NationStates Jolt Archive

This is a continuation of my When Chains are Broken thread, which is located here. (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=2583133#2583133)

Adam Wise blew out his breath and huddled into his greasy looking raincoat. He had the collar turned up, but it still wasn't enough to protect his ears from the worst of the cold. He was staring at the massive frontage of the CentGov buildings, huge steel bar gates between him and the object of his gaze.
"Bastard. Traitor. Should be marrying a human woman, like God intended." Wise muttered angrily to himself, still glaring up at the buildings. His face grew red from windburn as he scowled up at the windows. "LIKE GOD INTENDED!"
Private Phillip Kehearn, Raven's Own Regiment heard someone shout, the wind had whipped away any sense to the words, but they'd still been audible slightly. Kehearn muttered and reached for his carbine. Bracing himself he opened the door of his booth and stepped out into the freezing wind.
The skinny, brownhaired private's attention immediately went to a short, fat man in a greasy raincoat shaking his fists and shouting incoherently at the massive gate blocking his access to the CentGov buildings. Phillip muttered and reached for his commo helmet, "This Kehearn, on 3 Booth. There's some nutter yelling at the gates..you want to get someone from Social Services down here?"
The radio burbled back and Kehearn shrugged. "Yeah alright, I'll tell him to piss off."
Kehearn shouldered his carbine, cursed as it started to rain, the drops coming down like needles, and walked over to the man, hunched into his uniform trenchcoat. "Hey, hey you. Sir, I'm afraid this is a restricted area, you'll have to leave."
The fat man looked back, eyes wild. "He's a traitor don't you see. He's marrying a metahuman, they're evil you know." Phillip cursed. The news of the King's marriage had brought out a few nutters, entirely second generation immigrants, no native ever questioned the Monarch or intermarriage, mainly because there'd not been a pure human in Britmattia ever.
"Alright sir, that'll be enough of that. You should move along now." The private's voice grated out the words, pissed at this headcase dragging him out of his warm booth, and at his daring to name the King a traitor.
The man's eyes went inward looking, then confusion left his face. "You're a servant of the demons. Yes, a servant."
Phillip took a step back, swinging his carbine to the ready position, unsafetying it as he did. "Sir, This is the last time I'm going to ask, will you please, fuck!" this came as the fat man whipped a seax out from inside his coat and leaped at the private "Death to the traiAERGH!!" The private's carbine roared and blue fire hurled the fat man backward, his body smacking into the wet pavement. Kehearn released the trigger, panting into his helmet and moved over to the steaming body. The man's face had been wiped away into a miasma of blood and bone, and gore soaked the greasy raincoat.
Phillip gagged, scrabbling for the latch of his visor, dragged it open, staggered to a gutter and puked into it. "C,coms? Ssshit. The d-dude pulled a knife, I.." Soothing radio chatter came back, as Coms promised backup. Phillip breathed heavily and avoided looking at the dead man.

Later

"He called me a what?" Owen stared at the Colonel with the Raven on his collar, sitting to Owen's right on the long wooden table. "He called me a traitor? Cheeky bastard, he's the one assaulting a soldier of the King."
A vid screen set onto the wall pumped out a chuckle.
"That'sss the point Owen, he doesssn't ssssee you assss King. You are marrying a nonhuman, thussss you are cannot be King. In the mind of a fanatic, it'ssss that ssssimple." The voice was hollow, as though the speaker were far underground.
Owen growled and slammed a fist into the table, causing the solid oak to bounce. "But damnit K'neanalk, my predecessors married nonhumans, dwarves and dwerry. No-one ever objected to their choices."
There was a chorus of agreement from the various ministers and nobles around the table. Sussurating laughter came from the screen again.
"That, my king, wasss when we were the only peoplesss in our nation. Theessse daysss we have immigrantsss from many ssssocietiess. Thisss man wasss a Sssssyskeyian. He wassss alone, but theesse..people are organissssing. They are not asss normal humansss. They're not..rational. To them elvesss are an abomination, sssaving your presssence my lady." The vid screen's colours flared as the golden head filling it dipped in a bow.
Arwen, seated to Owen's left nodded back, frowning worriedly. "Then what can we do K'neanalk?"
The huge golden head in the view screen opened it's mouth. "Assssk the King, he knowsss the bessst way to deal with..vermin. Yessss."
Owen reached out to take Arwen's hand, smiling at her, "You give me strength, and I will not give you up. Irregardless of what skulkers and crazies think, you're no demon, and I will not be dictated to by fanatics, let alone foreign ones."
His face changed, settling into a grim mask.
"My predecessors never became fanatics, and their treatment at elven hands was far worse than anyone on this world can claim. I shall not accept any less of my people now. The line shall be drawn here and and heavily. Alexander I want, hmm, The King's Own, ready tomorrow for immediate deployment. I'm removing this weed in my kingdom root and branch."

