Post by anaris on May 20, 2006 20:55:38 GMT -5
I never got around to finishing this. I'll put it here in case I ever do.
It coursed through his veins like a million needles of fire, prickling and stabbing his flesh, ripping him apart from the inside out. The shock of pain doubled him over for a moment and he coughed a spatter of blood onto the down-hive hab floor. It sprinkled the ash and dust. Before he straightened up the pain just went away behind the rush of narcotic ecstasy. It was a flowing wave of pleasure through his body, a stream of exultant chemical joy that started at his feet and came up. The tingle hit his skull and became a sun that glowed in the space in his brain. Around him, witchfire crackled and sparked in the air. He rose to his feet without moving his muscles and sent the sun spinning downwards, bringing him to life again.
He'd spent the last day huddled on that bed. Then he'd struck lucky on the old vox, got the deal. And after that he'd sat there for hours, convincing himself the drug would work, wouldn't kill him. It was Spook, the most heavily controlled thing on the planet. He didn't care; it was his bone and his blood. He'd never tripped out on it, never lost anything for a moment, let alone turned into a daemon. Possession was an invention of the church, just another way to keep the common people down.
Yes, the voice whispered. Just a lie. Come on, get moving. It was his voice, he always thought. His own private little voice that could say all the things he couldn't out loud. He rode the Witch because it brought the voice out as much as for the money it earned him. The money, yes. Bounty money. Inside out corpses and blackened skeletons of people who shouldn't have annoyed the Guilders. The voice laughed in his throat, a low bubble like a child giggling at the bottom of a pit. The sun came back to his head and the door opened in front of it. From the darkness of the hab he gathered fragments of dust, circled them around into a whirl of grey and sank the wide-brimmed hat onto his head. The fire in his head and in his veins was just getting started; he could do anything, for a little while at least. His coat picked itself up and danced with the whirls of dust before it settled onto his shoulders. Last, a lho-stick flew like a dagger, lighting itself with a whirl of smoke and settling between his lips. He walked out.
Behind him in the hab, the shadows gathered.
* * *
Green sipped wildsnake in a dive where all the surfaces stuck to casual hands. It was too close to hive bottom. The street outside was knee-deep in ash every other day, but best of all, the Guilders steered well clear. Jacob Green did not like the Guilders; to be more accurate, they did not like him, to the tune of two million credits he'd stolen and twelve hundred they'd offered for his head. He'd had to smoke two hunters already, a human with a knife and a Scaly who'd given him some real trouble and taken two clips from his old bolter to flatten. Give him four more days and he could get off this rock, but for now the fragging God Emperor saw fit to remove all ships from port in his hour of need.
It was about then in his train of thought that he got up. There was waiting around and there was waiting around. He had two million credits. It was time to go and buy himself some protection and something or someone to do. He headed for the saloon door of the bar, his bottle still in his hand. The town outside was filled with drifts of white, the waste from the manufactories a mile above, piles of chemical ash. He made sure the fastenings on his boots were tight, the waxy plastic shielding his legs as he stepped off the bar's raised step. Off in the distance, lights shimmered on the inner skin of the hive, like artificial stars primed to fall. It was dim here, weakly lit by fading chem-lamps.
It coursed through his veins like a million needles of fire, prickling and stabbing his flesh, ripping him apart from the inside out. The shock of pain doubled him over for a moment and he coughed a spatter of blood onto the down-hive hab floor. It sprinkled the ash and dust. Before he straightened up the pain just went away behind the rush of narcotic ecstasy. It was a flowing wave of pleasure through his body, a stream of exultant chemical joy that started at his feet and came up. The tingle hit his skull and became a sun that glowed in the space in his brain. Around him, witchfire crackled and sparked in the air. He rose to his feet without moving his muscles and sent the sun spinning downwards, bringing him to life again.
He'd spent the last day huddled on that bed. Then he'd struck lucky on the old vox, got the deal. And after that he'd sat there for hours, convincing himself the drug would work, wouldn't kill him. It was Spook, the most heavily controlled thing on the planet. He didn't care; it was his bone and his blood. He'd never tripped out on it, never lost anything for a moment, let alone turned into a daemon. Possession was an invention of the church, just another way to keep the common people down.
Yes, the voice whispered. Just a lie. Come on, get moving. It was his voice, he always thought. His own private little voice that could say all the things he couldn't out loud. He rode the Witch because it brought the voice out as much as for the money it earned him. The money, yes. Bounty money. Inside out corpses and blackened skeletons of people who shouldn't have annoyed the Guilders. The voice laughed in his throat, a low bubble like a child giggling at the bottom of a pit. The sun came back to his head and the door opened in front of it. From the darkness of the hab he gathered fragments of dust, circled them around into a whirl of grey and sank the wide-brimmed hat onto his head. The fire in his head and in his veins was just getting started; he could do anything, for a little while at least. His coat picked itself up and danced with the whirls of dust before it settled onto his shoulders. Last, a lho-stick flew like a dagger, lighting itself with a whirl of smoke and settling between his lips. He walked out.
Behind him in the hab, the shadows gathered.
* * *
Green sipped wildsnake in a dive where all the surfaces stuck to casual hands. It was too close to hive bottom. The street outside was knee-deep in ash every other day, but best of all, the Guilders steered well clear. Jacob Green did not like the Guilders; to be more accurate, they did not like him, to the tune of two million credits he'd stolen and twelve hundred they'd offered for his head. He'd had to smoke two hunters already, a human with a knife and a Scaly who'd given him some real trouble and taken two clips from his old bolter to flatten. Give him four more days and he could get off this rock, but for now the fragging God Emperor saw fit to remove all ships from port in his hour of need.
It was about then in his train of thought that he got up. There was waiting around and there was waiting around. He had two million credits. It was time to go and buy himself some protection and something or someone to do. He headed for the saloon door of the bar, his bottle still in his hand. The town outside was filled with drifts of white, the waste from the manufactories a mile above, piles of chemical ash. He made sure the fastenings on his boots were tight, the waxy plastic shielding his legs as he stepped off the bar's raised step. Off in the distance, lights shimmered on the inner skin of the hive, like artificial stars primed to fall. It was dim here, weakly lit by fading chem-lamps.