Subject: [Fanfic] Fall from Grace Date: Tue, 17 Oct 2000 01:39:42 GMT From: pablo_sanchez2000@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.startrek.vs.starwars Fall From Grace Episode Zero: Let me Introduce Myself... My line is a great one. It is one of storytellers, one of historians. We have kept the tales since time immemorial. Since... before the fall. We had nearly died with the old Earth, and its self-destructive anger. But we somehow endured. In the midst of death, my ancestor survived. And so, we have come to be the keepers of the tale. Make no mistake; mankind did not come to live as we do now without effort, and without death. No, billions died to make this world a reality. This is their story. Who began the annihilation, and who won the Pyrrhic victory is lost to history. The names and history are gone now. Even so, the story goes on. It was two nations that began it, one on the Great Eastern Continent, the other on the Northern of the Twin Continents. They fought the war with weapons we cannot imagine, that rained destruction from the skies, and poisoned the Earth herself. The war devastated the two nations, but the firestorm of Death had begun. It spread, until every nation that could fight had taken part in the battle. The Earth burned, and produced no more. Finally, it became such that the battle could no longer rage. As the fire consumes the fuel, so the war consumed the Earth. The mighty machine ground to a halt. And after the ravages of war, there remained naught but the vast expanse of emptiness, and the thin slices of 'civilization' that had escaped the grinding teeth of the dogs of war. A Golden Age is all too easy to become tarnished. From the Great Age of Mankind, whence he had walked among the stars, and bent the Earth to his will, he entered his second Dark Age. In the first of these times long ago, man had competed against hunger, disease, and the beasts of the wild for survival. Now, man would fight another enemy in a desperate fight for survival. Himself. ----====---- Pablo kept low over his horse’s neck as it galloped across the desert. His desert cape streaming out behind him, the hot sun above him, and three angry horsemen in pursuit. At full gallop, a mounted man had difficulty aiming a weapon with any sort of precision. Even so, Pablo saw arrows streak past him, a few meters away. It was no problem now, but soon his mount would begin to tire, and then they would have him. He would have to make a stand. He scanned the desert. At noon, the heat warped the air and made visibility over great distances quite low. The cracked brown dirt of the Australian Desert stretched for miles, with only a dead tree or bush to break the flat dryness. Luckily, Sanchez spotted a burnt out pickup truck only a few hundred yards away. He steered the horse to it, and goosed it along. He spurred it a bit harder, and it responded. His mount was faster than most, and he began to expand his lead over his pursuers. He stole a glance backward. He cursed. They were clearly Boyd devotees. The black cloaks and red turbans were a dead giveaway. Pablo himself wore neutral colors, a long gray cloak, and white face and head protection. One of the fanatics waved a saber, the other an axe, and the third wielded a bow. Pablo neared the truck. As he passed it, he reigned the horse in, and hopped off. With a few seconds advantage, could prepare a bit. He pulled the bow and quiver from their place next to the saddle. He turned, standing behind the truck. He put the bow to cheek, and notched an arrow. When he judged the lead rider close enough, he let fly. The arrow punched into the Boyd devotee’s chest just below the sternum, in the soft patch of flesh. It was a simply beautiful shot. The fanatic dropped from the saddle, spraying blood. Pablo set another arrow, but had no time to aim it. He simply let it go in the direction of the rider. It punctured the man’s mount in the neck. It bucked, throwing the rider to the ground. Sanchez tuned its thrashing out, and concentrated on the final rider. The fanatic passed the truck at too high a speed. He frantically slowed, trying to turn the beast so he could face his assailant. Pablo dropped his bow and pulled his nine-millimeter pistol from his holster. The firearm was one of his most important possessions. Manufactured by a surviving Glock factory, the pistol was sleek, reliable, and low on maintenance. It was the perfect wasteland sidearm. He carefully aimed, centering the pistol on the man’s spine. He smoothly pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession, performing the double-tap used by law enforcement agencies everywhere. Both bullets nailed the rider in the upper back. They punched through his body easily. With a pray of blood, he slumped in his saddle. The horse gradually slowed, finally drawing to a standstill. The rider slid from the horse, landing in an