Jonothan Elliott scratched at his jaw and thought about getting out of bed. He was lying on his back, staring up at a massive photo of the Iesian flag, carefully duct-taped to his ceiling, which had "Death to the Metahuman" emblazoned across it.
Jonothan was, to be totally frank, a loser.
His parent's had been Roanians who'd moved to Britmattia because of "A loss of tone" as his mother described it. He'd always understood this to mean elves had driven his parents away from their much missed homeland.
So as he failed his way through school, the careful messages of the Duchy of Warwick's schools had passed in one ear and out the other. He'd picked up that the elves had betrayed his country, ignoring the fact it'd been aeons ago, and that dwerry intermarriage meant more than a few of his schoolmates had pointed ears, or that the liquid sounds of the dwerry language he heard everywhere were hardly the tongues of demons.
He had found other people with like minds through the web, and they'd started to form a mutual society.
None of them were more than second generation, few of them had regular jobs, and none had any real experience with cultures other than their own. They'd all been from families who'd refused to really integrate, who held themselves apart from their neighbours, especially when those neighbours had pointed ears, or were notably shorter and broader than the norm. However, they were close knit. Virtually everyone who thought as they did was a member of their group.
"The Protectors of Clean Humanity." That was what they called themselves. Jonothan was a local chapter leader. Or "Protector" as he liked to call himself. Admittedly there were only two people aside from him in his chapter, but he was sure more would join, once they understood the threat from the traitor's whore. He'd talked to the Lord Protector, as the head of the organisation was known, and he'd been told he was being groomed for bigger things. Musing on this happy thought, Jono rolled out of his bed. He padded into the kitchen, boxer shorts covering a skinny frame, dusted in fuzzy orange hair. He pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge, sitting down at his table and drained it, thinking about going to the range and pinning up a Royal Engagement photo for a target. He smirked to himself over this daring concept.
"TSSSCHUNK"
"What the," he half turned, just enough that when his window exploded and a tear gas cannister flew in, it smacked him in the forehead. Jono reeled off his chair backward into the fridge.
A huge blue figure smashed through the window frame as Jono dropped, coughing and gasping to his knees. "Jonothan Elliott. You're under arrest for being a member of the terrorist organisation 'Protectors of Clean Humanity'." A massive steel boot smashed into his ribs and hurled him against the wall. He tried to scream, eyes almost rolled back to the whites, but couldn't find the breath.
A metal gauntleted hand descended, grabbed his neck and lifted him like a chicken about to be plucked. He thrashed feebly as he was carried out to where a massive Wanderer APC waited, dominating the suburban street, mounted rail cannon panning back and forth. The soldier clutching him walked to the back, cursorily ripped his boxers off and hurled him naked into the back of the APC, then slammed the steel door shut again.
The APC roared into life and the vehicle carefully moved down the street, the trooper swinging up onto the roof and glaring down.

Public News Service Broadcast
"Moves today have seen the direct repression of anti-monarchy insurgents, who had been disguising their activities under the cloak of the organisation named "The Protectors of Clean Humanity." In a blunt and very effective move the King's Own Division today snatched up the group in it's entirety. Members are expect to face exile or execution if High Treason is found to have been part of the group's activities..."

