| Author | Message | ||
     Savant |
((Typing with a busted up hand is tough. many apologies. This is likely going to be short ^_^)) The Diary of Jon Olduva Despair has finally taken me. With the heroic last stand of The Defenders above Reorsa some ten years past, the reign of the Pfhor had been terrible and complete. The beasts have visited death and horror upon us since that time, with their enigmatic dark-energy will'o'wisp allies keeping the broken Reorsans in line far better than the threat of the Drohak or other monstrosities. I could take it no longer. I had been a defender of Reorsa, and stood at the final battle in the ruins of Churchill Downs! I watched as the hull of mighty Vanquish streaked across the sky like a comet and crashed into the ocean, its duranium spine broken. I emptied every clip I had for my rifle. I fought until my knife had broken off in a Drohaks' scaly hide. I struggled beneath their claws as they pulled me under. All this for nothing. We are a beaten people, and our masters remind us of this every day with the insult of the camps and the grueling labour. We burrow out the core of our beloved planet and we produce food for them, and get nothing but bloodshed in return. There were whispers of rebellion some months back. Andrei Vermille and many of those in his labour camp rose up against the Pfhor in a desperate assault for their freedom, but their labours only bought them misery. They were not killed, not a one - the bioengineering magic of the Pfhor has kept them alive long after they ought have died. The agony of ceaseless torture they have had to endure since that point has been enough to ensure the loyalty of the remaining braids and humans. My commiseration, my silent misery was broken by a gentle hand on my shoulder, along with the pungent scent of ozone and a crack of static. I gasped from fear - shadows were long in those days and each one bore its own terrors. I turned, but not before her voice melted from the darkness behind me like a silent river flowing from the lip of a glacier. "Jon Olduva, is it?" When I turned, there was a smile on familiar lips, and the twinkle in merry eyes I had seen before. I was sure I was dreaming; the last any had seen of Savant was before the loss of the final Battle of Reorsa. With the destruction of Coronado in a fiery thunderclap, the friendly ansible-spirit had been forever lost to us. So we all had suspected. I couldn't speak, I was stunned. The polished bright rank buttons, the lustrous red and glowing black of her uniform, so much like the one I used to wear, caught my voice in my throat. The smile she wore broadened, so much like the smile I had seen in fleeting glances before, in another life. "Lieutenant Commander, life for you is not over yet. Put aside your misery, and know this- there will come a time to rise again. When we meet again, you will be bourne from this slavery, and the Pfhor will be cast aside." Her words fell on ringing ears, and I felt elated and betrayed. What greater terror could there be than hope? What could be worse than dreaming of freedom while living in slavery? And how could she have survived? My technical knowledge, long buried, came back in a rush. We had never understood the ansibles. Had she hidden within that network all this time? Had perhaps the Taer come to her rescue? I forced myself to speak. "Savant . . ." I licked my lips, which were cracked and dry - I hadn't cared about those things for a long time, "How are you here? There's no projector within a thousand miles. Do the Defenders live?" My heart pounded against my ribs, making my blood sing in my ears. The Defenders, still alive! There *was* still hope! Her reply was a purr and a whisper, humming with synthetic sound but more alive than the sweetest symphony. "So many questions, Jon. Have peace and patience. This vine still has blooms to grow yet. Stay alive, so that you might see them again." Her luminous form crackled, briefly flaring before it disappeared with the sound of glass bells and electricity. I lay back on my bed after some hours had passed, though sleep would abandon me still. I found myself jealous of Andrei Vermille. |