Spiceday

For the first part, follow THIS LINK

The story so far: Baron Nikkellodon has ordered his psychotic aide Mentat Steven to eliminate threats to the spice supply line. Meanwhile the Old Empire is losing its grip on the epic fury it has unleashed.

Now read on…

Dust rises in the dawn of the Grossdesert, that first false dawn when butterflies take to the air in their multihued surprise and startle the drowsy lizards on the desert floor.

On the outskirts of Truehome, the city which until last summer was the capital of the resistance, and which has since been rendered down to rubble and powdery oblivion by an incessant rain of suicide missiles, a pair of Imperial soldiers carries out a boots-on-the-ground sacrifice sweep. They are not expected to return, and they know it. Where stoic fortitude in the face of imminent death is called for, they show only despondency and the kind of fuck-it fatalism bred into the trash-monkeys of the Imperial core from birth.

"Waaall, I dunno," says Jurube Bloot, and spits a warm gob of tobacco onto these warming sands. He's not allowed chaw on duty but the fuck-it imperative has taken over. He figures that since today is his last day, Imperial service regs are there to be merely scorned.

In olden days, samurai warriors on a suicide mission would compose their death poems. Now Empire's grunts chew twist and express their individual transcendence through acts of minor insubordination which nobody ever notices. "I dunno", he repeats. "Mebbe th' toweltops've bounced, Simon."

His companion gazes straight at him through impenetrable combat shades. It may be surmised from the accompanying grimace playing around his unshaven jaw that he feels nothing but contempt for his hillbilly squadmate.

Simon Gettson grew up in the slums of the Imperial capital District City, just blocks from the White Palace where the Old Emperor had lived in seclusion. Once, skimming for change on the sidewalks, he saw the old man doddering about the palace gardens addressing a rosebush, before being led away by concerned aides. Like many others, he'd been swept up by Imperial Lawforcers and offered the choice of profitprison or military service. Death or death.

"Fuck no," he states simply. "The toweltops have not bounced."

"Ve'y ve'y quiet round here, tho."

"You shitferbrains muffuck, you never seen a viddiklip? When it's quiet, that's when it's most dangerous, that's when they strike. So keep yo peckerhead on a swivel and watch for telltales, mamón piss-stain-ass baccy-chewin' waste o' space!"

Jurube Bloot was one of the voluntaries. He joined up willingly to improve his life prospects, swayed by the medical care and the educational opportunities. All of which are looking fairly remote on this, his last ever sunrise. You'd think that in the Imperial Stormforce the volunteers would be valued higher than the draftees, the ones compelled by the penal system to join up or channeled out of psychiatric institutions to serve. But the reverse is true. The ones who were dumb enough to sign up of their own accord are the most expendable.

They pause in their shuffle through the mangled glassy outskirts of Truehome and push their backs into each other, in accordance with standard vigilance procedures, their gauss flailers at port arms. The sun is now clearing the jagged wreckage of the city's downtown and glares directly into Jurube Bloot's face.

"Caint see shit," burbles Bloot as he makes to hawk out another wad of chaw.

But before the clump of tobacco hits the ground, Jurube Bloot has lost his head. Face and neck turn to crimson haze and his helmet makes a short hop up into the golden sky. Bone chunks and brainslime coat the backpack of his squadmate Simon, who makes to turn as Bloot's headless body slumps to the sand.

Too slow. Already a blade is at his throat. Simon freezes, the panicked whites of his eyes showing as the dark combat shades slip off. He lets his gauss flailer drop and slowly raises his hands.

From small heaps of rubble and little mounds of sand around, a half-dozen warriors emerge, wielding short scimitars just like the one which the turbanned figure in a black skintight suit holds against the Imperial Stormsoldier's neck. Wordless, they set to work, stripping Simon of his helmet, body armor, and devices, leaving him in undershirt and shorts, and they lead him away, holding him underarm and urging his reluctance with swift steps. The group moves off into the ruins of a house and files through a cellar door, pushing their captive head-down into the dark.

As trooper Simon disappears into the underground, his comms headset, lying amid the bloodied wreckage of his late comrade's body, comes alive and squawks.

"Patrol Hyena-Two, patrol Hyena-Two, stand by for drone support. Repeat, drone flight Ripper-Six on its way to your location. Report status, over..."

The crackle of static awaiting answer sounds faintly in the ruined place. A breeze stirs up the dust of legions of lost lives, acres of crumpled streets, to begin the patient process of coating this small scene with war's forgetfulness.

==== // END OF PART TWO // ====

PART THREE COMING SOON

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