The Border (written for Revelation 13 RPG Campaign Setting)
Another gust of wind blew through the field, bending the ears of corn like waves against the shore, their crests picked out in the crisp moonlight. Marielle lowered herself from a crouch to a kneel, letting the rifle hang on its sling for a moment while she scanned the terrain around them. Almost a kilometre away, at the far end of the fields, light spilled from the windows of a bullet train as it seared past. In the hedgerow to her right, songbirds rustled in their slumber. To her rear she could pick out her compatriots' breathing, no longer the hungry gasps longing to pay off their oxygen debt but soft, slow pants of those trying to calm the staccato thunder of their own hearts.
'We should be outside the search pattern now,' she whispered, as much for her own ears as for her party. 'The border's about ten miles to the West. If we keep it steady and don't run into any more problems, we'll be out of here by sunrise.'
Out of here, she thought as her compatriot translated her words for their charges. Out of here would be across the border into Germany, to the nearest small town on the safe side of Soviet-controlled lines, drinking coffee and eating a real, hearty breakfast for the first time in a fortnight. Nearly a week of sneaking through Polish countryside, living by moonlight and stepping from shadow to shadow around Russian patrols took its toll on mind and body alike. Spending three nerve-wracking nights protecting the city-born researcher and his terrified young daughter as they moved through hostile lands was a strain on both her and Jimi, though the sniper did well to hide his fatigue as he spoke softly and calmly to the civilians. She knew he hadn't slept in forty hours- there hadn't been chance since they were last discovered. How long had it been since she had rested? That she could not immediately remember was in itself a bad sign. They had to get out tonight, or they wouldn't be getting out at all. Two of them were already gone, lost in the initial infiltration and the prison break that had netted their precious cargo. Whatever lived in this man's mind and this girl's bloodstream had already been paid for with two lives, and it was now up to her to make sure the cost did not get any greater.
She rose back to a crouch again, bringing the SCAR back to her shoulder as she moved forward. The civvies stayed close to each other, about fifty feet behind her with Jimi a few paces behind them. They'd learned not to bunch up, and they were remembering. They might survive this after all.
The wind fanned waves through the corn again as Marielle stepped into another drainage ditch tangential to the one they had been following. This was the best place to move in these circumstances- still covered from detection by the waist-high crops, but with firm, clear ground to move on and no deformation of the field to give away their passing. They could move at almost walking pace, and none would be the wiser.
The embankment at the field's end was topped by two sets of rail lines. They'd seen the train pass minutes before, knew the lines should be clear, but terror gnawed still in the pit of Marielle's stomach. This would all be for naught if their charges were caught like rabbits in the headlights of another bullet service, or if they were spotted while exposed in the open ground of the track, breathing human targets silhouetted atop the ridge by the selene light.
They reached the crest of the embankment, bellied down into the soft grass just shy of the shingle covering the peak below the rail sleepers. She glanced at Jimi, who needed no words to understand the task at hand. The lithe sniper slung his rifle over his back and moved swiftly across the tracks to the other side. For a second Marielle lost sight of him before he moved slightly. He was good- one of the reasons they'd made it this far.
She waited until a curt hand-signal from Jimi confirmed the other side was clear, then turned to the other pair. 'We're going to cross the tracks,' She said in her best Polish, hoping it made sense. 'One at a time. You, first.' She motioned to the girl, raising a single finger to confirm. 'Then you.' Two fingers for the man. 'Me last.' Three fingers. 'Stay low, move straight to him. Do you understand?' They both nodded. She hoped they were telling the truth.
The wind whistled again, the air sounding like surf crashing on a beach now. She pointed to the girl, then across the tracks to Jimi, urgently. 'Go!' The girl ran straight and true, keeping low as she'd learned over their nights together. Jimi grabbed her as she reached him, bundled her down to the ground and partially under the camouflage cloak he wore. Then signalled the all-clear.
Marielle heard it first: an ominous drone like a cloud of locusts on the wind, perforated by a steady dull chop like a giant's eggbeater. The helicopter swung low and slow over the field behind them, no more than fifty feet from the deck. She recognised its distinctive shape immediately, feeling the bottom fall out of her stomach as she did.
