Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on Nov 1, 2010 13:04:44 GMT -5
Here we go. This bit is old, written ages ago, so I'm not going to be including it in my wordcount, but I thought I'd post it here anyway. I scrapped most of the stuff that comes after this, so just about everything I post after this post will be all new and counting towards my 50k.
Prologue:
The city stretched for thousands of miles in every direction, covering most of the continent’s landmass. Corbus, capital planet and crown jewel of the Alliance, was a tamed world of thirty billion souls and here, in the largest of its megacities, the labours of humankind extended endlessly as far as the eye could see. In some places it was a monolithic example of fastidious order, where broad, arrow-straight viaducts carved with geometric precision through the urban sprawl. In others it was a densely packed warren of overlapping causeways suspended high above the distant ground. Ever present were the towers, gleaming spires of metal and glass that rose for miles, like children’s fingers grasping greedily for the sky.
As the last rays of sunlight began to play out across the horizon, the lower levels were already shrouded in murky dimness. Higher and richer structures languidly soaked up what dregs of warmth remained and only the barest scraps filtered downwards to the poorer districts. The single yellow sun was traded for a billion tiny doppelgangers as neon signs and glowing holo-feeds were turned on en masse.
From the very tips of the highest towers it was truly an awe-inspiring sight. Above, the sky was painted in lurid hues of purple and red, and through the faint wisps of cloud turned gold by the fading light, the first dusting of stars and the smaller of two moons could just barely be seen. Below, the ceaseless bustle of an unsleeping population continued unabated and was now lit from every side by artificial lights of the most shocking colour and brightness. Joining the two in the middle, just at eye level, was the spindly forest of towers that stretched off into the misty distance. The gold and crimson rays of sunset slashed horizontally into them and threw the edges into stark relief. Polished steel and mirrored glass were set ablaze as they caught and held the wondrous brilliance, transformed from mere feats of engineering into radiant pillars of fire.
Dr. Silas Brennan quietly enjoyed the view through the wall-length windows in his office as he did nearly every night. A drink was held loosely in his right hand and he swirled it idly, lost in thought. He was a fairly nondescript man in his late thirties. A pair of glasses perched on his nose and his clothes were expensive but disheveled, the tie loosened and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. A noise from behind made him turn to face the room at large.
He found it empty, or nearly so. No lights were on and whatever the dwindling sunlight fell upon cast out long shadows. The impressive height of the ceilings and the sheer square-footage in play made everything in the room seem small and lonely, from the slightly raised dais upon which sat his huge desk to the atrociously expensive leather chair that held the room’s only other occupant.
Brennan was a brilliant scientist and he had come from simple roots. The practical mind that accompanied the former meant that he had never acquired the knack for making a room appear welcoming. Likewise, as a consequence of the latter, he handled his not-inconsiderable riches with clumsy unfamiliarity and could not even pave over his clinical pragmatism with high-society flair. The result was a wholly miserable lack of sense for interior design.
Returning once more to the mysterious man in the leather chair, he let out a throaty cough that disturbed the hazy miasma of cigar smoke that surrounded him.
“Doctor, if you please,” he called out in a solid, gravely voice. “I do have other business to attend to, and we still have matters to discuss.”
Brennan stepped away from the rosy light of the windows and crossed the room to sit in the shadows across from the smoky man. “My apologies General Smith, I was merely thinking things over. The “matters” you speak of are not to be taken lightly. Putting the obvious ethical ramifications totally aside, you are asking me to overturn my entire life in an instant. It’s not exactly something I can decide on a whim.”
Major General Elias Smith took another puff of his cigar and the hot cherry tip briefly illuminated his craggy face. Everything about the man carried a certain weight of authority. He was large and paunchy, the creaking chair hardly able to contain him, and even now he was dressed in a full dress uniform of the Alliance Mobile Defense Service. He moved slowly and with deliberation or not at all. This was a man used to the burden of command—someone who had sent brave men and women to their deaths many times in his long years.
“Doctor,” he said. “I’m well aware of all of the arguments that could be levied for or against this project. I am also aware of the personal commitment that we are asking of you. However, the fact remains that the project will go forward and that you are by far the most qualified man to lead it. I think that the figures we previously discussed are very generous in terms of compensating you for lost time.”
Brennan snorted derisively. “General Smith, my contracts with the Trinity Corporation more than take care of me financially. It’s not money that I’m worried about. This undertaking will require me to give up ten years of my life. It will consume me, body and soul. If we’re going to go ahead I need to know that it’s for something.”
