were dressed
all in black, utilitarian, mercenary types. Dashiell didn't
recognize the company. He did, however, recognize the spreading
feeling of thunderous head trauma. As he reached up and felt the
magnificent knot on his forehead, he noticed the wooden rake at his
feet. It didn't take him but a moment to put two and two together.
He had only to wonder how long this silliness had been going on.
Next to the rake lay his
clone's discarded standard issue assault rifle. As he clapped eyes
on it, the mime seemed to take notice that something had changed and
his eyes widened in alarm. Dashiell tucked into a barrel roll and
scooped up the assault rifle. He expertly placed the stock against
his shoulder and took aim in one swift movement and fired two perfect
shots in swift succession into the skulls of the two buffoons.
“Nice shot, Sloan.”
Dispatch's voice floated in over a comm plugged into the Receiver
Unit's ear.
“Yeah, see, this is
exactly why we should be waiting for occupancy procedures.”
Dashiell checked the gun and its various ammo capacities, nodded in
satisfaction and began striding down the main path toward the
refinery's entrance.
“And deny these poor
combatants the opportunity to die laughing?”
An M-Thronian Soldier
stepped out from behind a barricade and fired off a shot in his
direction. It struck the dirt several feet ahead and kicked up a
cloud of dust. Dashiell strode through it, took his own aim, and
caved the soldier's face in. “I didn't even get to drive the damn
police car...”
“M-Throne? What are they
doing here?”
“I mean, I really love
driving the police car.”
Dashiell was almost upon the
main gate now, the colossal ABS tanks rising up behind it. He
spotted several miners pinned down in the gatehouse. They were
giving it all they had to a small group of USA troopers. As he made
his approach, he heard one of the miners yell out, “I'm out of
ammo!” and another yell “Hell with it, if they come for us, we
die on our feet!” Almost brought a tear to his eye. After all, he
had to admire their gumption. These were just regular civilians who
had held their own against a superior enemy for over an hour. He had
expected to find no survivors.
As a warkeeper, nothing
turned his stomach more than a one sided fight. Only cowards
committed massacres.
But...something was wrong.
Weren't there tensions between the M-Thronians and the USA? Who
knew? Who the hell could keep up with BrikVersian Politiks anyway?
But still, why were they both here together? What the hell was going
on? As he considered the problem, the USA troopers stepped out of
cover and moved carefully toward the guardhouse. Too closely
grouped, he noticed. Casually, he flipped his weapon's mode over to
grenade launcher and fired one into their midst. It was a contact
grenade, so they didn't have time to react. It just hit the ground
and created a three hundred and sixty degree half sphere of gore and
rapidly receding body parts.
Through the fine red
transparent mist that remained, slowly settling toward the dirt
crater where the troopers stood only a moment before, Dashiell could
see a much larger force inside the compound just beyond the gate.
“Well, hell. ETA on any
other responding officers there, Dot?”
“No, sorry, Sloan. You're
it.”
“Balls.”
Dashiell moved over to the
gatehouse, which had gone quiet, and tapped lightly on the
corrugated, bullet-ridden metal door. One of the miners poked his
head out. “I'm Detective Dashiell Sloan, Space Police, One PP,”
Dashiell began to explain. The miner looked visibly relieved.
“Sorry it took so long to get someone out to you folks but you've
done a helluva job holdin' down the fort here. I'm going to need
witness statements, alright? So you head north, keep your heads
down, find some police cruisers and use them to get the hell out of
here, ok? I'll deal with this here.” The miners nodded their
thanks and took off down the path he had cleared for them.
“There are cars out that
way, aren't there, Dottie?”
“Checking...yes, one still
operational.”
“Still oper...what
happened to the...you know what? Never mind.”
“Already forgotten. So,
how are you going to do this?”
Dashiell rubbed his forehead
and winced as he remembered the knot. With a shock, however, he
realized the pain was rapidly receding. He pulled his hand away and
looked at it. It was covered in a red liquid plastic. “Analyze,”
he said quietly. His visual HUD confirmed his suspicion a moment
before Dispatch did.
“It's pure ABS, Sloan.”
“How much of this stuff
can one minifig absorb?”
“Research in that area has
been privatized.”
“Okay, well, educated
guess, then. What do you think happens if a minifig absorbs too much
of it?”
“Blokbots?”
“Helpful.”
“I do what I can. How is
this relevant to your current situation?”
“Oh, I have a wonderful
idea.”
It didn't take him overly
long to gain the backside of the compound and the chain bayonet
mounted to the rifle made quick, if not quiet, work of the fence. He
could see the group at the far end of the compound had taken notice
and was cautiously beginning an approach. They were far enough off
yet for him to take a knee and review the case file. He remembered
seeing a schematic. A few tense moments passed before he found what
he was looking for. There, a gas main bisecting the compound
laterally.
