Allo! This is either the last or second-to-last prologue for a possible NaNoWriMo story. I'm going to be much more active on the blog during the month, posting things like quotes and small excerpts and character profiles. I just have to decide which story I want to write first.
I've been cranking out stuff these past months. I'm soon going to finish NINE (remember that one?), my first-ever-completed novel, and then I'm going to finish "The Orchid," my next one, which is the beginning of a trilogy, and then there's November, and...it's complicated. But I do have a plan. And Saturday marks chapter 6 of GRIM, so stay tuned, and the next video will be up today or tomorrow.
In the meantime, here's EMPIRE, a sci-fi series that follows a young criminal in the future, where the world is divided up into different "districts," essentially states, which each have their own government and their own militaries, etc. Aliens have arrived on Earth, in fact, that was a long time ago, and they are now the norm in society. Great human empires can rise and fall just as quickly as a cutthroat scavenger. Anything goes in EMPIRE, the first book: Tyrant. And this young criminal is one awesome fella who realizes that there are plenty of much awesomer fellas out there.
E M P I R E
T Y R A N T
GREATNESS CAN NEVER BE PERFECT.
ONE
DEEP STORAGE
DISTRICT 42
2248
“INTRUDER. INTRUDER. UNIDENTIFIED.
CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS.”
The words of the blaring voice over the
intercom are ones I’m used to hearing. Like so many times before, naturally, I ignore them, focusing
instead on the vault.
The door is square, from floor to ceiling,
with multiple gears protruding from it at random intervals. This is how District 42 always wins;
they create technology that, while not too complicated, has never been seen
before. I use my right hand to spin the gears in different directions, cracking
the code after the first three tries. Lucky me. My left holds a small device, just a flat little piece of glass with
a display projected on its surface. It monitors the progress in
opening the door.
The room surrounding me is not very big;
only a few meters of each wall, with a single automated door opposite the vault that has been sealed shut by none other than yours truly.
Gunshots behind me.
“ATTENTION INTRUDER! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!
SURRENDER YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR, OR THE ROOM WILL BE GASSED!”
I just roll my eyes. If someone can get
this far past their defenses, then they will be too intrigued to gas me. So I
continue to hack into the vault. Almost
there.
“THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!”
The vault door is unlocked. Doing a
silent cheer, I step back and pick up my black utility bag, slinging it over my
shoulder and waiting to see what’s beyond the defenses. My employer must have some guts to
try and get whatever District 42 has in deep storage.
As the door slowly and creakily slides
open, releasing a thick haze of steam in its wake. I drop to one knee and unzip
the black duffel bag. Inside are several packs of C4 and a detonator, sitting
comfortably in the bag as if they couldn’t kills me with the snap of their fiery fingers.
The men on the other side of the door are
silent now. They can hear the vault opening. Maybe I actually will get to steal something.
But then I see what’s inside.
Rows upon rows of glass cases atop black
metal pedestals, each one containing a perfectly-cut, glittering, transparent
diamond, identical to the rest. I should’ve KNOWN that District 42 would always
be one step ahead of me.
One of these diamonds is worth half a
million bucks. And the rest are fake.
The room with the diamonds is HUGE, with a
cylindrical shape that shoots up from the floor to some ceiling that is
entirely out of my range of sight. The walls are made of shiny black panels,
arranged so that they perfectly fit together. The only light comes from the
floor, which is one big, smooth light panel. District 42 is so much smarter
than I am. And I was too stupid to think twice.
I sling my silver, rusted LG-435 over my shoulder and hold it in place, dropping the duffel bag on the
ground and leaving it in the vault doorway. Holding the gun up at a ready
position, I quietly proceed into the room and make my way between the fake treasures.
District 42 is so frustratingly clever. They
KNEW that lasers or automatic wall-mounted turrets or cameras would be too easy
to stop. So they placed the diamond within one of the most simple yet effective
tests a man could attempt to pass. Those little suckers.
The door in the room outside the vault
slides open easily now, without even being blasted open. In rush two
Infantrymen, training much more advanced rifles, ones made of jet-black metal,
on me, the red dots caressing my forehead. The men wear white combat
suits with shoulder padding and small armor plates on their limbs. Their gloves have no fingers, and their faces are covered by
sleek white helmets with black visors.
“Drop your weapon,” commands the one on the
right, his voice metallic and cold through the helmet speaker. I do so; they’ve
got me.
Almost.
The other Infantryman stoops down and picks
up the C4 bag. He looks inside and then drops it back on the ground.
“Bag contains primitive explosives. Proceed
with caution.”
“What is your prime directive? Who is your
employer?” inquires the other. He holds his gun with even more focus. The
Infantryman opposite him presses a button on his helmet, presumably to
communicate.
“Commander, we have him. Send word to the
Operator,” he says. I can’t hear the response.
“I was sent to recover the Specter Diamond,
by someone with a lot of bling.”
They do not respond at first. I just told them everything I know, and that's the truth.
“Put your hands on your head and prepare
for arrest,” commands the one on the right, “The Operator awaits.”
I slowly do as they say, pulling something
out of my back pocket. The detonator. They may have my gun taken, but I still
have the advantage.
When my hands are on my head, I stand
silently and wait as the left Infantryman proceeds to search me. He fumbles
through my black leather jacket, my jean pockets, even scans my dog tags for
any possible threat. He finishes quickly and then steps back, his gun still
pointed at me.
“Identify yourself.”
I hesitate a moment. “You don’t need to
know who I am. Only my employer.”
“Who is?”
And I honestly don’t know the answer to
that.
“No idea. Ask the people that kidnapped me a few weeks ago and had a gun to my head."
The one on the left shakes his head.
“Probably one of those pirates,” he grunts,
“Think they can steal from District 42.”
So the people here are cocky. Noted.
I keep my hands on my head as at least ten
more Infantrymen take their positions in a line guarding the door, each with
their rifles trained on my head. The two who found me first are lost in the
crowd.
“Hello boys,” I remark, “There still aren’t
enough of you to take me.”
“Is that a challenge?”
An unaltered male voice from behind the
line of troopers shuts me up. All I can hear are footsteps as the person approaches.
And I recognize the voice.
“You know, when I asked the Operator
himself to keep the Specter Diamond safe, I didn’t know anyone knew of its actual existence,” he says, stepping past the Infantrymen to face me, his hands behind
his back. “But apparently, I was wrong.”
John C. LaBeaux. The richest man in the
world.
He is just barely taller than me, and he is
a sight to behold. His hair is slicked back entirely and I think it glints
green from the floor light. He wears red reflective Aviators, and his mouth is
framed by a heavy five o’ clock shadow. His suit is a dark green color with a
bright red bow tie. Like Christmas, but with one too many presents.
“Gentlemen, if someone actually KNEW about
the diamond, then they wouldn’t be your average pirate. Lower your weapons.”
The Infantrymen comply.
“So, tell me your name, age, home District,
and favorite type of wine,” he commands, standing with his head held high.
“My favorite wine?”
He grunts as if it were obvious. “Yes, so I
can plan your last meal before I strip you of your clothes and hang you from
the outermost wall by your shoelaces.”
I gulp. What scares me is how calmly he
says it.
Might as well.
“My name is Drake Xavier,” I inform him,
trying to be proud and firm, “I am twenty-five years old and an orphan from the Burg. And I don’t
drink.”
“Well, that’s surprising, considering you
just tried to break into the most high-security chamber in the most powerful
city in the most powerful district on earth.”
I cock my head and grin.
“Except, I’m not done,” I say, slowly
lowering my hands from my head and revealing the detonator. “You see, you’ve
forgotten something.”
“What’s that?”
“The bag of C4 behind you.”
I hold my thumb over the detonator button
threateningly as the Infantrymen and LaBeaux turn to see the bomb sitting on
the glowing floor.
“So,” I continue, “Unless you want to be
blown sky-high, I suggest you back off.”
The Infantrymen slowly lower their guns in
confusion and a bit of fear, but LaBeaux just stands there.
“Anyone arrogant enough to try and break
into THIS vault is too arrogant to blow themselves up,” he mocks, staring me
coldly in the eyes. “Put the detonator down.”
I don’t. Duh.
He shakes his head and looks down at the floor.
“Oh, Drake, so naïve. You really think that—”
Before he even continues his SENTENCE, he
whips a silver pistol out of his suit pocket and fires one shot straight into
my leg. I scream in pain and drop the detonator, hitting the ground HARD and
clutching the wound.
“You really think that I’m the richest man
in the world and I don’t carry at least SOME sort of weapon around?”
I can’t even respond as he looms over me
menacingly. My vision begins to go red around the edges.
“It’s time for you to meet the Operator,”
he says before I pass out, “This ought to be interesting.”
c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.
Love it! What a hook opening! Your main character is funny and likeable, and I'm intrigued by LaBeaux. I would definitely keep this if I were you. :)
ReplyDelete