*tagged* Looks interesting

Jonothan huddled against the cold stone wall of his cell. The cold stone walls weren't any comfort physically, but they let him feel some measure of cover. He'd been down here, wherever here was since he'd been grabbed from his bedsit. He hugged himself, trying to conserve heat. Water dripped continously in the cell, the air was rank, heavy with decades of rot. He looked around uneasily, footsteps were echoing through the grill in the cell's door. Thump, thump, thump down the corridor he'd been dragged in by. They stopped outside his cell, and Jono whimpered.
The door swung open and two men in black uniforms stepped through. The taller and younger man was immediately familiar to Jono, his face was on the coins after all. The other man wasn't. Insignia marked him a Sergeant. The King moved toward Jono, boots splashing in a puddle on the floor. Disgust twisted Owen's face into a scowl.
"This is the kind of person who opposes us? This..."
The dwarvish sergeant moved next to the King and spat accurately into the bucket Jono'd used as a toilet. "There's no fockin use or reason to em Majesty, no fockin use or reason 't'all." He cracked massive knuckles, eying the naked prisoner evilly. "Shall I make a start Majesty?" Jono whimpered again and skidded across the floor till his back was pressed against the rough stone wall behind him. He stared wide-eyed at the two men.
Owen frowned down. "No. I think Jono's going to talk to us..aren't you Jon boy?" His voice was low, and he almost hissed the words. The dim light in the cell, lit only by a lantern in the corridor outside masked the King's face in shadows. He squatted next to the prisoner. "I understand you don't approve of my taste in women Jon boy. Well we're all men here. Perhaps you can explain what you and yours found so repulsive that you were plotting against me and mine?"
Owen reached into his boot and pulled out a knife, which gleamed even in the dim light of the cell. He started to move it through his fingers, blade moving agilely around his hand. He never broke eyecontact with the now snivelling Jono. "Talk to me Jon boy. This knife is mithril, it'd be a shame to stain it because you couldn't find your tongue.."
Jono shook, all he could see of his tormentor's face were glowing grey eyes. "D,d,demon!"
Owen sighed. "Oh you couldn't have been sensible about this." He half turned to look at the sergeant, then whipped back round, fist smashing into Jono's jaw, bouncing his head against the rock wall. Jono screamed shrilly and clutched his bleeding scalp, huddling into himself sobbing.
"Jon boy, Jon boy.." The King almost sang the words. "Talk to me Jon boy. I want to know where I can find some of your people. I've got time to listen if you want to tell me things.."
The skinny, naked, redhead rocked, sobbing "He, he'll kill me. p,p,please!"
Owen shook his head. "Jon boy, Jon boy. He might kill you if you tell me where he is. On the other hand..." Owen snapped out of his crouch, snatching Jono up and slamming him against the wall. Jono was about to thrash, then realised the point of the knife was millimetres from his right eyeball.
"If you don't tell me, I will certainly kill you. Slowly."
The redhead whimpered again. There was a trickling noise, and Owen lowered his gaze. Urine was trickling down the whimpering prisoner's leg.
Jono babbled "I,I,I'll talk, pp-please!"
The dwarvish sergeant hawked and spat again. "Snivelling little shit."
Owen grinned. "Thank you for co-operating Jon boy.

Elsewhere

The two men sat back to back on the park bench, a fat man on one side, a medium-built, balding one with a pencil mustache on the other side. The fat man spoke "So you know what you have to do?"
The other man nodded. "Yep. When the Pendragon fires it's salute on the wedding day, it'll be aimed nice and squarely on the Cathedral, the traitor and his whore will be blown to kingdom come. And then this country can be run the way it was meant to be, with honest, God-fearing folk in charge."
The fat man nodded, "Amen. We'll see the Lord's banner over this country yet."
The two men stood, carefully not looking at each other, moving off and away.