The Mi24 Hind was in border patrol colours, most likely filled with a squad of Spetsnaz special forces troops and enough weaponry to make war on Hell itself. From each of its doors shone an incandescent beam of daylight, slowly tracing their high-noon spotlight discs over the corn. The helicopter slowed, then pulled into a hover. It was no more than a hundred feet away. One of the spotlights passed its beam a scant few feet in front of them, blinding her for a moment and obliterating her night-vision. As her eyes adjusted she focussed again on Jimi.
The girl was struggling, trying to belt back across the line to her father and drag him away to safety. Jimi was holding her down, his hand across her mouth as she tried to scream, to reach out back to them. Marielle felt the researcher beside her begin to move, and grabbed him. 'No! If you move, they'll see us! We'll all die!' She hoped the look in her eyes would break the language barrier.
Blood oozed between the fingers of Jimi's hands as the girl continued to struggle. He was strong, but against the stark terror possessing the ten-year-old Marielle doubted he had enough fight left in him. If the girl screamed, they were all dead. If she moved, they were all dead. Jimi couldn't bring enough force to bear to knock her out. Marielle was the only one carrying a sound-suppressed weapon. She gazed through the night-scope at the tear-filled, panic-stricken eyes of the girl, estimated where the cerebellum would be. It would be quick, painless- she'd be gone before her body transmitted any pain to her mind. Biting her own lip, she drew back her trigger finger...
The Hind swung to the South-East, panning its searchlights across the treeline as it retreated back into enemy territory. Marielle remained frozen until the look in the eyes of both Jimi and the girl changed to one of relaxation. She released the pressure on the trigger, unclenched the fingers grasping her charge's shoulder and exhaled. The man ran to his daughter, pulled her from the sniper, hugged and kissed her as she cried into his coat. Marielle waited a few more seconds for her heart-rate to stabilise before she moved across the tracks to join them. She could see the lights of some unnamed town, of Germany, of freedom in the distance. They might survive this after all.


Working On A Case (from Silicon Angel)
Mika Shiratori sat cross-legged on a cushion in front of the big-screen data terminal, the keyboard on the floor off to her right and a pack of instant soya-noodles in her lap. She had forgotten the last time she had eaten, and even though the reconstituted noodles had almost nothing in common with anything technically counted as food, they tasted delicious.
“I can’t understand how you eat those,” Katharine Furey, Mika’s half-English, half-German housemate and business partner sat on the windowsill looking out absently over the city. In the twenty-or-so feet just above the ground where all life happened, lights blazed like a living firework display. Reds, greens and ultra-violets from a thousand flo-tube lights illuminated the bustle of the street market. You could buy almost anything down there, from chicken (alive or dead) to small arms. It was a riot of life screaming its continued existence to anyone who cared. It was a symbol of the capitalist mentality, where everything and everyone was on sale for the right price.
But more importantly to Kate, it was out there in the rain, and she, for once, wasn’t.
“It’s warm,” Mika held the noodle-pack in one hand whilst typing a staccato burst of figures with the other. “And it tastes good. Right now that’s all I’m interested in.”
Kate snorted what could have been a laugh, then got down and padded into the kitchenette, where she liberated a can of beer. The apartment was passable by most standards- a simple affair of a square main room with kitchen off to one side, two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom-cubicle to another. Mika had done the decorating in an interesting blend of old Japanese and modern hyper-technological styles. A large, low black marble table with a constantly recycling rock pool and mini-waterfall in its centre dominated the room. The data terminal was on the wall opposite the large windows, its screen constructed so that, between the polarised glass of the windows and its own technology, even the brightest sunbeams would not glare on its surface.
That was rather a moot point, however. Glancing out of the window again, Kate took in the incessant drizzle of rain and the heavy clouds that obscured the top floors of most of the starscraper towers that rose from the pulsating streets like dead trees above fertile mud. It rained almost constantly in this sprawling cancer of a city. And, so the saying went, when it didn’t rain, it snowed.
“You wanna hear what I’ve got?” Mika turned around to face her friend.
