Thursday, January 2, 2020
Monday, October 1, 2018
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
The First Gunslinger on Mars [3]
"I think you have something of mine," he said, dropping the spare suitpack and then reaching toward the toolbag that he held in his left. He saw one of the raiders tap a control on an armplate, evidently to broadcast on the common band, because the sound of gruff laughter suddenly filled his ears.
He saw a second raider reached into a nearby toolbox and pulled out a strange-looking tool - probably of the sort that was used to pierce the hulls of immobilized rovers. He grabbed his own tool a second later, but he was faster, due to hours of practice, hours that had seemed like little more than a foolish hobby at the time.
The tool he grabbed had been brought to Mars by his grandfather, in the early years of settlement. His grandfather had been the inheritor of a family heirloom, and had used a fair bit of his five kilogram personal mass allowance to bring it along with him, after assuring the ship's operators of its nonfunctional state by filling the barrel of the gun with cement.
Year's later, the grandfather handed the heirloom revolver down, father to son, as had been done five times before. That son carefully cleaned out the barrel, and then hand-crafted six rounds for the gun, along with a custom-made laser insert for target practice, before handing the gun on again. The insert allowed the last owner to practice shooting - and drawing - in a hobby that he grew ever better at over the years. Hundreds of hours of practice over the years, without ever firing a real shot - just pulling the trigger to have a flash of laser that either hit the target or missed, though he rarely missed.
And although he had never fired an actual bullet with it, he had gotten in the habit of taking it with him, fully loaded, whenever he traveled cross-country. Just in case, he thought.
And when that case finally came, he had the gun out of the toolbag and leveled at the raider while the man had only partially raised the piercing tool. Years of practice meant a fluidity of action that he could hardly even be sure of, after the fact. One shot & one target was quickly followed by a second shot & a second target and then a third shot. Three shots, three men down, with the fourth having been quick enough to get behind the vehicle for cover in the moment that proved to be the other men's last.
Only after lowering his gun did he realized that his leg was hurt. The bolt from the piercing tool had grazed his leg, slicing open his suit along with the leg, and rapid loss of air was doing as much to make him weak as the pain. He collapsed to the ground, fumbling for a repair kit, only marginally aware of the nearest rover driving quickly away. A minute later, he had roughly sealed the suit, but it was quite a bit longer before he struggled back up to his feet. He checked both rovers, finding his own to be as dead as the three men down on the ground, and finding the other one with a broken driveline, so that he wouldn't be able to drive it anywhere, and although its life support was operational, he didn't want to stick around to see who might be showing up to reclaim it. So, once more, he started off on foot, with too many kilometers and too little air for the trip ahead.
He saw a second raider reached into a nearby toolbox and pulled out a strange-looking tool - probably of the sort that was used to pierce the hulls of immobilized rovers. He grabbed his own tool a second later, but he was faster, due to hours of practice, hours that had seemed like little more than a foolish hobby at the time.
The tool he grabbed had been brought to Mars by his grandfather, in the early years of settlement. His grandfather had been the inheritor of a family heirloom, and had used a fair bit of his five kilogram personal mass allowance to bring it along with him, after assuring the ship's operators of its nonfunctional state by filling the barrel of the gun with cement.
Year's later, the grandfather handed the heirloom revolver down, father to son, as had been done five times before. That son carefully cleaned out the barrel, and then hand-crafted six rounds for the gun, along with a custom-made laser insert for target practice, before handing the gun on again. The insert allowed the last owner to practice shooting - and drawing - in a hobby that he grew ever better at over the years. Hundreds of hours of practice over the years, without ever firing a real shot - just pulling the trigger to have a flash of laser that either hit the target or missed, though he rarely missed.
And although he had never fired an actual bullet with it, he had gotten in the habit of taking it with him, fully loaded, whenever he traveled cross-country. Just in case, he thought.
And when that case finally came, he had the gun out of the toolbag and leveled at the raider while the man had only partially raised the piercing tool. Years of practice meant a fluidity of action that he could hardly even be sure of, after the fact. One shot & one target was quickly followed by a second shot & a second target and then a third shot. Three shots, three men down, with the fourth having been quick enough to get behind the vehicle for cover in the moment that proved to be the other men's last.
Only after lowering his gun did he realized that his leg was hurt. The bolt from the piercing tool had grazed his leg, slicing open his suit along with the leg, and rapid loss of air was doing as much to make him weak as the pain. He collapsed to the ground, fumbling for a repair kit, only marginally aware of the nearest rover driving quickly away. A minute later, he had roughly sealed the suit, but it was quite a bit longer before he struggled back up to his feet. He checked both rovers, finding his own to be as dead as the three men down on the ground, and finding the other one with a broken driveline, so that he wouldn't be able to drive it anywhere, and although its life support was operational, he didn't want to stick around to see who might be showing up to reclaim it. So, once more, he started off on foot, with too many kilometers and too little air for the trip ahead.
