White Noise (pt I)

"We found her, Madison. We found her."

The words echo in her head. She strides through the corridor, barely registers the people—other pilots, support staff, ranking officers and enlisted personnel—who flatten themselves against the bulkheads to get out of her way. Jerome’s voice is a meaningless buzz mixing with the white noise filling up her mind. Only his first words matter.

“We found her.”

“Her.”

He’s still speaking. No coordinates, but Genesis can download those from the bunker mainframe. His words fade in and out, like tuning an old-world radio. Needless, pointless sounds. “Shouldn’t have told you… worried about you… not like you… Madison, just listen…” Layers on layers of static in her head. White noise. Red.

“Her.”

“Captain Donohue!” The Bunker Commander’s authoritative tone barely penetrates the static and haze. She keeps walking. “Captain,” he snaps again. “If you run off and murder Kara because you're having a temper tantrum, how is it any better than what she did? It's just another breach of discipline. Control yourself, or you're no different than her!” Coming from Jerome, the words cut.

Stops, spins, her lips an inch from his skin. Close enough to kiss. Snarls, “That. Is not. Kara.”

He stumbles back a step. His face is ashen. He thinks she’s crazy. He may be right.

Worth it.

“Her.”

She’s walking again. There’s a hand on her arm, restraining. Jerome hasn’t given up. She moves it away. More hands, black leather gloves: Jerome’s called up the MP’s. She moves them, too. Screaming. White noise.

The hatch is in front of her. Tunnel vision, the rest of the corridor fading to red. She turns the knob; nothing. Security lockdown. Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. No more hatch.

Across the hangar, Genesis rising before her. Comforting, cold titanium alloy. Genesis makes sense; it would never give and then take away, never earn her trust and then use it against her. Like Jerome. She moves his hands off her again. Like Her.

 “Her.”

 The lifts are locked down like the doors. Not a problem. Climbing—she sees her hands through the red haze as she looks up. Small. Delicate. Deceptive.

Like Her.

Jerome has stopped chasing her. He won’t touch Genesis—it’s not his. Taboo. Heresy. Bunker Commander ensures and exemplifies religious devotion to military order. Taboos are laws. Defiance is heresy.

Red haze. Small, delicate hands. Covered in red. Blood.

Worth it.

Shouting. Meaningless. Genesis’ access hatch. Inside, quiet. Calm. White noise. Red haze. Light. The hangar doors open. Smooth power-up sequence cuts through the static. She sees Jerome on the ground. His hand is on Delilah’s shoulder; the girl is trying not to cry. She sees the struggle on the child’s face, remembers the feeling. Unbidden, memories come. The word she never thinks about. Abandoned.

Her commander. Their daughter.

Worth it.

She turns away. Turns past the empty dock where Revelations once stood. Turns toward the light, the open doors. She can’t see Delilah anymore. Nothing to see. Delilah is trained. Has the best genetics. Top ranked pilot, Bunker Commander. She’ll survive.

“We found Her.”

Uplink to bunker mainframe. Last step. Download coordinates. Deep breath. Static peaks.

“Go.”

White Noise (pt II)

Ground rushes by. Unimportant. More white noise and red haze. The trip is long. Has been longer coming.

Worth it.

Warning beeps. Closing in on coordinates. Slow now, stealth. Distance meaningless. Topping a rise. Looking down.

Her.

A small commune—no other word for it. Mostly civilians. Revelations nowhere in sight. Minimal armaments. Moderate defenses. Assessment complete. No match.

Feels like there should be more to this moment. Genesis and Revelations. Alpha and Omega. Beginning and end. Beginning ending end. Irony, justice, revenge, something.

White noise. Her.

Crosshairs. Trigger. Squeeze. End.

Stopstopstopstopstop

She has turned. Still unaware. Kneels, arms open. A girl. Barely younger than Delilah. Mouth moves.

“Mommy!”

…Mommy?

Not Ma’am? No respect, no structure?

Heresy.

Squeeze.

