Ascendance, p.4
Ascendance, page 4
“You, Mitchell?” a brawny woman with a russet complexion demanded.
The sound of his name didn’t make him perk up or answer in the affirmative. Rather it set the hair rising on the back of his neck and caused his shoulders to hunch as though it might somehow make him invisible.
“…Yes?” he responded after a painfully long stretch of silence.
“Seems you’ve been assigned to us.”
Mitchell glanced around at the quartet, wishing he was anywhere else in the world. These people were the types that had belittled and harassed him throughout training. The psychopaths who relished the power of the badge almost as much as the gun issued to them.
“And…who’re you exactly?”
“SRU, Taskforce Five Oh Five,” the woman replied as she tapped the insignia stitched to the sleeve of her uniform. It made Mitchell feel stupid that he hadn’t spotted the emblem before, the familiar wolf’s skull logo of the Strategic Response Unit emblazoned on nearly every bit of equipment around him.
With a grunt, the muscular woman hefted up some kind of exoskeletal frame, another member of her team moving to help strap her into the robotic harness. Servos whining, she carefully flexed each limb before shuffling back and forth like a bizarre mechanical primate. Such assistive devices weren’t altogether uncommon sights but rarely had Mitchell ever seen ones so exclusive and in the hands of security officers, no less. It was a visual testament to just how well equipped the SRU was.
Satisfied with her suit, the woman turned back to him. “Listen up, you minger! You paying attention? I’m Officer Perkins. The twats upstairs gave me tactical command of this hunting party. Whatever order I give is sacred. I expect it to be followed, even if your sorry ass can’t handle it. When in doubt refer to me and if not…refer to him.”
Confused, Mitchell glanced around at the SRU team. “Who?”
Nearly in unison, the other officers nodded toward something over his shoulder and, with an anxious shudder, he turned to spot an armored demigod striding in his direction.
Sure, he’d seen footage and photos of Dragoons before. The net was full of them, but there was always a safety to those, an abstractness that failed to capture the dominance and power they personified, not to mention the pure scale of their stature. It felt as if he was witnessing myths made flesh, a celestial being of wrath chained to the confines of a mortal form. The more he thought about it, the more his knees felt weak.
Portions of the gunmetal plate were broken up by swatches of digital camouflage painted across the armor, giving them a more martial appearance, and as they drew nearer, Mitchell could make out the image of a black bird stenciled on their left pauldron. He’d read enough articles to know that symbol represented the squad the Dragoon belonged to, while the chevrons on the other shoulder marked this particular super-soldier as holding the rank of sergeant. Quite an accomplishment, if he remembered correctly.
With an echoing ring of his steel boots, the demigod stopped in the bay, looking them over, judging these souls that believed themselves worthy enough to remain in his presence. One by one, the visor assessed each of them till it was staring down at Mitchell.
He would never forget the first words a Dragoon ever said to him.
“Mount up.”
3
Mitchell was certain he would make sure to omit the initial portion of their excursion from any future tellings, and as he sat hunched in the back of one of the trucks, he wished he’d been clever enough to bring a cushion for his tailbone.
Between the SRU team and the Dragoon, there was plenty of room in the vehicles, but he’d not accounted for the two drones being lugged along with them and, most notably, that no one wanted him along on this operation. That’d been made obvious when Perkins ordered him to ride amongst the machines without even so much as a bench to shield him from the truck’s jostling.
By the time the crew made their first stop, Mitchell was certain he’d acquired at least a half a dozen bruises. Not that the stop offered him much relief either, as one of the SRU members ordered him to perform a perimeter check the moment his boots touched the ground.
Each step causing a slight wince, Mitchell circled the area around the vehicles, pausing often to stretch his muscles back to life. Being sandwiched between the drones and crates of equipment, he hadn’t noticed the surrounding terrain morph into an ethereal forest, a thin layer of frost causing the plants to glisten in the sunlight, as though they were millions of precious stones. The beauty and stillness of it was such a pleasant departure from life inside a corporate city and, in that moment, he understood why so many risked leaving the safety of the metropolis to scratch a living out in the wilderness.
