The Reign is Over – Part 5
This weekend saw one of the worst days I have endured as an adult human being, including the day I learned of my mothers death.
I cannot even begin to describe how bad things got, so I won’t try.
In story news, when I shared the newest section of the story with the individual whose namesake is the antagonist on Friday, they pointed out a huge faux pas. I had done The Quill’s version of sending Robinson Crusoe out to his boat naked, only to have him stuff his pants pockets upon arrival.
While it is not the end of the world, and is certainly not a huge deal, it’s also not nothing. It’s the kind of rookie mistake that I had thought myself beyond. A huge part of this particular failure is owed to the limitations of piecemeal writing. On longer writing sessions, with the whole manuscript in front of me, I could easily correct the jarring arrival of the necessary person by introducing them earlier in the story. A random face in the crowd becomes the necessary face, including a name-tag, so that when they save the day later it’s not a complete surprise that they were there at all.
These posts are completed and then released into the wild for days, possibly weeks, before any issues like this are brought to my attention. I cannot correct them; I am many things, but I am no Timelord. The only thing I can do is be open, honest, and take these mistakes on the chin in stride. One day, perhaps, I will have more time at my disposal to actually write an entire piece in one setting, to see the whole story start to finish prior to posting. For now, we must make due with the things that we have, rather than lose time focusing on things as we wish them to be. It is okay to have goals, but it is not okay to desire the fruits of our labors with such abandon that we forget to do the laboring part in the first place.
With many further amends…
The Reign is Over – Part 5
The Reignover complex was enormous, claiming the entire width of one block-long slice of the Europa ring by itself. Part office, part mansion, part fortress, the complex was silken wallhangings covering the mouth of Hell itself. The assault transport came to rest in the middle of a wide lawn, fountain spraying decoratively in the midst of an enormous garden. It did so with the same effortless, unflappable grace as the last half of their journey, courtesy of the ISF Hidalgo’s gravlance and her nimble crew.
The garden they had touched down in was full of majestic greenery and flowerbeds so rich and flush that they would’ve cost the annual salary of the entire Organized Crime unit just to maintain on a daily basis. Water-taxes, greenery certificates, not to mention the cost of the potable soil they rested in. Lazlo Reignover was never one to miss out on the chance to shove a symbolic message down someones throat. The garden, the mansion, the attached office complex, all of them shouted one message; Here there is power and wealth.
Lieutenant McNamara couldn’t take the smile off her face as she undid her restraints and made her way past the other troops who began to check their gear and start prepping for the ground war to come. The pulse rifles, deliberately dormant while they were in mid-air, began to glow as their owners awakened them. The safeties were still on, but each weapon began to hum and glow with barely restrained malice. She thumped Lieutenant Armsworth on the shoulder as she walked by. He looked up at here with a nod and a tight smirk. He was busy unpacking Brutus from the box it had been secured in until they had made landfall, and he went through the motions with hungry determination.
Brutus was a massive plasma cannon, similar to old Earth bazookas. This was no potato launcher however, and Lieutenant Armsworth was the only one with the experience and strength to wield it during the extended ground action they had ahead of them. Three meters and a hundred kilos of massive energy weapon were about to rip the Reignover complex a new asshole. Lieutenant McNamara started whistling as she strapped into the tiny cockpit of the heavily armored tank that had served as the extra armor for the troops as they had flown, and would now serve to give them the speed and shields necessary to close the distance with the complex. It was an older model, but it was also the same model she had driven into too many border skirmishes and pirates’ nests to count. Switches flew and diagnostics flared as she played the control panel like a master pianist.
Lieutenant McNamara let out a full-throated war-cry as she gunned the reactor to full and slammed the accelerator. The sixteen-wheeled monstrosity carrying eighty heavily armed and armored officers barreled down the ramp and across the exquisitely manicured lawn, all of their voices echoing her defiant roar.
To be continued…
Yawpfully,
The Unsheathed Quill