Monday, September 3, 2018
The First Gunslinger on Mars [2]
With his destination just over twenty kilometers away, he figured that he would be there before they could close the gap, until he saw the second rover coming over the rise just ahead.
Cursing his luck, he grabbed a spare suitpack and his toolbag from the rover and headed for the boulder field below the nearer rim of the canyon. While not a lot was known about how the raiders operated, the general idea was that they fried a rover with an electromagnetic pulse, killing any and all electronics - including those of any suits in the area. They then punctured the hull and gassed the occupants.
He had little hope that his escape on foot wasn't seen by the second rover, but if he could get far enough into the boulder field, he hoped to be out of the reach of the rover's pulse generator, although he had no way to know what its effective range was. As he climbed the slope up amongst the rocks, he kept looking back, watching the two rovers closing in on his.
The second rover arrived first, stopping about 100 meters away, and pausing there for several minutes before closing the distance. Stopping almost half a kilometer up the slope, he figured that the raiders must have paused to disable his rover, and then moved in to make the kill. Within a half hour, both rovers were there, and the four raiders who got out were hitching up his vehicle to be towed away. Once under way, they started heading up the canyon.
Once they were beyond the next rise, he walked back down to look around, but found nothing but tracks. He knew that heading on to his destination by foot was his only reasonable chance; between his suit's pack and the spare, he should have almost 12 hours of life support, but there was only the one safe harbor within a week's walk, even if he had the air for it.
The sandy ground made for slow going, with his feet sinking in as he trudged up the canyon. In three hours, he'd only made about five kilometers of progress, when he spotted the three rovers stopped up ahead. He moved off the trail to crouch by an outcropping to the side, where he could look out and evaluate his options. He could try to wait them out, but his pace would barely get him to shelter in time as it was, so delaying too long would mean risking running out of air before he got to safety. He could call for help over his suit's radio, but he knew that no one would be likely to risk coming down into the canyon for him, especially with raiders about, and giving his location over the radio would be giving himself away to the raiders, who were thought to monitor all of the common bands. He could try to sneak around the rovers, but the canyon was getting to be rather narrow at its upper end, and even if he could get around the group on the trail, he might well stumble into a raider's nest set up near the canyon walls.
Lacking any better options, he began picking his way from rock to rock, drawing closer to the three rovers. He was within 50 meters when he could find no more boulders big enough to hide behind, so he stood up straight and walked straight toward the four raiders that seemed to be working on one of their rovers. The first one to notice him tapped the one next to him, and the others all turned to look at him. He kept walking toward them, hoping that they couldn't fry him with a pulse while they were out in suits as well.
He switched on his radio, which was already set to a common band. He tried to sound calm, hoping that they couldn't hear the elevated heartbeat that seemed to be surging in his own ears. "I think you have something of mine," he said...
[To be continued.]
Cursing his luck, he grabbed a spare suitpack and his toolbag from the rover and headed for the boulder field below the nearer rim of the canyon. While not a lot was known about how the raiders operated, the general idea was that they fried a rover with an electromagnetic pulse, killing any and all electronics - including those of any suits in the area. They then punctured the hull and gassed the occupants.
He had little hope that his escape on foot wasn't seen by the second rover, but if he could get far enough into the boulder field, he hoped to be out of the reach of the rover's pulse generator, although he had no way to know what its effective range was. As he climbed the slope up amongst the rocks, he kept looking back, watching the two rovers closing in on his.
The second rover arrived first, stopping about 100 meters away, and pausing there for several minutes before closing the distance. Stopping almost half a kilometer up the slope, he figured that the raiders must have paused to disable his rover, and then moved in to make the kill. Within a half hour, both rovers were there, and the four raiders who got out were hitching up his vehicle to be towed away. Once under way, they started heading up the canyon.
Once they were beyond the next rise, he walked back down to look around, but found nothing but tracks. He knew that heading on to his destination by foot was his only reasonable chance; between his suit's pack and the spare, he should have almost 12 hours of life support, but there was only the one safe harbor within a week's walk, even if he had the air for it.
The sandy ground made for slow going, with his feet sinking in as he trudged up the canyon. In three hours, he'd only made about five kilometers of progress, when he spotted the three rovers stopped up ahead. He moved off the trail to crouch by an outcropping to the side, where he could look out and evaluate his options. He could try to wait them out, but his pace would barely get him to shelter in time as it was, so delaying too long would mean risking running out of air before he got to safety. He could call for help over his suit's radio, but he knew that no one would be likely to risk coming down into the canyon for him, especially with raiders about, and giving his location over the radio would be giving himself away to the raiders, who were thought to monitor all of the common bands. He could try to sneak around the rovers, but the canyon was getting to be rather narrow at its upper end, and even if he could get around the group on the trail, he might well stumble into a raider's nest set up near the canyon walls.
