INTO THE SAVAGE: NOMAD'S PURSUIT
2019
The upcoming novella brought to you by Endless Ink Publishing. Take a step into the savage!
In a futuristic land ravaged by near infinite wars between city nations, Ensign Grayson Wells, a man both haunted and blessed by his high genetic markings, must embark on his first real mission, to hunt down a renegade soldier responsible for unleashing a deadly pathogen through the confines of Colossal City-1, a task that seems impossible because he must delve deep within lush and wild forests with a team of rookies against a figure labelled the most vicious and savage their homeland could produce, a nomad with an allegiance only to himself.
Electricity surged through the back panel of the view monitor. The blackened room lit with a fluorescent life to display a battlefield, seemingly countless miles away from where Grayson Wells stood. The landscape was a desolate, smoking, heap. Bodies of men and women clad in damaged battle armor sprawled among the blood-soaked ground. He could not tell where he was taken too in the darkness of his home. Was this some rival nation, now on the cusp of defeat? Or perhaps was this some insurgent stronghold, infiltrated and now destined for ruin? It didn’t matter, in the end Grayson new what the result would be. Gunfire, lasers, and automated rifles sliced through the air amid quick explosions in the background. There was a roar followed by a massive shadow enveloping the lens of Grayson’s outdated viewing tech. He watched the hulking, high alloy, armor-plated, assault raiders launch forth on treads indiscriminate about the bodies they crushed underneath.
They rolled forth, emblazoned with the familiar insignia of Grayson’s homeland, a zealous icon of a crowned tree mounted atop spidery roots covering all the known world. The assault raiders smashed through the improvised barricades of destroyed walls and former buildings. Each of the dozens of vehicles screeched to a stop while mounted cannons fired remotely at their distant enemies. The cannons and unmanned rifles throttled to life in a hail of reds and bright orange lights. In the covering fire, a remote holding Grayson watched the tank doors open. More soldiers, heavy rifles in hand and clad in specialized grey combat armor, spilled forth from the metal wombs.
As the soldiers charged, a solitary figure sprinted ahead, straight into oncoming fire. The leader raised their weapon and unleashed a series of gunfire of their own with a marksman’s precision. In the distance, a series of red explosions marked each successful shot. Grayson smirked, the production and camera work was superb. The leader crashed the first line of enemy combatants, followed by a string of equally determined soldiers. The enemy sprawled about, clad in blackish armor, an easy way to pinpoint who to cheer for, and who to fear even in the deepest sleep. As the line of enemy infantry broke, the leader and followers pushed forward to the next line, then another, and another.
With each successful push towards the unseen goal, few soldiers allied with Grayson’s mandatory beloved nation fell. But these were the martyrs, the slain saints meant to rally both soldier and citizen to an unbreakable unity meshing both into the bosom of the nation. Grayson sighed, these were the heavy-handed parts.
More chaos erupted and eventually the lines of enemy defense were destroyed. Amidst smoke and rising ash, a silence covered the soldiers like an invisible blanket. A man staggered towards their leader, their hero who ran headlong into battle absent any self-preservation. He handed something over, a pole, draped with a large fabric.
The helmeted figure raised the flag high before piercing it into the bosom of enemy territory. Their helmet flew off in revelation. It was a man, ivory, perfect, adorned with piercing eyes and a set of artificially enhanced, white, teeth. The crew-cut man rose his fist into the air once again, signaling for surviving soldiers’ attention.
“For Colossal-1!” He shouted.
The faceless soldiers followed suit and raised their fists high and echoed the same words.
“For Colossal-1!” A hivemind mouth echoed.
The screen focused on the flag, the icon, followed by emblazoned and capitalized words:
CITIZENRY, CHIVALRY, CONTINUOUSLY FOR COLOSSAL-1.
With the infotainment over, Grayson pressed the remote before tossing it to the side. He checked the time and moved to the door.