“OK, shoot.” Kate sauntered over and sat on another floor cushion near the screen. A complex data-trail that she could not begin to fathom was displayed. Mika, barely out of her teens, may not have had much experience of life, but she could use a datalink and the Lattice like she had been born online.
“The poor deceased’s name is- or was- Edward Davis. He was a systems designer for Nobori Computer Systems, working in their main research lab.”
“Keep going.” Kate jotted a few scribbles of shorthand onto her notepad. She could have asked for a printout, but she still preferred to see things in her own writing rather than mechanical typescript. It made her feel as if she was still useful.
“Mr. Davis had an excellent employment record up to about five days ago. It seems he began to behave- ‘erratically,’ it says, but doesn’t say how. Anyway, he took off from work at about six two days ago, missing an important meeting, to be found dead just after midnight when a freight driver ran him over.” Mika paused to let Kate catch up.
“There’s more?” Kate asked. Mika nodded, then continued.
“The preliminary autopsy indicated that he died as a result of a nasty break in the neck just about here,” She tapped the back of her neck at the point where it joined her body. “Also, it seems something crushed his skull in three places- each temple and on the top of the head, to be precise.”
“Couldn’t all of that have been from when he was run over?” Kate asked. She already knew the answer.
“No. It’s feasible, but it just doesn’t work. The report states that he died at about quarter past eleven from the broken neck and a brain haemorrhage, a good three quarters of an hour before he was found.”
“So something killed him. Those injuries couldn’t have been an accident.”
“Yep.”
Kate took a swig of beer, looked at her notes, then back at the hacker. “What about the gun?”
“Ah, yes. Found at the scene, purchased and registered in Mr. Davis’ name two weeks ago. Seburo Government Issue, fairly antique design but still in production. It’s a civilian weapon, legal to anyone with a handgun permit. Which brings me to-”
“-Davis only applying for and receiving his permit in the week before he bought the gun.”
“That’s right. What d’you think?”
“He was scared. Something made a normally mild-mannered, middle-class technician decide to buy himself a gun, carry it with him to work, then take off for no apparent reason into the night. He then turns up dead, probably murdered, for reasons unknown. And to cap it all we get an anonymous request to follow up the trail.”
“I want to have a look around the Nobori mainframe.” Mika took the keyboard onto her knees and began to type.
“You do that. I’m going to follow up Davis, starting with his apartment. If you come up with anything, call my cellphone.” Kate went to put on her coat. Almost as an afterthought, she took her shoulder holster and pistol with her.


Illigitimate Businessmen (from Amsterdamnation)
The Dam Square was the heart of Amsterdam-Randstad. If one waited there long enough, one would see the whole gamut of humanity pass across the square, on business ranging from petty pleasures to world-changing events. More often than not, however, they came because here in Damn, as the locals called it, the darker side of life was more readily available. Drug-sellers and pimps moved around the edge of the square like wolves just beyond the camp-fire’s light, ready to sell their wares to the innocent tourists looking to sin for just a night.
In retrospect, Samantha Shepherd thought to herself, it was probably better to be a tourist. For what was once the most liberal city in Europe, it was surprisingly hard to get out of. That was why she was still here. Since the rest of Europe had imposed border restrictions on the country, and since riots had torn the government apart, Amsterdam had become an anarchist state. There was no government to speak of, and any law enforcement was as much a protection racket as anything else. No-one really hindered you getting into the place, but without the right papers, getting out was nigh-on impossible. Tourists came here for the same reason they used to go to Thailand or on safari in Africa- extreme holidays. There was nothing like the big rush of doing something bad to lure the punters. Such thoughts mulling around her head, Sam turned back to the man opposite her. “Run that by me again one more time, Cass?”
Cassiel Blaize smiled a beaming grin and took another drag on the laced cigarette, the pungent aroma of the marijuana mixing with the smells of pancakes, fish, cheap beer and just a hint of vomit. “Once more for the lady. An associate of mine requires a specific sheaf of data to advance his business practices. The data is encoded onto a ROM chip in the possession of, shall we say, a rival. Security should be about average for this hell-hole. Payment on receipt of the data in no more than forty-eight hours will be five hundred florins, plus one passport and visa cleared for foreign travel and two thousand Unilateral Dollars in certified credit. Further details only given on acceptance. Take it or leave it.”
