Re: The Fearsome Encounter (GBS3G8) [Round 1: Circumlocution]
02-18-2012, 02:38 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.
A deep blue lake sat in the center of a flowering alpine meadow, amongst which a menagerie of beings circled each other warily, metaphorically if not in fact. That meadow itself sat in the center of a deep forest, dappled shadows giving way to a deep blackness where the air lay heavy with an earthy scent and a strange power. Beyond that deepness, the shadows ebbed back again, and under the thinning branches a handful of canvas tents stood in neat rows.
Within one of these tents, ranks of folding metal chairs facing a projector screen were occupied by restless young men in a motley approximation of uniforms. They were made of rumpled, heavy fabrics of various green and brown in various styles, the unifying feature a patch sewn on the right shoulder depicting a man's silhouette in a white circle surrounded by black, separated by a thin red border. An older man pushed back the flap of the tent and strode quickly to the front of the assembly. The small space was filled with the clatter of pushed back chairs as all the men shot to their feet and drew themselves up rigidly to their full heights. The older man was dressed similarly to the rest of the men, though his clothes were smartly pressed and his left shoulder bore a patch of three nested chevrons. His close-cropped hair was graying at the temples, and the beginnings of a gut pushed against his shirt. He surveyed the ranks of earnest youths before him and seemed to approve of what he saw.
“At ease, men,” he said, gesturing that they should take their seats. He produced a small clicker and remotely powered up the projector in the center of the tent.
“I must begin by thanking all of you for giving yourselves to this cause, for refusing to sit back and let humanity be pushed into the sea by affronts against God and man. I am Sergeant Peter Jameson, though around here I'm mostly just Sarge.”
The projector lamp had warmed up by the end of this short speech and displayed on the screen was an insignia identical to the one on each of their shoulders, with the words “Deus Intra Homo Solus” beneath. A green point jittered underneath the words as Sarge gestured his clicker at it.
“This is why we're here. Now let me tell about what here is.”
As the light gave way to shadow and the grass beneath his paws gave way to spongy loam, he could feel the tension melting away. This was much more his style than the open spaces of the meadow, not to mention the unnatural structures and beings the had populated it. He had by now dropped to all fours and was beginning to lose himself in the sensations of the forest when a voice boomed out from all around, stopping him in his tracks.
“UNKNOWN INTERLOPER. TO PROCEED YOU OUGHT DEMONSTRATE BRAINPOWER, TOUGHNESS, BENEVOLENCE.”
Layered over this were other statements, making the voice difficult to understand at first before the different strands merged into a cohesive whole.
“I am Redclaw, son of Redtooth, Warchief of the Lakes People,” the werewolf shouted into the darkness, “I stand before you a free man, you have no authority over me and you will let me pass!”
“TOUGHNESS ACKNOWLEDGED. BRAINPOWER AND BENEVOLENCE ARE ALSO REQUIRED.”
Redclaw snorted and kept moving forward. He had made himself known, as honor demanded, but he had no obligation to continue to humor the voice. There was no further interruption until once again the trees began to thin and sunlight filtered through to ground level. In the more open spaces between the trees, Redclaw passed a familiar piece of detritus: the same vehicular remains that he had found himself on at the start of all this. With narrowed eyes, he continued out through the treeline and found his suspicions confirmed. He had somehow re-emerged in the same meadow he left just minutes before, filled with the undignified squawking of various imbeciles. With a snarl he turned and charged back into the woods.
“Things weren't looking good for mankind, but then we got a lucky break,” Sarge continued, as with a click an aerial view of the lake, meadow, and surrounding forest came up on the screen, “and we found this place.”
“This is one of the primary sources of the bots, as near as we can tell. At regular intervals, one stumbles out of the woods and starts heading towards civilization. Of course, since we've shown up they haven't gotten very far.” Sarge paused and soaked in some whoops and applause from the crowd, grinning, before he continued. “But unfortunately, that's as much as we've been able to do. Here,” with another click, a red circle appeared superimposed on the aerial shot, cutting through the forest, “there is a spatial inversion barrier. Anything trying to pass through it gets flipped around and goes right back the way it came. Walking, you probably won't even notice. Running, you might feel a slight jolt as your speed flips directions. Faster than that, well...”
With another click, a film clip began to play on the screen. A device looking like a rocket engine strapped to a go-kart was set upon a set of tracks, leading towards the forest and stopping abruptly at a red line painted in the dirt. The contraption was manned by a flight-suited test pilot, who managed to look incredibly excited and seconds away from puking in terror at the same time. He put down his goggles, gave a thumbs-up, and settled his hands on the controls. When the engine lit, what came next lasted only a second and was not pretty. The kart accelerated up to blinding speed, but instead of passing the red line it hit it like a concrete wall, launching backwards at equally blinding speeds a gout of flame, chunks of metal, and the red mist that was formerly a test pilot.