The snap of a twig suddenly broke his tranquility and, with a fearful gulp, Mitchell tried to ready his weapon.
It was a pathetic attempt at best, his gloved hands fumbling to properly grip the submachine gun. Each millisecond he struggled seemed like a lifetime and he could envision the cloaked assailant appearing between the trees, ready to finish the job it had failed back at the depot. But nothing of the sort materialized and Mitchell’s breathing began to return to normal. That was when he noticed the Dragoon standing beside him.
How something so large and armored had moved so silently was a question he doubted he’d ever get answered and he chalked it up to their superior lineage and training.
“I have no patience for cowards.”
Without any preamble, the statement took Mitchell by surprise.
“Eh?” was all he was able to reply. Not the most auspicious first exchange with a demigod.
Being so close to the Dragoon was somehow both intoxicating and terrifying, like staring down a primordial beast that was beautiful and yet you knew could disembowel you with ease. In that moment Mitchell couldn’t help but be transfixed by his own reflection staring back at him from the super-soldier’s visor.
“Your dossier said you survived one of the attacks. I can only assume you either ran or hid.”
Mitchell desperately racked his brain for a response that would both appease the demigod and hide what had transpired that fateful night. Much to his chagrin, his imagination was not overly accommodating.
After what felt like an uncomfortable amount of time, he simply said, “I’m not a coward.”
“Then how did you survive!” the Dragoon insisted, his voice echoing about the forest.
“I, ah…don’t know.”
“Useless.”
It wasn’t stated with malice, but more as an apparent fact and it wasn’t the first time someone had referred to him as such, even his own mother uttering it from time to time in his younger days. He was so used to hearing it, or some comparable designation, that he generally wouldn’t be fazed, but this time it was being said by something greater than anyone he’d ever met, an entity that stood above humanity in every way. And it stung.
Their second stop came when one of the SRU members, a dour officer named Shokri, at least Mitchell believed their name was Shokri, sighted what looked like a wagon stuck by the side of the road. And road was a generous term at that, the pathway little more than a glorified trail worn flat by time and the various travelers who trod its length. The Dragoon ordered a halt to the trucks, and the brakes complied instantly, Mitchell cringing as an ammunition tin fell onto his boot.
True to their reputation, the SRU team disembarked with speed, each of them now wearing the same model of exoskeleton frame as Perkins. Coupled with their weapons, demeanors, and the wolf’s skull logo of their unit, it gave them an air of brutality. Technological killers in service of the zaibatsu. And working alongside a Dragoon, no less. It was a cadre of the elite, only made questionable by the unexpected presence of Mitchell.
“So, what’s the plan, sir?” Perkins asked the Dragoon as she nodded toward the group of locals struggling to dislodge the wagon. “We gonna squeeze these hicks till they fess up to killing our boys?”
It was obvious the other members of the SRU detachment shared her enthusiasm for hostile interrogation, one of them even flicking out a truncheon. None of this seemed to sway the Dragoon, however, and with a cursory glance between the officers and the natives, the demigod strode toward the trapped wagon.
“Something a little less dramatic,” the super-soldier muttered.
Mitchell hustled to follow the Dragoon but found Perkins’ mechanically enhanced arm blocking his way. For a brief but foolish moment, he considered trying to push past. Likely that would have seen him rewarded with callous laughter and a few bruised ribs.
“Stand down, runt. Leave it to the professionals.”
“Understood,” Mitchell mumbled as he watched the Dragoon approach the locals.
They appeared to be some kind of family group, their worn and hand-spun clothes marking them as true denizens of the Northern Reach. With almost terrified expressions, they each stopped working on the wagon to regard the imposing super-soldier drawing near. A trickle of excitement rippled through Mitchell as he waited to bear witness to how the demigod would question these people.