Sometimes, whenever he stood at the front stoop of his elevated dwelling, Grayson wondered what it felt like to be under the sun. Not the neon, fluorescent, and artificial grope of manmade luminescence hanging in mockery of the primitive orb, but the actual caress of Sol itself. His eyes stared upwards then squinted, as if he could pierce through the grey shield blocking his sight. Grayson sighed, it would be useless anyway, even if he could see through the thick fog, the tons of thick steel would block any view of the outside world. Sometimes, he wished seeing outside of Colossal City-1 and towards something greater. But in this world, Grayson reminded himself not to wish for such things when he already had so much compared to countless others.
Both hands fell against his breathing mask and down towards the tube and into the filter box near his chest. Everything in place, there was no worry of contamination. He could have called for an escort, a driver to take him where he needed, but in the scant hours of the morning, it was safer, and better to cross the cityscape to the capital. The commute through the mass transit network was calming, and a reminder of the actual world despite any creature-comforts he might receive to cloud his mind.
Grayson almost strolled along the granite walkways to the stations. With his officer’s coat pristine and shining in a glistening black, his status was made evident to anyone foolish enough to think of him an easy target. Muggers, kidnappers, organ-harvesters, or worse, would see him and know, at the very least, an automatic sidearm rested casually at the hip, and at the very worst, they would know Grayson knew people in high places. The notion would especially sink in once his mask was off, and they’d see the young man adorning posters along the walls and in the, sometimes, flashed, adverts in support of the city’s long-lived infrastructure. For as long as Grayson could remember, there was never an incident. Even without his station unveiled for the denizens of the city, he cut an imposing figure, lean and built for combat. He stopped at a booth connected to a massive locked gate. Unmanned, unfeeling, unconcerned, a red eye flashed to life at the top center of the machine. This was the guardian blocking all passage to the station cars for sorry souls unable not pay the toll.
There was no need to purchase a ticket. Instead, Grayson adjusted his jacket and maneuvered his breast-borne badge to the scanner. An approving signal chimed into the atmosphere and the blockade of steel separated. Same as always, Grayson’s footsteps transcended from and to the shuttle bay’s echoing metal halls. Footsteps clamored as he strolled to his desired car.
Sometimes others would be waiting in the cars. Not, bustling laborers and clerks moving from job to hovel or to some nearby dive-bar. Instead, others distantly matching Grayson in status would sit apart. Some were doctors, others were technicians or engineers, or the play toys of high ranking members of the city-class. Those among him scattered throughout the seats of the seats bore the same type of masks, sometimes of the same regulated and high quality full covering. Most often than not, many wore only the types of cheapened recycled plastic t along one’s mouth. Such types of masks were reliable and plenty to those without the funds and backing to constitute a more expensive piece. Grayson heard someone coughing. Ill-fitting masks, or improper maintenance, sometimes led to the type of cough he heard and would always to spiral much worse. Grayson never stared too long as those travelling with him, yet he allowed them the privilege to look for as long as they desired. After all, they did in front of their home monitors. His eyes flickered to travelers taking a seat, then out to gaze into the dense copse of spires sprouting out of unseen soil and almost grazing the city’s dome.
Though Grayson tried to avert his eyes, he noticed heads positioned into his direction. They wouldn’t approach him, a small thing to be thankful for. Not even the intense awe of seeing someone with a face emblazoned throughout the slums of C-1 would bring the city’s labor to interact with him. With the back of his head exposed to the open morning air, his muscular frame and shining badge, it was easy to garner his identity. No, Grayson’s fellow citizens would not interact with him, out of respect, fear, or hate, there was no way to tell, Grayson mused quietly. More than likely, it was all those emotions keeping the city’s people at arm’s length. He was a face for them, a rhetoric on their behalf, a binary to the clean-cut military man on the screen, or the female beauty heralded as Colossal-1’s future leader and savior. In the back of the car, from the peripheral of his vision, Grayson caught two masked figures, feminine by their shapely figures, giggling between themselves as they stared at him. Half an hour, maybe a little longer or little less, the bullet train would halt, signaling Grayson to rise and to move to the cracked walkways.