Most of the audience in the presentation tent cried out in horror; a few began to retch.
“Never forget, this is serious shit we are dealing with,” Sarge barked. “This is a place from which the end of the world is pouring forth. Never let your guard down for a second. Now, let's talk about the day-to-day operations of-”
Sarge's speech was cut off suddenly by the sound of gunfire and screaming from outside. His eyes went wide and he practically flew out of the tent, bowling over some of the new recruits who had started to rise from their seats. Out towards the woods, men were lying injured or dead next to their rilfes, behind the earthen bulwarks built a few yards back from the red line. Sarge took one look at their wounds and began roaring, “Who started firing? Who the hell opened fire? You know God-damned well that you can't shoot through the barrier, you God-damned stupid pieces of holy mother of God what is that?”
Just beyond the red line, drawn up to his full eight feet and standing stock still, Redclaw stood staring. His eyes burned into Peter Jameson, stripping from the man's mind any pretensions of the protections of rank, and he called out with a smoldering fury, “I am Redclaw, son of Redtooth, Warchief of the Lakes People, and I will not be detained any further. Release me immediately and you will be spared.”
“Release you? How did you even get in there? You aren't a robot, that much I know.”
Redclaw's eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he bellowed, “A robot?! You dare to even mention me in the same breath as perversions such as that? You are testing my patience, human!”
Jameson took a step backwards involuntarily, bumping into something behind him. Glancing backwards, he saw that the whole of the camp had gathered to see what was happening, and all eyes were on him. Reminding himself of the responsibilities of command and of the utter impermeability of the barrier separating them, he straightened up and strode towards the werewolf.
“Perversions, you say? It sounds like you and I might have a lot in common, Chief Redclaw. I can't let you out as things stand, but maybe I can help you help yourself, and me along the way. Yes,” Sarge nodded, looking almost straight up into Redclaw's face, “we have a lot to discuss.”
A deep blue lake sat in the center of a flowering alpine meadow, amongst which a menagerie of beings circled each other warily, metaphorically if not in fact. That meadow itself sat in the center of a deep forest, dappled shadows giving way to a deep blackness where the air lay heavy with an earthy scent and a strange power. Beyond that deepness, the shadows ebbed back again, and under the thinning branches a handful of canvas tents stood in neat rows.
Within one of these tents, ranks of folding metal chairs facing a projector screen were occupied by restless young men in a motley approximation of uniforms. They were made of rumpled, heavy fabrics of various green and brown in various styles, the unifying feature a patch sewn on the right shoulder depicting a man's silhouette in a white circle surrounded by black, separated by a thin red border. An older man pushed back the flap of the tent and strode quickly to the front of the assembly. The small space was filled with the clatter of pushed back chairs as all the men shot to their feet and drew themselves up rigidly to their full heights. The older man was dressed similarly to the rest of the men, though his clothes were smartly pressed and his left shoulder bore a patch of three nested chevrons. His close-cropped hair was graying at the temples, and the beginnings of a gut pushed against his shirt. He surveyed the ranks of earnest youths before him and seemed to approve of what he saw.
“At ease, men,” he said, gesturing that they should take their seats. He produced a small clicker and remotely powered up the projector in the center of the tent.
“I must begin by thanking all of you for giving yourselves to this cause, for refusing to sit back and let humanity be pushed into the sea by affronts against God and man. I am Sergeant Peter Jameson, though around here I'm mostly just Sarge.”
The projector lamp had warmed up by the end of this short speech and displayed on the screen was an insignia identical to the one on each of their shoulders, with the words “Deus Intra Homo Solus” beneath. A green point jittered underneath the words as Sarge gestured his clicker at it.
“This is why we're here. Now let me tell about what here is.”
- - -
Back in the meadow, a singed and disoriented Redclaw staggered to his feet. White spots danced in his vision as the last of Triumphan's blast of light wore off. He had really had quite enough of this crap from an opponent who would not stay in a fight. Lifting his nose to the wind, he picked the direction that seemed best and set off towards the woods. With luck he could ascertain the direction of the Lakes and put all of this ridiculousness behind him.As the light gave way to shadow and the grass beneath his paws gave way to spongy loam, he could feel the tension melting away. This was much more his style than the open spaces of the meadow, not to mention the unnatural structures and beings the had populated it. He had by now dropped to all fours and was beginning to lose himself in the sensations of the forest when a voice boomed out from all around, stopping him in his tracks.
“UNKNOWN INTERLOPER. TO PROCEED YOU OUGHT DEMONSTRATE BRAINPOWER, TOUGHNESS, BENEVOLENCE.”