The Dragoon held up an armored hand to the natives. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Almost immediately, the eldest of the family knelt into the mud, the man groveling.
“Please! Don’t hurt us!”
“I just need some information.”
“You can have anything you want!” the aging man declared, bubbles of mucus starting to ooze from his nose. “Here, you can have my wife. She’s still got some miles left on her!”
Clearly this did not go over well, and a gaunt woman piped up from the other side of the wagon. “Oi! You cowardly prick! Why doesn’t he take you? You’re so spineless he could probably just fold you up into his pack!”
“Well, I don’t think the Dragoon fancies me!” the man snapped back.
“Making assumptions as always!”
If the Dragoon knew what to make of this exchange, he made no sign, instead glancing between the two locals as their spat grew more absurd and personal with each passing comment. On the periphery, the Dye-Tech personnel could only blink in confusion.
“Do we just…shoot them?” Shokri casually asked.
Perkins seemed to be considering this option and, as if following her lead, the SRU team readied their rifles. An intense queasy feeling overcame Mitchell as he wondered if he was about to watch an entire family be gunned down for the crime of being difficult. Would the SRU expect him to fire as well? Did he have a choice if they did?
As if searching for guidance, the Dragoon looked back at him.
Mitchell couldn’t help but shrug. “You were saying a little less dramatic?”
The contempt was palpable despite the super-soldier’s concealed features. What were they expecting? Mitchell swooping in and diffusing this domestic squabble? Sure, corporate security had some training in such matters, but the handbook stated that if a solution couldn’t be reached in about two minutes, you simply arrested both parties. Those tactics didn’t seem like they’d be helpful here.
“You boys lost?” a voice called out from the forest edge and the SRU swiveled their weapons in that direction. Mitchell was slower on the response, clumsily turning while trying to decide if he needed to raise his submachine gun or not. It felt like such an unnecessary action, given the quantity and scale of the guns wielded by the SRU.
A young woman stood watching them from amongst the trees, the hood of her jade cropped jacket giving her a somewhat ethereal appearance, almost like that of a forest sprite.
If she was concerned about the weapons leveled at her, she gave no indication and advanced toward the corporate team with the confidence of someone accustomed to being in charge. Her skin was smooth and the color of deep mahogany, the sunlight drawing out the orange undertones like dawn shining through autumn leaves. Despite the bizarre situation, Mitchell couldn’t help but find himself smitten.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Perkins taunted, emphasizing her point with a wave of her rifle.
The stranger, this woodland nymph, placed her hands on her hips, judging the corporate team as a disappointed teacher might. There was something so maternal about the action that Mitchell almost smiled. Not that he’d let the SRU officers catch him.
“See, you made it my concern by threatening innocent travelers.”
“No one is threatening anyone,” the Dragoon interjected as he turned his attention to the newcomer. “We’re simply looking for Grantham.”
“Oh, well you’re close! Maybe a twelve-klom yomp along the goat path.”
“And if we want to travel by road?”
A mischievous twinkle came to the woman’s umber eyes, sparkling like the medallions woven into her dark hair. “Well, if you’re going that way, then you’re looking about double the distance. Maybe closer to thirty.”
“Why so much further?” Mitchell found himself asking, stunning everyone, including himself, that he’d voiced the question aloud.
The stranger turned her attention toward him and in that moment, Mitchell was lost in her gaze, imagining he could swim in her irises as though they were a fabled pool of healing. This time, he couldn’t help but grin, a moonfaced expression that prompted Perkins to glower at him. He could care less at this point.
“Because the road has to take the long way around the mountain. It’s the only way to keep vehicles from tumbling to their deaths. And, of course, the people with them.”
Unaware of his gawking, Mitchell nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Back on the trucks!” the Dragoon barked. “We still have a ways to go.”