The General went silent once more and Dr. Brennan followed suit. For a while the only movement was the lazy curl of smoke between the two men. Finally, General Smith spoke. “Silas,” he said hoarsely. “I’m going to be totally frank with you. We’ve all been at war for a long time and everyone is sick to hell of it. I know the politicians are always saying how we have the Coalition on the run, or else how we’re getting close to a diplomatic solution, but the truth is that we’re no closer to ending this thing than we were eight years ago.
“We’re bigger than they are, we’re richer than they are, we’re stronger than they are, but not by enough to make a difference. They’ve got dedication and discipline in spades and if we want to break the deadlock we need something special. That’s where Razor comes in. That’s where you come in. We’re talking about creating a precision unit that can do the job like no one else can. We’ll save millions, maybe billions of lives by ending a war that could drag on for another two decades at least, by our latest estimates. That’s what this is for. And if you don’t think that that’s enough, then you aren’t the man we need after all.”
The General heaved himself up out of his seat, snubbing out the butt of his cigar in the ashtray. “Well, Doctor, I’ve said my piece. All the pertinent files have been forwarded to your terminal. You can look them over at your leisure but we will be wanting your answer by the end of the week.” General Smith stuck out a meaty hand and Brennan stood to shake it.
“Thank you, General, you’ll have it. Although, I’ll be honest, I’m not yet sure what it will be.” Smith grunted and nodded his head.
“Good, good. The higher-ups are really trying to push things along but I don’t want you committing yourself unless you’re sure. There’s too much riding on projects like this one to risk a hiccup like that. So long, Doctor, I’ll be seeing you.” The General crossed the room and left, leaving Brennan alone in darkness.
After a while the doctor got up and seated himself at his desk. A keystroke brought the terminal to life and he quickly located the files sent to him by the General’s staff. The screen faded to black and big block letters appeared along with the crossed swords and sun emblem of the Systems Alliance Military.
A quick bioscan unlocked the files and soon data was pouring across the screen. As Dr. Brennan read onwards he began to see that this undertaking was far larger in scope than he had realized. In many ways the project had been around in an unofficial form for hundreds of years—finding its roots in the early days of the Alliance’s infancy. The harsh breeding regimens instituted following The Extinction had ostensibly been implemented to bolster humanity’s flagging numbers, but many a geneticist had taken it as an opportunity to experiment with (or at least to toy with the idea of) eugenics. The poking and prodding at humanity’s genetic future had tapered off after the population had stabilized and the breeding programs had been abandoned, but in recent years, it seemed, the military had taken a renewed interest in the idea. Radical genetic alterations were still forbidden under both Alliance and Intercolonial Law—a holdover from the fearfulness of the old days—but by tracing the paths of superior genetic lines and nudging them in the desired directions it had been possible to give birth to a hardier human stock.
Curious to see the face of the next generation of human development, Brennan accessed the file marked “Viable Subjects” and five hundred names flowed into place. Smith had told him that he’d have to winnow the ranks down to three hundred before Razor began in earnest. Genetically, they all met the qualifications, so the final cut would have to be made on other criteria. Brennan would have to see what each one had done with the hand God had dealt them, so to speak. Although really, he thought, for these few hundred individuals, God had not been the dealer.
“I’ll have to meet with some of them in person,” Brennan muttered to himself. “There’s bound to be a large number of them right here on Corbus. I can meet with a few and gain a sense of what we should be looking for.” He continued along this train of thought, laying out methodology and planning his approach, for several minutes before he really registered that he’d decided to accept the General’s offer. Three hundred superior humans, and Brennan would be right there to help mold them into the deadliest combat unit mankind had ever seen.
Picking a name at random, “Lorne, Michael”, Brennan accessed the subject’s dossier. He had to get a better look at what he’d be dealing with. Personal information in great detail appeared alongside the photo of a fair-haired young boy with bright green eyes. The doctor scanned quickly across the lines of text. Born on Corbus in 707 AF (Christ, thought Brennan, only eight years old!) the boy had naturally excelled in athletics and early age testing. His teachers were astounded at his performance in school and he was noted as being larger than any of his classmates.
Of particular interest to the military, it seemed, was the boy’s social history. He’d been involved in several violent altercations, three of which had resulted in broken bones for the other children involved. Despite this, his psych profile showed no signs of violent dysfunction. The fights were little more than schoolyard tussles of the sort every young boy gets into. They only seemed more serious in this case because of Michael’s increased capacity to do harm. Michael was a perfectly adjusted, highly gifted youth with a bright future ahead of him.