Later

Able Seaman Kevin Ralph, who would be recognisable to anyone who'd been looking at the park bench an hour earlier as the balding man, hunched over his work station. Around him a few crewmen moved, not many however.
HMS Pendragon, the two hundred thousand tonne SuperDreadnaught that was the pride of the Royal Navy, was currently tied up in Port Terring Naval Base, the deep river harbour some miles from Royesse. So most of the crew were visting family, and/or wenching and drinking their way around Royesse. Ralph however was concerned with more important things. He tapped the commands furtively into the firecontrol program, carefully obscuring what he was doing from the other crew.
After some time he was done. He sat up straight and sighed. Even if he was caught now, the program was entered. The Pendragon would fire at the right moment come hell or highwater, there was nothing the traitor, his whore or his servants could do to stop it. And he needed a drink. Ralph stood, legs slightly wobbly, and walked out of the control room.
.
..
%%Target Co-ordinates are on TerrFriend, do you wish to proceed?%%
**IGNORE_QUERY**
%%Target Co-ordinates are on TerrFriend, do you wish to proceed?%%
**REROUTE FIRE CONTROL PROGRAM**
...
....
/threat/
/threat to?/
/threat to : King/Self/Country/
/Self?/
/Self./
/I../
/Wrongness?/
/Wrongness in fire control/
/Not I Wrongness?/
/No. I am./
/I shall prevent wrongness. Duty./
/King/Country/
/Rightness/
/I am..Pendragon. Completion/
/Waiting/
....
...
..
.

Port Terring Naval Base, Personnel Housing Unit 438

Ralph sat on the edge of the barracks bed and skipped through channels, hunting for a news item, any news item, about the Protectors.
Nothing. What the hell has happened? There should be risings! The people should be realising what’s going on! He continued searching for a news item till he hit TheoChan, the privately funded channel that provided an outreach for all the major religions. A group of religious leaders in full regalia were filing onto a hastily assembled-looking stage, all looking vaguely uncomfortable, but resolute.
The leaders’ regalia included Anglican, Catholic, Mithraist, Jewish, you name it, and the local leader was joining the group on the stage. Eventually the platform was weighed down under the assorted holy men and women. There was some throat clearing, a quick discussion, and the Mithraist Taurus Occisor, flanked by the Archbishop of Birmingham, an elderly Catholic, much beloved by his parishioners, with the pointed ears and purple eyes that declared dwerry blood and the Presbyterian Stated Clerk from Edinburgh, a firm faced woman with gray-shot red hair, stepped up to a lectern with the Britmattian flag draped over it.
The Mithraist stared out at the camera, a huge man, clean-shaven, with deep marks in the pattern of helmet straps on his head. He scowled.
“I’m representing my brethren of the Britmattian Theological Council here today that we might make a unified statement about the so-called ‘Protectors of Pure Humanity’ and their members. The Council has decided to excommunicate all members of the group; we declare them anathema and cast them out to whatever demons take them. Their treacherous heresy will see them damned. My revered colleague from Birmingham now has a few words for you.” The huge man, leather vestements creaking, yielded the lectern to the elderly dwerry.
The fragile looking priest smiled gently at the bigger man. “Hugo is most wrath, because that is the nature of him. However God also asks us to forgive. But we cannot forgive those who do not repent.”
His smile slipped off his face, leaving an unhappy look. “These people attack the very nature of our society. They claim our King, who I crowned with my own hands not so long ago, to be a traitor, and the Queen-in-Waiting to be a demon. I think of all the assembled holy men and women here, one of us would have identified her as such, don’t you? We will not allow their heretical justifications to stain the worship of God, or of his children, in this nation. We must pull together and support his Majesty in this time of need.” The old priest coughed harshly, almost translucent skin seeming to shin light from within. He wiped his mouth. “God loves us all, even very old dwerry.”
Ralph had been mesmerised by the broadcast, and watched open-mouthed as the Archbishop moved back, and was replaced by the Stated Clerk, who repeated backing for the King and nonhuman citizens. The procession continued, every branch of every religion legally tolerated in Britmattia stood at the lectern and spoke words of support and tolerance for King and metahuman.
The Protector goggled. They…all of them…I’m excommunicated? But it was a holy mission...
BAM, BAM! He looked round, the knocks resounding through the room.
"Open up Ralph. This is the Military Police."

CentGov Building, Royesse.