“Of course I’ll take it, Cass. Like I have much of a choice.”
He smiled again, and stood, turning away. A curt hand gesture bade her follow.
Cassiel was immigrant stock- half Turkish, half Aruban. His long dreadlocks and deep brown skin contrasted with his armour of gold rings and chains, all strangely out of place crammed into the grey suit and overcoat he wore. He looked like a bouncer on his night off, which Sam reflected he might well be, for all she knew. To her, he was a fence- a dealer in illegal goods, rare items, information and, most importantly, work. Every street op in the city knew someone like Cassiel. Possibly, quite a few of them knew him. People gave him jobs, he handed them out. When the job was done, he took a cut of the payment, and the rest went to the op. It was a tidy system- so long as all three parties were honest.
Cassiel led Sam through the capillary sidestreets of the city, past strip-joints, crack-houses and dilapidated tenements to the place he called his office. It was a room on the second floor of a flood-damaged building condemned a decade ago, that had the tenacity to have failed thus far to fall down. The stained walls and yellow glow from neon strip-lights were almost nauseating, but one got used to it. Cassiel took a seat in a big leather armchair, its surface cracked and soiled so badly that the colour was anyone’s guess, and motioned to the rickety wooden chair by the plywood table he called his ‘desk’.
“You’re going into Proteus BV’s building down on Prinsegracht. In a cleanroom on the sixteenth floor, you will find the datachip containing the information I require. You will deliver this chip to me by midnight the day after tomorrow, or no payment.” He reached into a lockbox on the desk and withdrew an EC passport from it, opening it on the picture page. The face was hers. “You’ll get this and the money on completion.” The document went back into the box, and its lid closed. “The usual deal applies- try to screw me over and you wind up missing. If all goes well, you’ll be out of the country by the weekend, going wherever you wanna go.”
“Deal. I’ll call you to arrange the trade-off. See you later.” Sam rose to leave.
“Oh, Sam?” Cassiel’s beaming grin had returned. “Try not to blow too many people away with that hand cannon of yours- it’ll only make both our lives harder.”


Breakfast At Jennifer's (from Crystalsong)
Clamping her bike to a slate-grey lamp-post, Sam trudged up the flagstone path to the recessed, dark wooden door that stood like an open maw at the path’s hilt. Resting against the recess wall for a moment, in the pocket of yellow light from a weak bulb overhead, she stabbed the doorbell with a red finger, wishing fervently she had remembered gloves. It never seemed cold when you were on the move; it was only when you stopped that it caught up with you.
It was a frigid minute before a light appeared in the tiny inset window, and half again before the chains and mortices slid back and the door opened to reveal an auburn-haired woman of middle years, sleep still heavy in her eyes. As the tendrils of cold reached out to envelop her she pulled her drab dressing-robe tighter around her shoulders. ‘Oh, good morning, Samantha.’
‘Morning. Is Jen up yet?’
‘Yes. She’s in the lounge; go right in. Oh, and happy birthday.’
‘Thanks.’ Jen wouldn’t have remembered; she never did. Ghosting past, Sam moved lightly across the tasteless carpet to the door she sought. Without knocking, she went in.
Jennifer Hunt sat cross-legged on a paisley sofa, a magazine open across her knees that she seemed to be trying hard to concentrate on reading. In the background strains of a badly-played version of the Planets suite could be heard from hidden speakers. Without waiting for a formal welcome, Sam sat down next to her friend. ‘I heard Rob missed meeting you again.’
Jen looked up, just the faintest hint of a tear in her large, deep turquoise eyes. ‘I swear, I have given up hope on him.’ Idly she collected her long copper hair and slipped a violet hairband around the flowing tail, which she absently laid over one shoulder.
‘Don’t. He still loves you; it’s just you both make it difficult for each other.’
Jen gave what she probably hoped was a contemptuous snort. ‘What am I meant to do about that if he won’t even come to meet me to sort it out?’ She paused, sipping the last of a glass of milk, sides frosted with condensation. For the first time Sam realised the room was at least fifteen degrees warmer than outside, and the faint smells of cinnamon and sandalwood permeated the air. Candlelight and incense. Jen was in one of her new-age moods.