An embrace. A little girl; that forgotten word: mommy.

Peace. They have peace.

Red haze. White noise.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been there. Lying just beneath the crest of the hill, watching. Genesis’ sniper position is second nature. She can’t tell if the time crawling by is made of seconds or weeks. Watching.

A small collection of surface-dwelling civilians. Not raiders; almost a community. The forbidden stuff of bedtime stories told to the youngest, the children too small still to understand. Old-world concepts, passed through the generations, of a safe life, a life without military order and the constant struggle to survive. Twisted. Idealized. Peaceful, yes. Helpless. The only reason they’ve lasted this long is—has to be—Her.

Static peaks at the thought of Her. Her.

She’s holding the little girl, the little heretic, Her daughter. No rank, no order, mommy and daughter. Abomination.

How dare She? Not only to leave, but also to betray the entire system? Is She trying to end the world again?

Not that She cares about anyone but Herself. She proved that. She left.

Red haze. White noise.

The little girl in Her arms. Mommy.

The child isn't much older than Delilah-- less than a year's disparity in their ages. She wonders for a moment who the father is. Could the child come from her own bunker? Is the child much different than Delilah? She shakes her head, minute movement. Invalid comparison. Delilah has all the tools she needs to survive. She and Jerome saw to that.

And she will come back. She will not abandon Delilah. Not like—Warning: Forbidden thought –not like she was abandoned.

Crosshairs. Squeeze.

Pulse. Red haze. White noise.

Mommy.

No more hesitation! The little one is an abomination—everyone in this mockery of a commune is! Revolution against the system. Intolerable.

And then there’s Her.

Her.

She has to die.

She murmurs under her breath, solace in the official procedure, the scripted words. “For the following crimes against the state: incompetence of command. Desertion from Bunker ACL61, and the standing army therein. The murder of Kara Hall, and subsequent impersonation of the same. Abandoning the responsibilities and duties of command.” Abandoning me.

“The accused, who styles herself Kara Hall, is hereby sentenced to death.”

No more hesitation.

They all have to die before their heresy can spread. For Delilah. For Jerome. For all that’s left of civilization. Only way to survive.

For the child she was when she was abandoned.

She has to die.

Her.

But not first.

Crosshairs. Inhale, exhale. Squeeze.

White noise.

White noise.

White noise.

White…

Part II: Excerpt from "Song of the Blood"

 Upstairs, Sera struggled to change out of her sweat-soaked clothes with hands that shook. She loved to dance, but it wasn’t safe and she knew it. How could she have let herself be so stupid? She berated herself mentally as she frantically set about packing her few belongings. She should never have stayed in the tavern when she found out there were performers that night—it didn’t matter how hungry or cold or tired she was! For when she heard music, invariably it captured her, inescapable, and she was unable to disobey until the dance had run its course. She forgot herself completely, helpless to do anything but allow the music and her bloodline to turn her body into a living, moving work of art.

Fey-touched was the technical term for the enchantment, handed down through her family’s lineage for generations, but she called it a curse. The inevitability of it infuriated her, but more than that, it was dangerous. Most of the world had forgotten that the myths about the Duresk line were based in fact, but not all of it. Far too many people had been in the room—someone had to have noticed the attention she drew to herself, both with her prowess and her reluctance. The Warlord’s spies could be anywhere. She had to leave at once.

Donning her shawl, she slung her backpack over her shoulder and ran for the door.

Before she could reach it, the door flew open! It slammed against the wall; two men stormed in, and Sera gasped, letting out a shriek of alarm as they advanced on her. She backed away, but there was nowhere for her to go—the window was shut, and she’d never get it open before they reached her even if she cared to brave the three-story drop.

Losing her head completely, she dropped her bag and darted between them, fleeing for her life. Her desperate bid for freedom was to no avail; they reached out for her, too fast to avoid, each of them seizing one of her arms in a vice-like grip.