Lacking any better options, he began picking his way from rock to rock, drawing closer to the three rovers. He was within 50 meters when he could find no more boulders big enough to hide behind, so he stood up straight and walked straight toward the four raiders that seemed to be working on one of their rovers. The first one to notice him tapped the one next to him, and the others all turned to look at him. He kept walking toward them, hoping that they couldn't fry him with a pulse while they were out in suits as well.
He switched on his radio, which was already set to a common band. He tried to sound calm, hoping that they couldn't hear the elevated heartbeat that seemed to be surging in his own ears. "I think you have something of mine," he said...
[To be continued.]
Sunday, September 2, 2018
The First Gunslinger on Mars
He had stopped the air from leaking out of his suit, but he couldn't stop the blood from leaking out of his leg. It probably wasn't too bad - just a graze, really - but it didn't take much to kill you, out on the surface. A rover malfunction, a damaged suit, an injury: any of these might have been enough on their own, and he'd had all three today. But he was still alive, at least for now; that's more than could be said for the three scavengers laid out around his rover.
They had probably picked up his trail shortly after he had entered the canyon, three days ago. By the second day, he had notice their rover, a long ways back, but slowly gaining on him, and by yesterday, their dogged pursuit and radio silence had made their intentions clear.
Everyone knew the stories, of course, about the raiding parties in these lawless side canyons. The main canyon of Valles Marineris was the heartland of Mars, with growing cities and sprawling farmland, each cell tented to hold in its air. But here in the rugged canyons that rose up toward the highlands, hard folks lived in harder holes, waiting for opportunity to pass their way, as he had.
His rover had nearly made it through this dangerous stretch of country - dangerous even by the standards of Mars - when a failed wheel forced him to stop. By the time he had it changed out, they were nearly upon him. But with his destination just over twenty kilometers away, he figured that he would be there before they could close the gap...
[To be continued.]
They had probably picked up his trail shortly after he had entered the canyon, three days ago. By the second day, he had notice their rover, a long ways back, but slowly gaining on him, and by yesterday, their dogged pursuit and radio silence had made their intentions clear.
Everyone knew the stories, of course, about the raiding parties in these lawless side canyons. The main canyon of Valles Marineris was the heartland of Mars, with growing cities and sprawling farmland, each cell tented to hold in its air. But here in the rugged canyons that rose up toward the highlands, hard folks lived in harder holes, waiting for opportunity to pass their way, as he had.
His rover had nearly made it through this dangerous stretch of country - dangerous even by the standards of Mars - when a failed wheel forced him to stop. By the time he had it changed out, they were nearly upon him. But with his destination just over twenty kilometers away, he figured that he would be there before they could close the gap...
[To be continued.]
500 Words
"I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by." - Douglas Adams
Deadlines aren't much of deadlines when self-imposed; when the prisoner is the judge, jury, & executioner, clemency tends to win the day. Nevertheless, while a clear goal with a clear timeframe doesn't ensure success, a lack of a goal and/or a timeframe nearly guarantees the opposite. Therefore, the plan for this blog is to set a goal of 500 words per day, six days per week.
Deadlines aren't much of deadlines when self-imposed; when the prisoner is the judge, jury, & executioner, clemency tends to win the day. Nevertheless, while a clear goal with a clear timeframe doesn't ensure success, a lack of a goal and/or a timeframe nearly guarantees the opposite. Therefore, the plan for this blog is to set a goal of 500 words per day, six days per week.
Speaking of inventive fictions (such as the writing goal outlined above), this blog will mostly be fictional writing, and most of that will be speculative fiction, and most of that will be science fiction (which is a rather weaselly-worded goal... as at least 51% of at least 51% of at least 51% adds up to, well, perhaps not a lot). The non-fiction is mostly for another blog, which is also being dusted off and set back on its feet... but more on that later (probably).
The main audience for this blog is, as of now, an audience of one; if the author can do a semi-decent job of converting some of his thoughts into words on the page, then maybe it might grow into something worthy of a larger audience (of two... or even three?), but for now, this writing exercise is mostly to help build the habit of exercise... getting into shape is a ways off, yet.
The main audience for this blog is, as of now, an audience of one; if the author can do a semi-decent job of converting some of his thoughts into words on the page, then maybe it might grow into something worthy of a larger audience (of two... or even three?), but for now, this writing exercise is mostly to help build the habit of exercise... getting into shape is a ways off, yet.
In any case, here's to the first 250 words... or half a day's worth.
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