Brennan sighed. “And we’re going to take it all away from him.”
Prologue:
The city stretched for thousands of miles in every direction, covering most of the continent’s landmass. Corbus, capital planet and crown jewel of the Alliance, was a tamed world of thirty billion souls and here, in the largest of its megacities, the labours of humankind extended endlessly as far as the eye could see. In some places it was a monolithic example of fastidious order, where broad, arrow-straight viaducts carved with geometric precision through the urban sprawl. In others it was a densely packed warren of overlapping causeways suspended high above the distant ground. Ever present were the towers, gleaming spires of metal and glass that rose for miles, like children’s fingers grasping greedily for the sky.
As the last rays of sunlight began to play out across the horizon, the lower levels were already shrouded in murky dimness. Higher and richer structures languidly soaked up what dregs of warmth remained and only the barest scraps filtered downwards to the poorer districts. The single yellow sun was traded for a billion tiny doppelgangers as neon signs and glowing holo-feeds were turned on en masse.
From the very tips of the highest towers it was truly an awe-inspiring sight. Above, the sky was painted in lurid hues of purple and red, and through the faint wisps of cloud turned gold by the fading light, the first dusting of stars and the smaller of two moons could just barely be seen. Below, the ceaseless bustle of an unsleeping population continued unabated and was now lit from every side by artificial lights of the most shocking colour and brightness. Joining the two in the middle, just at eye level, was the spindly forest of towers that stretched off into the misty distance. The gold and crimson rays of sunset slashed horizontally into them and threw the edges into stark relief. Polished steel and mirrored glass were set ablaze as they caught and held the wondrous brilliance, transformed from mere feats of engineering into radiant pillars of fire.
Dr. Silas Brennan quietly enjoyed the view through the wall-length windows in his office as he did nearly every night. A drink was held loosely in his right hand and he swirled it idly, lost in thought. He was a fairly nondescript man in his late thirties. A pair of glasses perched on his nose and his clothes were expensive but disheveled, the tie loosened and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. A noise from behind made him turn to face the room at large.
He found it empty, or nearly so. No lights were on and whatever the dwindling sunlight fell upon cast out long shadows. The impressive height of the ceilings and the sheer square-footage in play made everything in the room seem small and lonely, from the slightly raised dais upon which sat his huge desk to the atrociously expensive leather chair that held the room’s only other occupant.
Brennan was a brilliant scientist and he had come from simple roots. The practical mind that accompanied the former meant that he had never acquired the knack for making a room appear welcoming. Likewise, as a consequence of the latter, he handled his not-inconsiderable riches with clumsy unfamiliarity and could not even pave over his clinical pragmatism with high-society flair. The result was a wholly miserable lack of sense for interior design.
Returning once more to the mysterious man in the leather chair, he let out a throaty cough that disturbed the hazy miasma of cigar smoke that surrounded him.
“Doctor, if you please,” he called out in a solid, gravely voice. “I do have other business to attend to, and we still have matters to discuss.”
Brennan stepped away from the rosy light of the windows and crossed the room to sit in the shadows across from the smoky man. “My apologies General Smith, I was merely thinking things over. The “matters” you speak of are not to be taken lightly. Putting the obvious ethical ramifications totally aside, you are asking me to overturn my entire life in an instant. It’s not exactly something I can decide on a whim.”
Major General Elias Smith took another puff of his cigar and the hot cherry tip briefly illuminated his craggy face. Everything about the man carried a certain weight of authority. He was large and paunchy, the creaking chair hardly able to contain him, and even now he was dressed in a full dress uniform of the Alliance Mobile Defense Service. He moved slowly and with deliberation or not at all. This was a man used to the burden of command—someone who had sent brave men and women to their deaths many times in his long years.
“Doctor,” he said. “I’m well aware of all of the arguments that could be levied for or against this project. I am also aware of the personal commitment that we are asking of you. However, the fact remains that the project will go forward and that you are by far the most qualified man to lead it. I think that the figures we previously discussed are very generous in terms of compensating you for lost time.”
Brennan snorted derisively. “General Smith, my contracts with the Trinity Corporation more than take care of me financially. It’s not money that I’m worried about. This undertaking will require me to give up ten years of my life. It will consume me, body and soul. If we’re going to go ahead I need to know that it’s for something.”
The General went silent once more and Dr. Brennan followed suit. For a while the only movement was the lazy curl of smoke between the two men. Finally, General Smith spoke. “Silas,” he said hoarsely. “I’m going to be totally frank with you. We’ve all been at war for a long time and everyone is sick to hell of it. I know the politicians are always saying how we have the Coalition on the run, or else how we’re getting close to a diplomatic solution, but the truth is that we’re no closer to ending this thing than we were eight years ago.