‘Drink.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Something was bothering me, and I just worked it out. A cordial host would have offered me a drink by now.’
In spite of her determined depression, a wry smile briefly crossed Jen’s crimson lips. ‘I suppose I should take your order for breakfast too.’ She rose, smoothing the white, almost-silk night-dress she always seemed to be wearing when she was in one of her dark moods, and padded around the bar, out of sight and into the kitchen. There was the muffled sound of a liquid being poured, once, then again, then of something paper being rustled. A few moments later Jen returned, bearing two cups of distinctly herbal tea and a basketful of breakfast croissants. ‘I haven’t eaten yet,’ she offered as if an apology was necessary. Passing over a plate and one of the cups, she motioned for Sam to help herself, which she did.
‘Look,’ Sam managed between mouthfuls, ‘You have to keep trying where Rob is concerned. He’s like a bloodstain on an expensive carpet; stubborn as hell, but he’ll be there for you up to halfway through the Book of Revelations. That is, unless you want to spend the annual budget of Lithuania to either hire someone to clean him out of the fabric, or replace the carpet. And that’s just mad.’
‘So what can I do?’
‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll arrange for him to meet me at the cinema to watch a good film then go for a meal in a half decent restaurant. I’ll book, and tell him I’ll pay. I’d like to see him fail to turn up for that.’
‘Yes,’ Jen spoke thoughtfully, ‘But where do I come in?’
‘You’ll turn up in my place. Don’t worry, I’ll pay all the costs as part of my matchmaking service. You can pay me back later.’
‘If he shows up, I will. Hell, if he shows up, I’ll buy you dinner as well.’
There. That was her good deed for the day. ‘So, what are you doing today?’
‘I don’t know. I was going to try to get some CD’s in the city. You know- choir music, organ concertos. Usual.’ Jen was a determined medievalist; such a pity her idea of the middle ages was as distorted as the movement of a chaos pendulum.
‘Where?’
‘Oh, Virgin, probably. They’ve got the best selection, and I can probably order anything they haven’t got in.’
‘Right. Mind if I join you? I’ve got a few things I want to buy from around there, and I’d really appreciate the company.’
Her depression broken like clouds before the beaming sun, Jen smiled. ‘Bring your bike round to the back. I’ll pay the bus fare.’
You couldn’t say fairer than that.


Street Spirit (from Huntsense)
Just another Saturday afternoon in Nottingham. Rob and the two girls walked along the main shopping street, exchanging idle banter and occasionally stopping to ogle some hapless object in a shop window, normally something heinously expensive.
Sam, as usual, wore a long black leather coat over jeans and a T-shirt. For late winter, it was decidedly warm. Jen, by contrast, wore a loose white blouse and black skirt, combined with a collection of rings, earrings and a heavy pendant in the shape of a winged, cowled figure resting on an overly large sword. She called it a fallen angel, and thus fitting for the occasion. Rob wondered if it was just the most over-the-top gothic piece of jewellery she could find. One of her rings had a winged skull on it. Another was a crimson gemstone hewn into a blood drop. Inwardly he shook himself. He’d fallen in love with something out of a Hammer studios film.
A pair of police officers were interrogating someone outside a small newsagents. Rob nudged Sam and pointed over. ‘Robbery?’
‘Don’t you read the newspapers? Some maniac went in there yesterday with a shotgun. Threatened to kill everyone if they didn’t hand over all the cash.’
Rob had stopped listening. In fact, he had stopped walking. Standing behind the two constables and the person they were mercilessly questioning, and apparently invisible to everyone else, was a large black horse. Atop its back sat a figure clad in a heavy, hooded grey riding cloak. Side-saddle, at that. Who- or whatever it was had Rob transfixed. Mainly due to a pair of green eyes that were all he could see in the unnaturally dark hood. He realised he was shivering.
‘What is it? Are you all right?’ The voice was Jen’s, close and filled with anxiety, but he could not break that emerald gaze even though his eyes watered. Giving in to the strain, he blinked briefly, and it was gone.