unceremonious heap. In only three seconds, three men had gone from scavengers, down to vulture feed. Pablo gently slid his pistol back into the holster. He pulled his machete from the saddlebag. The fallen rider was returning to consciousness, despite his nasty impact on the cracked dirt. It would be a waste of ammo to shoot him, so the machete was the obvious, if brutal, choice. They had messed with the wrong wanderer. Fall From Grace Part One: Begin at the End "What happens after the end of the story, wanderer? What happens when the tale is over, but the characters go on living?" the old man babbled. The journeyman frowned at him. "I don't know, old man. But what I _want_ to know is--" The old man interrupted. "They didn't know either. But they did not stop to consider! They didn't know what the world would be like in a thousand thousand years, or even the day after they ruined it all! But that did not stop them, wanderer, and thus they left us a broken world!" The younger sighed. "It just breaks my heart to pieces, grandfather. But before my horse dies from thirst, where is the town of Adelia?" The old man's eyes glazed over. "There once were towns, and even cities of a million men, that numbered like the stars. Jewels upon the desert, glittering..." he trailed off. The man thought for a moment. Then, reaching into a large pouch that hung by his side, he pulled out a unusually clean notepad and pencil. He scrawled some words onto a page, then put the paper back in the pouch. "Friend, all I want to know is--" He was once again interrupted. "Ten miles into the rising sun, wanderer." "Thank you." The wanderer walked toward his horse. "Praytell, what is your name, stranger?" "Sanchez. Pablo Sanchez." He leapt onto his mount, and galloped to the east. ----====---- Journeyman: "So you say you are not a scavenger?" Nomad: "Yer damn right, wanderer! I'm no scavenger! I don't kill for pleasure, and I don't rape. I'm a nomad, son of the wasteland. There's a big difference between you and me, and an even bigger one between me and the scavs. A scav'll kill you, just as soon as look at ya', and they'll just take what they please, whether it be yer hat, yer gun, or yer daughter's honor." Journeyman: "Besides the nomads and the scavengers you refer to, who else lives in the wasteland, by your reckoning?" Nomad: "Well, ya got the scavs, and ya got the nomads. Then you got the Vaulters. They live in their nice, secure vaults, and look out here like we're all a bunch o' insects. Don't much care fer them. After them, there's the villagers. They're a little like city folk, but there ain't no city folk out here. The villagers sorta camp out where there's water, and food. Usually, you find a bunch 'round vaults, 'cuz of the free handouts and all. "Then there's the folks like you. You guys just 'wander' around, seein' the sites, thinking about stuff. You know, some of you guys ask a lot of questions, and yer always writing stuff down on your paper. Like y'are right now. I never did learn to read an' write. Say, what are ya writing down anyway?" Journeyman: "I am recording our conversation, so that I will remember it. Don't concern yourself with it." Nomad: "Oh. Well, I don't care much fer writing, like I said. I like t' use my memory. Use it or lose it, ya know." Journeyman: "You were saying about the peoples of the desert?" Nomad: "Oh yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Anyway, that's about all the people you'll meet out here. Well, except for the Freakies." Journeyman: "'Freakies?'" Nomad: "Yeah. You know, the Muties and the Fanatics. You don't wanta see them. Mostly, there's the 'Brutherhood,' that's the Muties; the Militia, that's that awful Thelea and her boys; and there's the Boyd, worst of all. Stay away from them, whatev'r you wanta do." -Conversation recorded by Journeyman Collector Grey, ca. 2135. ----====---- The town of Adelia was at once both typical and unusual of the wasteland. Like most others, it was shoddy, dirty, and seemed to exude a feeling of despair from the very streets and buildings. However, it had one remarkable and important aspect to it. The Vault. The town of Adelia was built on and around a small, shallow bluff, rising above the dry, cracked dirt and driven sand. At the summit of the 20 meter bluff was a tall, shining tower. It was instantly recognizable as something belonging _somewhere_ else, anywhere but where it was. Compared to the dingy little village, it looked as if God had descended from the sky, and placed the shining steel cylinder there on a whim. It would have been close enough, for the Vault meant life to the citizens of Adelia. Without it, there was only endless desert. As Pablo rode up the shallow slope, he saw a profusion of humanity at the base of the tower. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was only humanity in name. Dozens of men and women crowded around a small group of suited men next to a massive steel door. The ignorant eye might not have able to identify the suits the men wore, but Pablo was sufficiently educated. The isolation suits were familiar enough that he felt the rise of bile, and the return of years of childhood resentment. He suppressed it quickly. Soon, he was at the edges of the crowd. He saw five suited men tossing bags of grain and young pigs to the villagers. Men and women prostrated themselves at their feet, begging for this and that. One's son needed medicine for a fever, another had need of a new hammer, another a wheel for his cart. Pablo found it simply digesting, both that the villagers would do this, and the fact that 15 years ago, he had knelt beside his father and done the same thing. One of the men’s' helmets swiveled and faced him. He reached into his desert robe and withdrew a circular object. The man pointed a small cylindrical device at it. After a moment, he waved to Pablo, directing him to the other side of the bluff. Pablo rode around the tangle of men. On the other side were the massive solar collectors of the Vault. They covered acres of land, absorbing the energy of the sun to supplement the Vault's nuclear reactors. At the near edge of the collectors lay a large steel building. Pablo rode to it. ----====---- Decontamination was always a pain. The shower of stinking chemicals, the air dryer, and the shame of it made him gag. Finally, he was admitted to a small gray room, no more than three meters across, with a steel chair in the center. Pablo went and sat in it. He shifted uncomfortably in the cheaply made robe, all too conscious of the fact that they would incinerate it once he had left. On one wall of the room, there was a long mirror, a meter tall, and as long as the wall. In the wall below it was mounted a speaker grill. After Pablo had sat down, the mirror gradually began to lose its reflectiveness, eventually becoming like glass. Beyond it was a room identical to his own, with a man in the chair and a hulking soldier in the corner. The speaker squaked quietly as it turned on. "I am Phong Nguyen, defense specialist of Vault Beta. You are Journeyman Collector Sanchez," the man said. "Yes," Pablo responded. Like most Vaulters, Nguyen acted as if he wanted to get Pablo out of his sight as soon as possible. Outsiders, to them, were disgusting. "Excellent. We have an important mission for you, that is why you were summoned." "A mission?" "Yes. You see, a few weeks ago Vault Gamma was attack by an army. From the report, they appear to have been composed of Boyd and Militia forces. We then received word that the Vault had been breached, and then all communication with Gamma was lost. We believe that it was overrun, and taken by the task force." "My condolences." Nguyen looked almost angry. "Indeed. In any case, we must stop the Boyd-Militia alliance from wreaking further havoc. Three thousand people were killed in Gamma, and the attackers must have obtained weapons and technology that could allow them to spread even further. The simplest way to stop them would be to locate the respective leaders of the organizations, and terminate their command, one after the other." "Terminate their command?" "Yes, Journeyman. They have gone too far to be stopped by any other method. You are to terminate, with extreme prejudice. You will be supplied with an AK-47 with 150 rounds of 7.62 millimeter ammunition. Your current supplies will also be replenished." "Am I to do this _alone_?" "No. You will proceed from here to the City of Needles and meet up with the rest of the team." "Are they also Journeymen?" "No, they are mercenaries." Pablo frowned. "What do I get in return for this?" "As a reward for performing this dangerous mission for us, you will be transported to Rio de Janeiro, where you will live quite handsomely on our money." Nothing more needed to be said. With the mention of the fabled city, Pablo was almost itching to go on his way. The risks of assassinating such dangerous peoples were momentarily forgotten, as visions of a vast city filled with beautiful women filled his head. Most of all, he wanted to see a _skyscraper._ He had seen them only in books. He wondered what it would be like to actually live in one. "In the penthouse," he thought to himself as he walked out of the room, feeling as if he were floating. ----====---- As Pablo rode away from Adelia, he cursed silently. He couldn’t believe that he had accepted the mission. To kill Boyd and Thelea? To attempt that was to stare death in the very face, and spit at it! Even with the weapons he had been given, it was tantamount to suicide. The two warrior chieftains lay behind the largest army assembled since the Fall. The sheer force of arms required to actually overrun a vault, even a small one like Gamma, was astounding, almost inconceivable. The team that had been assembled had better be very skilled.