[USS Vanguard] Where the manure meets the windmill...
- From: Kieran Darkwater <kierandarkwater@xxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: ncv80221@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 5 Oct 2003 22:58:13 +0100 (BST)
Kieran stared of the cracked, grime-encrusted window between the two broad
stripes of tape to survey the rubble and wreckage along the main street of what
had once been a city. No more than one building in five still stood, and of
those barely a fraction stood a chance against the seasonal storms that were
due in the next few weeks.
The huddle of tired, hungry, frightened people behind him continued to cling to
each other, children sobbing quietly into their mothers' skirts, and the men
trying to pretend they were fearless. Outside, the tramp of soldiers' boots had
ended ten minutes before, but still the fear remained.
The transport site for the city had been moved seven times already today, as
units from one faction or another discovered it and lay in wait for refugees -
a work-force promised to be of value in the days to come, and people had become
a commodity for leader who still believed there was a way to 'win'.
The region had once been famed as the primary power source for almost an entire
continent, a single massive crystalline solar inductor around which the city
had been built in almost artistic fashion. Kieran had been fascinated by the
images he'd seen on the data-files on board, but the reality of the situation
sickened him. Terrorists had bombed the inductor at peak capacity, releasing
terrawatts of energy in a radiative burst that had soaked through the locale.
Most of the population of the city had died instantly, and radiation sickness
cases were coming in from dozens of miles around, only to be herded into
internment camps ready for the rebuilding programmes several military Junta had
in mind. Thankfully, the crystalline nature of the rock strata had absorbed
most of the radiation, and was releasing it at a far less invasive frequency -
unfortunately, it made transport from within the city boundary almost
impossible.
"Right." he said, with a deal more optimism than he felt, turning back to the
families of site engineers and mechanics, technicians and their children. "I
think they're gone, now. We'll head to that building over there, the... what
did you call it? 'Carriage-Master's Cabin'?"
A mute nod was all the response he got, but duplicated in a few other places,
which was more than he'd expected. Before he could get them to move, though,
the door was flung open, and the dirty, rumpled figure of a soldier flung
himself through the door, a long-bladed sword at the ready. Kieran's phaser
hung at his side - as useless as the transporter in this radiation - but he
hung his arms loosely at his side and tried to step slowly between the
swordsman and the refugees.
"Stay where you are, StarFleet!" he barked, waving the blade menacingly, but
with some sign that he knew how to use it, and took a step closer to the
refugees. "I'm not interested in you, but these people are coming with me to
the Korda Ma'Kee, as Prisoners of War - you will not interfere!"
*Oh hell.* He thought, and wondered how he was going to get out of this...
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