A Life Half Lived

[Dusty Lens]

= A slow, very slow, work in progress. I mull things over in a manner that is not described as quick and it takes a couple of tries before my writing ability even begins to tap "almost allright" on the shoulder. So bear with me, if you're even halfway interested in the work. =

=Original Prelude, maintained for posterity=

The droplet, a speck, of antimatter dashed through the stars wrapped securely within its massive cocoon of rapidly decaying electromagnetic energy. An errant molecule of hydrogen, a lonely scrap of long drifting space dust would have been more than enough to alter this moment, but all was swept aside before the torrent of energy radiating from the fiery ball. When it collided with the outer hull of the unshielded transport, the reaction between the durasteel and antimatter particle was catastrophic. The resulting blast of energy sundered the vessels hull and laid bare its plasma reactor, which was itself already in its final stages of destruction, its volatile energies flooding from structures too stressed to maintain containment.

Seconds slipped by and the transport erupted into a brilliant cascade of fire, its final spark of life to be found in the quickly dimming control pod spinning into the void, frozen atmosphere sputtering as that too disintegrated into nothing resembling a vessel.

He found it easier to look at what he had done from an academic perspective. Had written about it from an academic perspective before, but those days were long past.

"Saddle up gents, word has it the calvary is on the way and it's high time we scadooted. Good shootin back there, a good kill."

He swung the cumbersome bulk of his CTE-10000 into formation with the Leo Mathews and the rest of the Xeno strike group he chanced one last look towards the small field of carnage that they had wrought. A large convoy of broken Kishiro transports and mauled fighters burnt their last between the shorted trade lanes, it was a hellish view.

But it had been a good kill. They were all good kills, when you killed for something greater than yourself.

He reached into his pocket to fetch a smoke from the worn pack squatting in his jacket pocket. Placing it to his lips he performed a practiced double tap on the foil cylinder, moments later the tip sparked to life and he took an appreciative drag.

The man next to him, if you could call the seventeen year old sporting a scattering of sparse hairs a man, broached the question burning in both of their minds.



"You think this is going to work?"


"It'll work." Was replied behind a crackle of burning paper.


"No one's ever done this before."


"That's why it'll work"


"But if it doesn't..."



The smoker chuckled ruefully and took another drag as the two blobs of humanity below neared the point of convergence. The din of their shouts could be felt more than heard above the whine of the patrol craft hovering above the demonstration. The same songs, chants and cries that had echoed through these streets for over two centuries.

Houstons noon sun took on a burnt tangerine hue as it fell behind the thick smoke emanating from the hydrocarbon refinery the mass of protestors were marching towards. The patrol craft fired their beams of light into the surging crowd of protestors as the street went dark under the haze, lighting the rows of raised fights and waving signs, now only a block away from the LPI line.

"If this doesn't work we're in a world of ****."

He took another drag, thankful for the distraction from the panic racing through his heart, praying his face communicated something other than the failing cool of a terrified fifteen year old wearing a jacket one size too big to fit, a beard a year too young to suit his face and actions far too heavy for his youth.

"But if it does work you're in."

The cigarette bobbed once in agreement, blue eyes watching as two groups of humanity met in opposition. The second the first hand touched the first shield it was an unlawful congregation, that was the law. Seconds later the sickening clicks of the riot control mechanisms started to tapdance on the wills of the two boys, suggesting that anything other than sitting down, rolling up and possibly ****ting out their hearts wasn't in their best interest. He knew the agony in the street would be worse. This is when it could fall apart.

Do you know why we reckoned thisd be a suitable gesture? His sponsor broached amidst a grimace.

The crowd broke, they dropped their signs and ran from the wall of inhuman noise. Neural wails perfected over centuries to really, really ruin the day of someone on the wrong end of the offices of the law. In their scattered wake he could see the sea of signs, bearing the familiar slogans of this district of Houston. Police brutality, slave state, fair days work for a fair day's wage. The testament of a district with 80% unemployment where everyone had a job, once they were picked up by the LPI for social vagrancy anyways. Social credits earned over a vat of fuming hydrocarbons to be processed into fertilizer to feed Rheinland farms.

I dunno Allan, because one of the suits down there is the guy banging my mom?

The first shots rang out below, this is what the LPI were waiting for, the real protestors. The real menace. The ones who would kill them in their sleep, the ones who broke the factories and arranged the riots. The ones who would leave a foreigner bleeding face down in a gutter.

Just about right Allan replied. But not exactly

The LPI charged, their feet trampling the signs beneath. Above them the patrol cars trained their spotlights on the flicker emanating from firearms.

Then why?

The shooters broke, the LPI pressed, the street of signs all but vanished beneath their feet.

Because we wanted to see if youd be able to look those people down there in the eyes when you handed them those signs of yours. Bit about yer arsehole fath

Then the world ended.

The concussive blast of the explosion lifted the two and sent them tumbling as the street below erupted in flame. Their plan, his plan, burning fit to set the clouds above them alight with the flame. He felt more than heard the report, the sound of a low flying patrol craft crashing into a building as it strove to compensate for the heat and pressure.

A hundred signs, laden with plastique, carried unwittingly to form a street of mines. Poetic, he thought, and the perfect disguise for their deadly intent.

Allan rolled with a groan then inched towards the side of the building to take a brief look over the side. He didn't want to look, he didn't want to see the result of that explosion amidst the mass of humanity rushing over it. He was hoping his reward for this day could be, hope against hope, being spared that. There would be other days for that. Not today.

Allan crawled back, eyes alight with something he didn't want to think might be echoed in his own.

"Fecking A David. Welcome to the Xenos."

He took a drag, the flare echoed by the burning clouds above.