“We’re bigger than they are, we’re richer than they are, we’re stronger than they are, but not by enough to make a difference. They’ve got dedication and discipline in spades and if we want to break the deadlock we need something special. That’s where Razor comes in. That’s where you come in. We’re talking about creating a precision unit that can do the job like no one else can. We’ll save millions, maybe billions of lives by ending a war that could drag on for another two decades at least, by our latest estimates. That’s what this is for. And if you don’t think that that’s enough, then you aren’t the man we need after all.”
The General heaved himself up out of his seat, snubbing out the butt of his cigar in the ashtray. “Well, Doctor, I’ve said my piece. All the pertinent files have been forwarded to your terminal. You can look them over at your leisure but we will be wanting your answer by the end of the week.” General Smith stuck out a meaty hand and Brennan stood to shake it.
“Thank you, General, you’ll have it. Although, I’ll be honest, I’m not yet sure what it will be.” Smith grunted and nodded his head.
“Good, good. The higher-ups are really trying to push things along but I don’t want you committing yourself unless you’re sure. There’s too much riding on projects like this one to risk a hiccup like that. So long, Doctor, I’ll be seeing you.” The General crossed the room and left, leaving Brennan alone in darkness.
After a while the doctor got up and seated himself at his desk. A keystroke brought the terminal to life and he quickly located the files sent to him by the General’s staff. The screen faded to black and big block letters appeared along with the crossed swords and sun emblem of the Systems Alliance Military.
-- --
[PROJECT: RAZOR] [CLASSIFIED: TOP SECRET]
-- --
[/center][PROJECT: RAZOR] [CLASSIFIED: TOP SECRET]
-- --
A quick bioscan unlocked the files and soon data was pouring across the screen. As Dr. Brennan read onwards he began to see that this undertaking was far larger in scope than he had realized. In many ways the project had been around in an unofficial form for hundreds of years—finding its roots in the early days of the Alliance’s infancy. The harsh breeding regimens instituted following The Extinction had ostensibly been implemented to bolster humanity’s flagging numbers, but many a geneticist had taken it as an opportunity to experiment with (or at least to toy with the idea of) eugenics. The poking and prodding at humanity’s genetic future had tapered off after the population had stabilized and the breeding programs had been abandoned, but in recent years, it seemed, the military had taken a renewed interest in the idea. Radical genetic alterations were still forbidden under both Alliance and Intercolonial Law—a holdover from the fearfulness of the old days—but by tracing the paths of superior genetic lines and nudging them in the desired directions it had been possible to give birth to a hardier human stock.
Curious to see the face of the next generation of human development, Brennan accessed the file marked “Viable Subjects” and five hundred names flowed into place. Smith had told him that he’d have to winnow the ranks down to three hundred before Razor began in earnest. Genetically, they all met the qualifications, so the final cut would have to be made on other criteria. Brennan would have to see what each one had done with the hand God had dealt them, so to speak. Although really, he thought, for these few hundred individuals, God had not been the dealer.
“I’ll have to meet with some of them in person,” Brennan muttered to himself. “There’s bound to be a large number of them right here on Corbus. I can meet with a few and gain a sense of what we should be looking for.” He continued along this train of thought, laying out methodology and planning his approach, for several minutes before he really registered that he’d decided to accept the General’s offer. Three hundred superior humans, and Brennan would be right there to help mold them into the deadliest combat unit mankind had ever seen.
Picking a name at random, “Lorne, Michael”, Brennan accessed the subject’s dossier. He had to get a better look at what he’d be dealing with. Personal information in great detail appeared alongside the photo of a fair-haired young boy with bright green eyes. The doctor scanned quickly across the lines of text. Born on Corbus in 707 AF (Christ, thought Brennan, only eight years old!) the boy had naturally excelled in athletics and early age testing. His teachers were astounded at his performance in school and he was noted as being larger than any of his classmates.
Of particular interest to the military, it seemed, was the boy’s social history. He’d been involved in several violent altercations, three of which had resulted in broken bones for the other children involved. Despite this, his psych profile showed no signs of violent dysfunction. The fights were little more than schoolyard tussles of the sort every young boy gets into. They only seemed more serious in this case because of Michael’s increased capacity to do harm. Michael was a perfectly adjusted, highly gifted youth with a bright future ahead of him.
Brennan sighed. “And we’re going to take it all away from him.”