Dashiell launched two more
of his grenades swiftly into the air and watched them gracefully come
down one on top of the other. The first tore open the earth,
exposing the main, and the second tore open the main. The noise was
unimaginable and created a hellscape between himself and the main
invasion force. It wouldn't hold them, he knew, but plus side, he
now had another entry for the 'Pro' column of his Transmitting list.
He wouldn't be deaf when this was over.
Knowing he had only moments,
he launched his final two grenades, one to either side of him, upward
at the ABS tanks flanking the main compound drive. The metal
shrieked in agony as both tanks crumpled to the ground, spilling
their multicolored contents in a flood that quickly drowned the back
half of the compound. It was all Dashiell could do to stay afloat.
Then, the bullets started
coming in. Much of the fire had been damped down but it still burned
strongly. A few of the heavier units had scored some excellent
firing positions and had begun unloading on Dashiell and the
surrounding area, presumably expecting unseen allies given the
surprising extent of the damage he had just caused. The rounds were
massive and came in a continual stream. He tried to stand but his
right leg was caught squarely and blown clean off.
“Dottie! Activate
Streaming Feedback.”
“Detective Sloan, that is
a dangerous procedure. I'm obligated to inform you that you could
lose some motor function in your Receiver Unit as a result.”
Dashiell felt suffused with
energy as the liquid that surrounded him rose up to connect with his
hip stump and began to reknit him a new leg. Another stream of high
caliber bullets tore his left arm free and sent it spiraling behind
him. He laughed loudly, almost maniacally. “Dot, do it. This is
a losing fight anyway.” He finally got his grip on his own rifle
again and began firing back. As always, his aim was nearly divine,
every shot sinking home into the brain matter of the poor sod who
happened to be standing on the other end of the sights. His left arm
began to regrow just as an explosive round removed a great deal of
his gut. Still, he fired, and their number dwindled.
“But Sloan, the feedback
loop could degrade the tether and corrupt the reintegration process.
You could lose your mind.”
Blam, blam, blam, Another,
and another, and another. They fell like dominoes but couldn't bring
him all the way down. Even at this distance, he could see their fear
starting to set in. Cowards. “I need to remember what happened
here in proper detail. If this body dies and the tether activates
without the Sync Protocol, you know as well as I that whatever is
coming back is coming back corrupted and garbled. I need it clean,
through my own eyes. Do it.”
“...Done.”
At first it was a shot or
two that hit center mass instead of the head but then, in the moments
that followed, Dashiell's shots began to go wide. They began to pour
more damage onto him than he was delivering unto them. He fell to
his knees in the sinking liquid. It seemed to be spreading out. His
time was up.
Looking up with his one
remaining good eye, he could see why. Their leader approached.
Bavarian? No, wait, Galacian. No, different again, shifting forms
as he approached. Scythian. Immortal. Assyrian. Dashiell blinked
hard, trying to clear his bloody vision. The figure stopped just in
front of him, his hands held out to either side of him as though he
were willing the ABS to part and flow away. His form solidified.
Dashiell gasped, which came out as a kind of rattle.
“You can see me?” the
figure inquired. And he could. Impossibly tall, with alabaster
skin, bedecked in sinister blood red robes. Its face held no eyes
and no nose, only a wide, wicked mouth which smirked in bemusement.
From its back sprouted massive, jet black, feathered wings.
“Interesting.”
Then it drew a massive hand
cannon from beneath its robes and shot Detective Dashiell Sloane in
the face.
The noise was unbearable. A
blurry mess of shapes and formless sounds hovered busily over him.
His head felt like it was caught in a vise and lit on fire. He was
pretty sure, but not for absolute certain, that he was tasting blue.
One voice kept insistently attempting to cut through his confused
haze. For a few minutes it was easy to ignore. But it kept buzzing,
like an insect.
“Detective Sloan, please
respond. Detective Sloan, can you hear me? Do you know where you
are? Detective Sloan...” And so on and so on.
The haze, ever so slowly,
began to recede. Sadly, the headache did not. And blue took on
shades of...grass? So there was that. But he began to comprehend
two important facts. First, that he was, in fact, the Detective
Sloan in question. And second, that the blurry shapes were those of
a pair of medics. Fun. He just hoped everyone kept their head.
He chuckled and groaned.
The haze began to more quickly recede. Silence for a moment.
Then, “...Dash?”
Sloan grinned from ear to
ear as he slowly rose to a sitting position, the medics fussing about
him. “Dottie, old girl, I know exactly what we're looking for.”