Casting suspicious glances back at the young woman, the SRU team retreated toward their vehicles, weapons ready to flag potential targets as they moved. It was a silent warning that any abrupt motion would be met with a fusillade of gunfire and the natives took it to heart, the family by the wagon holding up their hands to show they were no threat.
Mitchell didn’t move at first, his brain struggling to will his body to look away from this lady of the wilderness. There was something so captivating about her aura, a natural and almost feral element making him believe he was in the presence of someone more ancient than her appearance. How had the other Dye-Tech employees not felt it? How had the Dragoon not?
“Safe travels, little lamb,” the woman said, offering him a playful wink.
Suddenly blushing, Mitchell scrambled back to the trucks.
Grantham was akin to every other rustic hamlet Kirkland had visited in the Northern Reach.
A cluster of wooden dwellings built in a semicircle with the occasional prefab structure intermixed to break up the monotony. It might have seemed pathetic if it did not remind him so much of his childhood. Those cherished and simple years before they had taken him to the academy to learn his rightful place in this world. Experience and pain rendered him a shadow of that boy, but he’d always retain the memories.
The appearance of their trucks brought plenty of attention, a mixed reaction of mistrust and anticipation as the residents tried to discern what would bring southerners to their isolated village. A few enterprising children tried their luck at seeking a handout from the corporate troopers, but most fled in terror when Perkins threatened them with the business end of her rifle. Just as well, they were not here to make friends.
Businesses were scarce, and any established shops were little more than front ends of various houses. Dismounting from the vehicle, Kirkland took stock of what shops might prove a valuable source of information. All of them seemed a gamble, none reeked of being in league with their quarry. And of course, that was if this impoverished town had anything to do with the raids at all. This whole escapade could end up being a fool’s errand. That very thought almost caused him to sigh in frustration.
“Oh, maybe we should try the tavern!” Mitchell excitedly suggested, pointing toward the largest establishment in the village. “They might have noodles. I could definitely go for some noodles right now. Anyone else? Noodles?”
Kirkland’s irritation spiked; the surge unexpected as he thought the limits of his frustration had peaked. The SRU might be humans, however, they were also an efficient team of trained soldiers. Mitchell was a misfit altogether. The longer Kirkland interacted with the ginger-haired officer, the more he felt as though the Dye-Tech leadership had tasked Mitchell with this mission as a cruel joke, or perhaps with the secret wish that he would not return.
His disdain for Mitchell was not a solo affair, however. The SRU team kept scowling at the other officer as though he were an obnoxious younger sibling.
With a whine of her exo-frame, Perkins pushed Mitchell, toppling the unprepared man to the ground. His struggle elicited chuckles from the SRU members.
“The runt might have a point,” she said. “Places like this, the local watering hole is usually where you can find some decent intel or, at the very least, enjoy a pint. I mean, as long as these bogans actually know what a proper drink is.”
Kirkland looked over at the tavern, a few customers angrily staring their way as they rested outside the bar, smoking pipes. It was probable that the Dye-Tech squad was not going to find anything in there besides suspicious gazes and choice words. But what else did they have to go on? They were in hostile lands hunting an elusive assailant who was clearly skilled and extensively modified and yet could be hiding within this village. If this were Shah, they would have gone house to house, kicking in doors and ripping aside furniture till they found a trace of their objective. Of course, he would have also had an entire squad of fellow Dragoons backing him up.
“I leave the pub to you,” Kirkland informed Perkins.
“Suits us just fine. You got alternative plans?”
Though the need to explain himself to these cretins grated his nerves, Kirkland realized he would have to do so, bemoaning that he was the solo Dragoon on this mission. If Talia or Ruiz was with him, they would have already scouted the village, tagged areas of interest on the tactical feed, and been strategizing which cottage to boot in first. All this transpiring in the same amount of time it had taken the SRU to dismount from their trucks. Another painful reminder of why working with humans was so irritating! Even if they were competent and superbly equipped, they would always lack the reflexes and predatory instinct of a Dragoon.