Sera opened her mouth to scream in earnest, clawing at them, and found a hard cloth ball shoved between her teeth. Working with silent efficiency and ignoring her pitiful attempts to struggle, they bound her arms behind her, her legs together, and the gag behind her head. Finally, they divested her of her few weapons, searching her writhing form thoroughly, and the larger, black-haired man threw her trussed body over his shoulder. The smaller man picked up her bag, and they ghosted from the room. Within a minute, no one in the outside world even aware, Sera’s hard-won freedom had been stripped from her, and she found herself a helpless prisoner.

Part I: Excerpt from "Song of the Blood"

The drum beat with her heart; her bare feet sounded its rhythm on the hardwood stage. She could feel the music burning through her veins; with every gasping breath her lungs seared. She spun, rolling her head and stretching her arms, then rotated her hips sinuously, sinking lower to the ground as the thick muscles in her thighs burned.

She danced. Deliberately and yet without thought, she threw her body to the air and the power of the beat, letting the tones catch her and resonate through her. It hurt: it burned, it scorched and stabbed and sliced and she didn't want it to end. It had to, though, she knew-- and even now her movements became more frenzied as she sensed the closing and pushed the last of her strength into the final movements.

Finally, blissfully, mercifully, torturously, the music ended. The last beats were stroked from the drum, the bow eased slowly across the fiddle's strings, and she rose from her deep curtsy with exhausted grace.

The room exploded in applause, and Sera gasped as identity flooded her awareness and she struggled to calm her racing heart. She had forgotten who she was, had forgotten that she wasn't alone, had forgotten that she performed: forgotten all but the music and her soul's command to respond, to dance. Her eyes darted around the crowded tavern as she recalled her surroundings, and willpower alone kept her from fleeing out into the rainy night with all haste.

Instead, she assumed her best semblance of serenity as she turned to the musicians and curtsied to them as well, bowing her head in gratitude for the dance, swept one last curtsy to the crowd as if she had meant all along to be the evening's entertainment, and accepted a hand down from the stage. Among the crowd, she dodged questions and admirers and gave in at last to her panicked impulse to run.

---

The man in the shadows, seated at the back corner of the tavern, watched her. His cold grey eyes noted the lovely girl’s frantic gaze and rapid flight with interest that was not lost to his companion. The other man, smaller, with full red hair and a neatly trimmed beard, tipped back his tankard and watched his friend over the rim as he sipped.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” He asked quietly as he set the mug down and wiped his mouth.

For a moment, he feared his partner wouldn’t answer. Finally, however, the larger man grunted what he took to be an affirmative. “What do you see?” The first man demanded, his cold eyes not leaving the stairs.

His companion obediently closed his blue eyes and focused his sharp mind on the future, pushing his energy into the Sight that was his line’s gift. The larger man waited patiently, until the seer finally opened his eyes with a sigh. “It’s time,” was all he said.

In the Beginning

It seems silly to start a blog as a muse by quoting from others, but I will not take credit for that which is not mine. We all started somewhere, and I am not ashamed to have learned from others. I do not claim to be the only one. And so, I attribute the two references in the design of my blog:


One (at the end of  my "about me" section) is from the movie The Matrix. "I can only show you the door; you have to walk through it." Morpheus is an awesome guy.


The other is at the end of the note under my heading: "So send me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free-- I lift my lamp beside the golden door." Sound familiar? That could be because these lines are from Emma Lazarus's famous poem "The New Colossus," engraved on a stone tablet beneath the Statue of Liberty in the harbor beside Ellis Island, New York.

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

 -- Emma Lazarus

What more to say have I, that has not been said? This is my little corner of cyberspace, carved out to make into a home for those who need it. This is my refuge from the cold, dark wastelands of eternity,* and there is no better warmth than companionship. So come stay a while, take off your coat, sit and warm yourself by the fire. Let us speak a bit, of things that were, things that are, and things that have not yet come to pass.**




*"...from the cold, dark wastelands of eternity" is a quote from Anne Rice.
**"...things that were, things that are, and... things that have not yet come to pass" is a quote from J.R. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings.