Sparks - Tales from the Provinces



  Dedicated to Grammy and Grampy for their eternal support

  SPARKS

  By

  Joseph Bouchard

  Copywright © 2013 Joseph Bouchard

  Or visit the Author personally at StrategicFiction.com

  Reassignment

  Arthur fired haphazardly at the approaching enemy from behind a half-destroyed wall, lacking his usual focus and enthusiasm. A more alarming threat had just grabbed his full attention.

  “Myrina! I can’t marry you! It’s against regs!” not to mention against his need to remain a dedicated soldier of the Tomlin military. Dedication and loyalty beyond question, that was his creed. Without that he was nothing, a hollow shell. And yet, he found his ethical boundaries being strained thin by Tomlin’s recent political agenda. At this particular moment, he needed marriage the way a sniper needed hiccups.

  “Artie, you need know something…” and then she was mumbling. Mumbling in the middle of gods-forsaken combat.

  “Repeat that!” he shouted. Frag it. Chalice soldiers had cut off their retreat. They were trapped on a hill, within the blown-out ruins of Chapel in the Sky.

  “I’m pregnant, Artie. Pregnant!”

  “WHAT?? But that’s impossible! They said it was impossible!” His compression rifle clicked empty while he stared up at Myrina in shock. Enemy bullets chattered against the wall of the ruined chapel. Chips of stone pelted his face, yet his empty weapon continued clicking.

  “Dammit, get back and reload!” she barked. One large hand gripped his shoulder and tossed him towards a safer position while she unloaded round after round from a massive steam-cannon down onto the advancing enemy. “They wanted this, Artie! They deceived us, knowing what might happen, hoping it would happen. They want to take our child, all our children!” She meant all the potential children of the women in her battalion. The Harpies. Genetically engineered super-soldiers. Thousands of test subjects had perished before public outrage had shut down the project. Only a few hundred had survived, supposedly barren. But if those few could breed…

  Arthur’s perception narrowed until only Myrina and his unborn child occupied his attention. At nearly eight feet tall, three-hundred and twenty pounds of muscles and curves, with her chocolate hair flying wildly about, Myrina was beautiful. But encased within the armor plating, bulky fuel canisters, and heavy munitions of her jumpsuit’s exoskeleton… she was glorious.

  “What do we do, Artie?”

  “We can jump clear of this fight, take our chances back at base? Maybe you’re wrong.” but her eyes told him otherwise. Her eyes were frantic, and not about the approaching soldiers. Arthur’s mind whirled through scenarios. What to do? A child! But the province he had committed his life to now threatened yet another evil against its own soldiers. He felt a painful emotional tearing. Anguished, he tried to reconcile warring devotions. Loyalty beyond question, his thoughts accused. What was he, if he compromised his own beliefs? Nothing. Yet, his loyalty to Tomlin was compromised.

  Chalice soldiers were nearly upon them. He needed a solution, and grasped at a leap in logic: no compromise, just reassignment. He scavenged through rubble for shreds of pale fabric, and raised a flag.

  “We’ll surrender, barter for amnesty. We defect. We save our child.”

  Decisive Action

  The teddybear lunged for Sebastian. Instant alarm replaced the teen’s curiosity. “Sunnovabitch!” He leapt backwards, crashing against the roughhewn wall of the small barn. As he regained his footing, something heavy tumbled to the dirt floor behind him. He glimpsed down to see another teddybear scrabbling to its feet, glossy eyes suddenly glowing with red pinpoints. “Gah!” There wasn’t much room to maneuver. He kicked out at the toy, but thorny claws clutched his pants, raking into skin. Sebastian shot a nervous glance back to the first teddybear and discovered it airborne, springing through shafts of afternoon sunlight towards his chest. Within the barn’s dusty dimness, he noticed more red eyes coming to life. What now? He couldn’t fail Papa again!

  Cold panic swept Sebastian’s thoughts away, and then he was fighting for his life.

  “I’m Alive?” Sebastian gasped in ragged sobs of dusty air. See, Papa? Decisive. I can take action.