Shuddering, he turned to his two friends. ‘Did you see that?’
‘See what?’ Sam’s eyes scryed the street. ‘Surely you’ve seen police officers before.’
‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter.’ He told them, trying hard to convince himself he was telling the truth. What had he seen?
‘Yes it does.’ Jen had planted her hands on her hips. Stubborn was an understatement. She would stand until the skies spouted brimstone if he refused to elaborate.
‘I thought I saw someone.’
‘Who?’
He sighed. ‘This may sound stupid, but it looked like Death.’
‘What, Skeleton with scythe, Death?’
‘Well, sort of. It looked like a woman on horseback, wearing one of those old riding cloaks like the one you got for Christmas.’
‘What about the scythe?’
‘I didn’t say there was a scythe.’
‘How can you have Death without a scythe?’
‘Look, I didn’t say I saw Death-’ Rob sighed. ‘Can we just leave it, Jen?’ He attempted to sound pleading, but it came out as weak-and-pathetic. Hopefully it would do.
‘Very well.’ The trio resumed walking in relative silence, broken only by Jen muttering quietly about ‘Death’ and ‘Scythe’ and ‘Fool Males Spoiling The Image’. Sam’s permanent smile seemed wider than usual. Rob just tried vainly to forget it all.
What had he seen?


The Temple Of Light
From outside, a maze of domes and spires reached skyward, like a giant bunch of grapes impaled on ornate obsidian spears. The huge dread portals that led to the inner shrines of the true religion, against the power of which all others paled to insignificance or amounted to heresy, hung open by the smallest crack, yet still metres wide. Up the steps to that immense iron door lay tributes to Him, and prostrate figures lost in prayer.
Inside, the pungent smell of incense was overpowering. Smoke from a thousand pinprick incense sticks reached up into the largest central dome, obscuring the mosaics and the higher gargoyles from view. A thin layer of grease from centuries of candle-burning covered every surface. An enormous portico stretched between the doorway and the huge atrium visible beyond. Lining the walls were crumbling black marble tombs, wherein lay the bodies of High Priests long since departed. Hundreds of those personal shrines lay undisturbed, even after millennia of mistreatment.
Further on, directly under the main dome, the light was of its highest intensity, yet still altars and reliquaries remained shrouded in shadows. Wreathed in the smoky darkness up above, what may have been a bat flitted from gargoyle to gargoyle. Filling one wall was the source of most of the light. A huge stained-glass window, wrought of lead, iron and millions of coloured glass slivers, depicted a glowing golden figure, bringing down His sword of truth and righteousness upon a dark-hued, bestial man. In the background, a fallen angel lay, his flaming sword still in his limp hand as the tyrant of evil slashed with bladed hands at the immortal Guardian of the Faithful. The red sun must have been directly behind that window, as the light shone through the remarkably clean and sharp image, bathing everything in a red, blue and golden glow.
Beyond the dome lay the nave, off which a multitude of arches led to other, lesser, shrines and chapels. Hanging from the walls and the almost indistinguishable ceiling were banners depicting the victories won in His name over ten millennia of pious worship and zealous service. Many of the intricate designs and gilded letters had worn away over time, yet the message still conveyed itself just as strongly, as if its voice was only strengthened by the decline of the icons.
Likewise, the names of the chapels were also almost illegible. Occasionally, one could make out a word, or even a name; Femur Sinistr Benedictr, or Nomine Imperatoris Sancti. Words of Gothic, wrought of conflict and belief as much as of tungsten and gold.
As the nave continued further into the distance, an altar became visible through the sweet smoke. As one approached, a glow could be discerned. The warm red-yellow tinge of the nave- no, the whole temple- was offset by a cold blue-white shaft of light stretching vertically, floor to invisible ceiling. In the centre of this rod of light hung a small jewel. Closer to, the jewel became a phial, a teardrop-shaped container of pure ruby and emerald. Inside, a drop of moisture was visible. This was His tear, shed ten millennia previously as His angel fell from ordered grace to Chaotic temptation. Truly a sight worth travelling a trillion miles for. Somewhere in the darkness of the high domed ceiling, a choir began to chant.