His feet travelled the twisted, almost never-ending, snake-like paths of Colossal City-1. A sensation of elevation would come to Grayson. He neared his destination. When the massive, golden, skyscraper was within eyeshot, he was there.
A dozen figures stood before the massive entrance into the Capital Building, the bastion of all the city’s commerce, legislation, and governance. The guards were clad in heavy riot armor and carried large auto-rifles. Behind their deep red visors, Grayson knew each sentry kept a constant vigil in guarding the city’s headquarters. As he stopped before the entrance two guards approached. Their index fingers moved onto their triggers.
“Stop.” One commanded.
Grayson didn’t hesitate to obey. Despite his own rank, he knew it better.
“Identification and name.” The second echoed.
“Grayson Wells.” Tilting his head slightly, Grayson motioned to the badge on his coat.
The two guards moved in to inspect the insignia.
“Damn, you really are an Ensign Special Class. I thought all those info-vids were full of shit. I guess you’re the real deal. My neighbors are always blabbing on about you, saying how they hope their boys get the same treatment.” The first guard said as the scanner on his visor beeped to life. “But why the hell didn’t you take a private transit?”
“I like the walk.” Grayson answered coolly.
“They’re expecting you. Nobody keeps ‘em waiting, all the way up at the top floor.”
“I shouldn’t keep them waiting then.”
“Nah, ya’ shouldn’t.”
The two guards didn’t say anything else. Instead, the unnamed shoulders in black tinted armor, saluted and moved aside to allow Grayson through. He stepped passed them without a second look to the guards.
While the outside of the early morning city remained in slumber, the inside of C-1’s Capital building was an evermoving, ever bustling, ever living, organism. Clerks dashed, task to task, a pair before Grayson, moved at insane speed on a four-wheeled transport cart. As he avoided getting ran over or trampled, Grayson moved to the closest elevator. Inside of the lift, Grayson’s hands reached for the back of his head to unclasp the breathing mask. He sighed, though he still breathed re-filtered air, it was done so through his own mouth and without aid.
The trips to the higher parts of the skyscraper were another sight altogether. Though some escalators were internally structured, Grayson wasted no time in scourging the older lifts. Within the elevator he faced out towards the world, staring through underutilized and underappreciated windows.
Trips to the top floor were few and far between. Grayson only made these trips two other times in his life, once ten years earlier when he achieved his rank at the age of eighteen, and ten years further back when the highest authority wished to meet him in person, to judge what made Grayson so special. Each previous moment and today, Grayson gazed at the sight of every building and human below him. He watched as hundreds of giant buildings crumple into dwarfs, and their denizens turn to ants then to unseen amoeba. Before he could take in the experience of being so far away from the soot, ash, concrete, and metal, the elevator door opened.
While the bottom rung of the Capital Building was a hive and therefore, a mess of work and focused tasks, the lush scarlet carpeting of the first floor was pristine. There were no clerks here but silent secretaries in prim, proper, uniforms of red and blue, and worked on polished desks of artificial wood. Around them custodians kept the golden walls and floors perfect and tended to the authentic plants decorating the corners. Grayson ignored them, they were almost automatons, unappreciative robots who did not realize their lots in life. He moved to the gilded door yards ahead. They were waiting for him. Another red beam flashed as he stood before the door. A beep followed, and the locks released.
The office occupied half of the top floor and housed only two figures. A man lounged in a cushioned chair next another identical seat. In front of Grayson and the other man, he saw a rare yet familiar sight, another desk. It was similar to the others the secretaries used, but larger, worn, older, and genuine timber. Despite the scratches and scuffs adorning the aged wood, the furniture was a near priceless relic. Another chair, wooden and padded with old leather, sat turned away from the men and towards the massive window overlooking the cityscape.
The seated stranger was dressed in the familiar uniform of C-1’s military force. He was clean-shaven, square jawed, complete with recently cut hair, high and tight. The man was everything the posters plastered along city walls the Department of Media and Relations made him out to be. It was the same face screaming for glory on the screen back at Grayson’s home. Parker Stone smiled at Grayson, stood and instead of a formal salute, reached for his hand.
“Ensign Wells,” said Stone before gripping Grayson’s hand. Stone smiled, flashing the plastic-enamel teeth replaced originals that surely had been blown or knocked out in combat. These false teeth were perfect, too perfect in an equally flawless face. “Finally, good to get a look at you.”
Grayson smiled, and thought of his response. He remembered the last words his mother told him at eight years old, before being whisked away to the academy.
“You’re different. You’re not like them. You’re an outsider. They’re just letting you in because they want something.” Her phantom words echoed.
As his mother kept whispering into his ear, Grayson smiled and answered. “Thank you, Captain. It’s an honor sir.”
“You’re the special one here.” The voice in the chair echoed. “Stone may have secured our victory in the last war and converted our new allies in Colossal City 5. But you Ensign Wells, are the real miracle.”
High Governor Reynolds swiveled the chair to stare dead into Grayson’s eyes. He was a small man, a colorless, ghost-white, dwarfish, skeleton, nowhere near the muscle tone of a man like Stone or even Grayson. Yet the diminutive and sickly being controlled every action and decision in C-1. Reynolds cast an imposing figure, even surpassing the intimidation Stone exuded. Strange though, Grayson thought. Even among close subordinates, the High Governor’s personal guards were always in tow. Today was an exception
“Why didn’t you take the personal transport I ordered for you, Ensign?” Reynolds asked. “It’s not everyday someone refuses to ride in the governor’s private vehicle.”
“I just prefer the walk sir. Make sure I get the layout of everything. To remind me what I fight for.” Grayson answered.
“Even at the risk of contagion?” Reynolds pressed.
“He even lives off Military Housing sir.” Stone added. “His place is nice but not anywhere close to what he could have.”
The houses for the officers were lavish, miniature manses embraced by synthetic life and care for by caretakers at every hour of the day. It was just one of the many reasons an infantry man could look at his superiors and feel the stabbing yearning for their position in his heart. Grayson remembered the tour of his prospective digs but refused the offer at the end. The yearnings in his chest to live in the lap of luxury could not supersede a sneaking suspicion, places like the officer’s houses were a drug to lull his senses. To what end, he couldn’t decipher.
The High Governor dismissed him. “I’m aware. It’s concerning to me someone like Ensign Wells risks disease to travel along the confines of our once opulent city.”
They weren’t exaggerating. The red-eyed scanners all along the city didn’t just detect identification badges but did quick checks of the nervous and circulatory system. In the last two decades, a plague ravaged the populace, striking without notice, hesitation, remorse, or predilection. Strong workmen succumbed as well as women, babies, and those elderly not disposed of for uselessness. The tendrils of the plague reached far in C-1, even rumors of it contaminating other city nations had become well known. It didn’t matter to Grayson, all he knew was this contagion took his mother, leaving him alone and with only a dire warning as his last memory of her.
“I keep my filter mask in perfect condition your Honor.” Grayson said, snapping back to reality. “I promise you, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I hope so. You’re special, Ensign. You’ve got perfect geno-markings after all. Despite your upbringing, and…” Stone motioned to his ivory face and then to Grayson’s.
All he could do was nod and acknowledge in the contrast in complexion. News arrived he was marked for no malicious conditions and of perfect health, his mother wept. They’d come for him, despite where they lived and the fact so few like him strove higher than rank-B life careers, the Capital’s men would take him and put his excellent condition to use. And they did.
“Don’t forget about his blood type either.” The High Governor added. “AB negative. But there’s more to this private meeting than praising Ensign Well’s healthy attributes.”
Reynolds tapped a button on his desked. The lights dimmed, and a projection came to life on the far wall. Picture after picture appeared, all of the same demure girl.
“Your daughter?” Grayson asked.
“Correct.” Reynolds responded. “What do you know about my daughter?”
“Highest marks out of any child to come out of an C-1 governance institute. The news reports and media feeds say no other leader out there’s going to be no match for her brain power.”
“No,” Reynolds said. “Tell me what you know.”