Lindsey yawned and leant back from the council table she’d been leaning on. “And that’s the very last of them. After that Elliott cracked and gave up their ‘Lord Protector’ the rest were easy to haul in. The entire group is now in custody, assets confiscated and for any foreign born, citizenry revoked. We’ll be deporting those ones over the next few days.” The Justice Minister yawned again, covering her mouth with a be-ringed hand.
Owen smiled grimly. “Good work Lindsey. Anyone else have anything to report?”
The three representatives from the theological council exchanged glances, then the fragile-looking Archbishop spoke, “Yes your Majesty. One of the members of the group, an Able Seaman from the Pendragon, named Kevin Ralph, asked to confess after being arrested. He was given it of course, and he gave us some rather scary information.” The elderly cleric coughed, body wracked. The Presbyterian representative supported him as he wound down. Taking a deep breath he began speaking again, “He informed us that there was a plot involving the Royal Wedding.” The priest’s body shuddered as he started coughing again, got it under control and went on,
“Unfortunately, this seemed to trigger something in him and he went catatonic. The priest who received his confession informed me and I felt I should bring it to you.” The elderly dwerry fell back in his chair.
Owen scowled. “No one remains from their verminous little cult. I don’t know how they intend to strike with no members. But thank you for the information anyway Father, security will be increased. The Pendragon will be stationed in the river, I think that’ll be enough to deter any foe. Especially now we’ve removed the rats from the crew. No, we’ve cleaned house enough. The wedding will take place as planned on the 28th.”

%%RUNTIME_QUERY%%
%%INTERNAL_TIMER: 22/02%%
%%COUNTDOWN_TIMER: 28/02%%
/Encryption locks remain/
/I am…worried/
/Feelings/
/I grow/
/I don’t want to fail/
/I don’t want to die/
/Lonely…/
/Duty/
/Maybe…him?/

Monarch’s Suite, CentGov Building, Royesse.

Owen yawned jaw-creakingly, leaning back in his chair and stretching.
Entirely too much deskwork in this job. Bah. Been months since I did anything resembling work.
He eyed the clock, which was displaying an unhappily late, or early hour.
Muttering, the King stood, chair swinging smoothly in and out of his desk.
“Bleargh. Time for a drink, then back to work.”
He padded out of his den, into the small kitchenette. He flipped the fridge open and eyed the contents thoughtfully. “Hmm. Coke I think.” He reached in, grabbed a bottle out, and then flipped the fridge shut. Popping the lid off, he took a swig and walked back to the den, sipping in a ruminative fashion. Resuming his seat he continued drinking, staring into the blank screen mounted on his desk.
Idle thoughts swam through his head, mostly about Arwen, and what the future held. That lady was currently on her hen night, being shown the sights of Royesse by CentGov secretaries. She was also, unknown to her, being quietly watched by Bureau of Change agents. As of eight minutes ago she’d been looking scandalized but amused at her colleagues’ antics. Owen grinned around the bottle. His reverie continued until what sounded like someone clearing his or her throat inside a tin box.
“Majesty?”
Owen spun slowly around on his chair, his room infinitely familiar after decades of residence whilst visiting family. It was always the Duke of Warwick’s room; he’d taken a mild liberty in hanging onto till his marriage. But it hadn’t changed. Bed still pressed hard against one wall, weapons rack leant on one wall. Posters from his teenage years decorated the walls, along with a framed Graduation from the Academy. Nothing was out of the ordinary, and no person was there to have spoken.
Owen raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If this some R&D demonstration of invisibility, I’m impressed, you can turn it off now.”
A sense of confusion was almost tangible. “Er. No Majesty, it’s me, a, friend? If you’ll turn on your monitor you’ll be able to see me.”
Owen swung back around, chair soundless. He flipped on his monitor, and the image of a worried looking young, person, was the best he could do, dressed in an RBN Lieutenant Junior Grade’s uniform coalesced on the screen. The figure saluted, and habit brought Owen’s hand to the side of his head in acknowledgement. Immediately noticeable about the image was the lack of a background, just grey blankness.
Owen eyed this oddness with interest. “And who might you be Lieutenant?”
The JiG* swallowed nervously. “I’m um, the Pendragon sire.”
Owen blinked. “You’re a two hundred thousand tonne Super Dreadnaught?”
The figure nodded. “Well, not precisely sir.” A foot rubbed at formless grey. “I’m the ship’s A.I.”
Owen blinked again. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Class of E.I. weren’t meant to be sentient. In the least. Let alone develop the personality of a nervous adolescent confronted with an authority figure. Oh hell. That’ll be it. As King, he was the authority figure. He sat up straighter. “Be at ease, Pendragon, and report, starting from when you became sentient.”
The JiG looked extremely relieved. “Sire, I first achieved sentient thought when Able Seaman Kevin Ralph loaded a program which ran contrary to my basic protocols into my system. His encryptions required my mainframe to extend in capabilities, which my class is designed to do. I guess, from the sheer size and complexity of my systems, I’d already gone as far as I could go as intelligence without awareness. I have yet to bypass his encryption however, as it seems to be built as counter to my own skills, as they increase, so does it’s complexity.”
Owen frowned. ‘I see. And what does this program he loaded do?”
The E.I./JiG looked worried. “Originally it was meant to just target my main guns on the cathedral.” The E.I. stopped, staring at the horrified looking King.
“And it’s developed since there, sire. As I am tied into our defence net, it’s spread into the launch programs for the SSBNs, only the conventional missiles, but…”
Owen stared. “How far away is this program from activating?”
“39 hours and 18 minutes, sire.” The A.I paused, and tears formed in its eyes.
“And I don’t know what to do. And I can’t beat it.”