  Alive, but sliced up something wicked. Blood soaked his torn clothing. Burning sweat trickled into his wounds. Broken chunks of clockwork, fluff, and wiring littered the floor. Sunbeams pierced clouds of kicked-up dust, shimmering off the debris. The stolen motor-tiller Sebastian had come for sat in a corner, surrounded by a hoard of other, likely stolen, farm equipment. “I knew it!” That crooked old geezer had filched Papa’s tiller!

  Behind him, the distinct hiss of a triple-barrel steam-shot being primed sent a shiver through Sebastian.

  “You done kilt mah bears, boy. I lurved dem bears.” Ol’ Tennison stood behind Sebastian at the barn door, a hunched shadow framed in sunlight. “Wha’ should we do with ‘im, Matildah?” Tennison caressed his steam-gun. He turned his head, spit, and nodded to himself. The PAP of released pressurized steam was deafening. Sebastian spun and collapsed as the slug hammered into his shoulder. Dust filled his mouth, blackness pressed in. He dreamed. Papa’s disappointed eyes glared down on him.

  Needling stings woke him. Sebastian opened blurry eyes. He was hanging upside-down, facing the setting sun. His arms were afire, pain stabbed from a hundred tiny sources. His knuckles dragged on the ground. Ants slowly swarmed up his hands, crawling higher. Blood trickled down his arm in a steady flow. Fear had left him, consumed by shame. He struggled weakly, then gave it up. He had failed yet another task. Papa’s specter tsked condescendingly.

  A wet cloth on his face, hushed words.

  “Zeyu’s balls! What was he doing?” Papa had found him. Despair!

  “Taking decisive action. Like you taught him to.” Mama too?

  “I’m so sorry Papa,” Sebastian croaked, “He had the tiller, but I couldn’t… The bears… he shot me…” the world spun.

  “It’s ok, son. I know. You’re safe. Ol’ Tennison can’t hurt you anymore. Not ever.” That tone. Sebastian had never heard that tone from Papa before.

  “I let you down again, Papa…” the tears started.

  “No! Gods no, son. You done good. You’ve always done good.” Pride. Sebastian was sure he heard pride.

  Blind Vengeance

  “I’m a dead man if you don’t get this thing off me.” Cyrus fought to rip the device off his head, and failed. He was blind. Blood poured down his face. He choked down surging terror.

  “I can say the same. Quickly, your hands are free. Get me loose.” The voice came from just a few feet away, desperate, ragged, echoing off wooden walls.

  He heard the man’s distress. His memory fed him details. The ominous, multi-bladed clockwork apparatus knifing into his comrade’s stomach gave him shivers. Cyrus had broken free, but not before the eggbeater had been locked over his eyes. Even blinded, he had killed the torturer swiftly.

  The floor seemed to roll underneath his feet. He stumbled against the torturer’s fallen body, searching frantically for the other man’s restraints. The thing on his face clicked, biting deeper. He screeched, and his hands spasmed. Anger sparked briefly. Was vengeance worth this price? His trembling fingers found something, a catch or release. He tried to unfasten it.

  “You fool! Not that!”

  A clacking, like that of a spring unwinding rapidly past a restraining latch, and the prisoner in front of him shrieked and thrashed. Cyrus fell backwards in horror. The screaming stopped abruptly. Silence.

  His shoulders thumped against rattling wood. Panic squeezed the air from his lungs and refused to let him catch his breath. He struggled not to retch. H
ow would he get free now? His reached over his head with one shaking hand and found a handle. He must be hunched against the door of the small chamber. His other hand discovered the table of torture implements, from which he scavenged a sharp tool. Whimpering uncontrollably, he wedged the blade under a leather strap, tight against his scalp, and sawed.

  Finally. Finally! Cyrus wrenched the vile device free from his skull and hurled it away with a clatter. From where it landed he heard the awful click again. He flinched involuntarily, then fled through the door.

  Damp river air hit his skin. Cyrus collapsed against a wobbly railing. He breathed deep the scents of reeds and murky water. The surging beneath his feet revealed itself: A riverboat. Disjointed memories assailed him of a botched espionage mission at the estates of Tomlin’s Chancellor Second, Marvin Lestrone. How did things go this