Layered over this were other statements, making the voice difficult to understand at first before the different strands merged into a cohesive whole.
“I am Redclaw, son of Redtooth, Warchief of the Lakes People,” the werewolf shouted into the darkness, “I stand before you a free man, you have no authority over me and you will let me pass!”
“TOUGHNESS ACKNOWLEDGED. BRAINPOWER AND BENEVOLENCE ARE ALSO REQUIRED.”
Redclaw snorted and kept moving forward. He had made himself known, as honor demanded, but he had no obligation to continue to humor the voice. There was no further interruption until once again the trees began to thin and sunlight filtered through to ground level. In the more open spaces between the trees, Redclaw passed a familiar piece of detritus: the same vehicular remains that he had found himself on at the start of all this. With narrowed eyes, he continued out through the treeline and found his suspicions confirmed. He had somehow re-emerged in the same meadow he left just minutes before, filled with the undignified squawking of various imbeciles. With a snarl he turned and charged back into the woods.
- - -
“As you all know, robots pretending to be alive and intelligent have been wandering into towns and cities for years now. They're unnatural abominations, to be sure, but the fascist bleeding hearts in Washington decided to take the advice of some dead limey twisp and now the bots have legal personhood. Untouchable. It's disgusting, but now humanity's defenders, proud men like all of you, are persecuted as 'hateful bigots.'” Sarge sneered and made air-quotes around those last two words.“Things weren't looking good for mankind, but then we got a lucky break,” Sarge continued, as with a click an aerial view of the lake, meadow, and surrounding forest came up on the screen, “and we found this place.”
“This is one of the primary sources of the bots, as near as we can tell. At regular intervals, one stumbles out of the woods and starts heading towards civilization. Of course, since we've shown up they haven't gotten very far.” Sarge paused and soaked in some whoops and applause from the crowd, grinning, before he continued. “But unfortunately, that's as much as we've been able to do. Here,” with another click, a red circle appeared superimposed on the aerial shot, cutting through the forest, “there is a spatial inversion barrier. Anything trying to pass through it gets flipped around and goes right back the way it came. Walking, you probably won't even notice. Running, you might feel a slight jolt as your speed flips directions. Faster than that, well...”
With another click, a film clip began to play on the screen. A device looking like a rocket engine strapped to a go-kart was set upon a set of tracks, leading towards the forest and stopping abruptly at a red line painted in the dirt. The contraption was manned by a flight-suited test pilot, who managed to look incredibly excited and seconds away from puking in terror at the same time. He put down his goggles, gave a thumbs-up, and settled his hands on the controls. When the engine lit, what came next lasted only a second and was not pretty. The kart accelerated up to blinding speed, but instead of passing the red line it hit it like a concrete wall, launching backwards at equally blinding speeds a gout of flame, chunks of metal, and the red mist that was formerly a test pilot.
Most of the audience in the presentation tent cried out in horror; a few began to retch.
“Never forget, this is serious shit we are dealing with,” Sarge barked. “This is a place from which the end of the world is pouring forth. Never let your guard down for a second. Now, let's talk about the day-to-day operations of-”
Sarge's speech was cut off suddenly by the sound of gunfire and screaming from outside. His eyes went wide and he practically flew out of the tent, bowling over some of the new recruits who had started to rise from their seats. Out towards the woods, men were lying injured or dead next to their rilfes, behind the earthen bulwarks built a few yards back from the red line. Sarge took one look at their wounds and began roaring, “Who started firing? Who the hell opened fire? You know God-damned well that you can't shoot through the barrier, you God-damned stupid pieces of holy mother of God what is that?”
Just beyond the red line, drawn up to his full eight feet and standing stock still, Redclaw stood staring. His eyes burned into Peter Jameson, stripping from the man's mind any pretensions of the protections of rank, and he called out with a smoldering fury, “I am Redclaw, son of Redtooth, Warchief of the Lakes People, and I will not be detained any further. Release me immediately and you will be spared.”
“Release you? How did you even get in there? You aren't a robot, that much I know.”
Redclaw's eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he bellowed, “A robot?! You dare to even mention me in the same breath as perversions such as that? You are testing my patience, human!”
Jameson took a step backwards involuntarily, bumping into something behind him. Glancing backwards, he saw that the whole of the camp had gathered to see what was happening, and all eyes were on him. Reminding himself of the responsibilities of command and of the utter impermeability of the barrier separating them, he straightened up and strode towards the werewolf.
“Perversions, you say? It sounds like you and I might have a lot in common, Chief Redclaw. I can't let you out as things stand, but maybe I can help you help yourself, and me along the way. Yes,” Sarge nodded, looking almost straight up into Redclaw's face, “we have a lot to discuss.”