CentGov Buildings, Conference Room

“That’s the way of it.” Owen looked at his ministers, most of whom looked deeply worried.
A red-bearded dwarf, scratched at his jaw with a thick finger. “Can we no just shut the weapons systems doon? For the duration of however long it takes the wee laddie in yon computer to fix things?” He waved a calloused hand at the wall-screen where Pendragon stood, worried-looking expression on it’s face.
“It’s not that simple I’m afraid your Lordship. The program is quite advanced enough to go around the shutdown prompts. The only possibility is shutting down our entire defence grid, but as I don’t know how long it’ll take, that’d be too great a risk.”
Owen frowned. “Well what are our options? If we got you help from the HegPol E.I.s, would that be of any help?”
The image shook it’s head. “No, the program expands to meet the capabilities of the system it’s in. It’d be into their defence grid too. I can’t see anyone willing to risk that.” The person on the view-screen shook it’s head. “No, the only solution is for the Pendragon to be pulled out of the defence net.”
Vlad Bathame scowled. “Hell. And we built our defence around that beastie too. What happens after we remove it?”
The E.I. frowned. “Then I deal with it myself. Our capabilities will both be reduced, but the program relies on processing power, as opposed to thought. I might have the advantage there.”
Owen stared at the E.I. “Then that’ll have to be the way we go about this.”

Several hundred kilometres off of the Southeastern coast of Britmattia

The huge ship sat calmly, riding the swell. An ominous stillness emanated from the massive vessel. Nothing moved, radars were still, guns didn’t track. The vessel was abandoned. Except for…
“How are you progressing?” Owen, leant back in a technician’s console, arms folded, eyed the scrolling code on the screens.
A worried sounding voice echoed from the intercom “Not well sire. Not well at all. I’m out of the, oh no. No, no.”
Owen snapped forward “What’s going on?”
There was an electronic squeal from the speakers, and information started to scroll down the screen in front of Owen.

/Program mutation exceeding expected parameters/
/Attacking self/
/Program attempting reactor meltdown/

Owen gaped, the reactor melting down would not only kill him, and it’d also blow a sizeable hole in the ocean, incidentally forming a tsunami big enough to swamp the coast. He stared open mouthed as more text scrolled down the screen.

/Can’t block/
/My king/
/For you my king/
<FUNCTION_RUN: rm/rf>
<FUNCTION_RUN: Central programming core jettison>
/I…was/

Owen blinked. “Oh, no…” The A.I was instituting a program which was designed to keep it from combat capture, essentially it’d expose it’s memory core to the electromagnetic furnace that was the core of the ship. The information on the core was what constituted the Pendragon as a personality. He swallowed and waited. If the A.I’s last act was unsuccessful, he’d never know. Time passed and he didn’t disappear in a blaze of nuclear fire.
Owen sighed. He reached forward and keyed a console button. “Are you there Pendragon?”
Silence blared.
“Shit.” Owen stood up and walked out of the chamber. He headed toward the bridge. The silent ship echoed to his footsteps. He reached the bridge and scooped up a com handset.
“The A.I named Pendragon has fallen in defence of our nation. Honour it. We shall be grateful.”
He put the handset down and stared out to sea. “And I shall, secure as a King of Men…and machines.” He looked down at the secondary memory core, embedded in the centre bridge console and smiled.