Cold Pride
by
The Numbered Entity Project
Text copyright © 2013 The Numbered Entity Project
"Cold Pride"© 2012 Originally published in https://interstellarfiction.com/ December 2012
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Cold Pride
Prologue
Status updating…Time and Space breached…Data leak detected…
The archives of The Numbered Entity Project have opened in this membrane of existence for the very first time. Inside the, at once both infinitesimal and infinity-spanning, data stores wait the tale of rogues, outcasts and 'others.' Those whose time was numbered but refused to 'know their place.' Those who tried, for better or worse, to change their respective worlds of swords and magic, steam and musket, or nanotechnology. The Project records all, in tribute to Time and Space.
The Order of Hunter-Assassins has come to claim the great Kraken of Behemoth as a prize. Quinn, genetically enhanced and eager for glory, is chosen to brave the ice world. A place where his skills will be tested to their limit, where the only outcome possible is death or ascension into the ranks of legend.
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Cold Pride
Quinn was impulsive; according to the assessment of his masters anyway. But he dismissed their words as “the counter intuitive judgments of those who had been too long out the field.” His masters were old, unlike Brother Quinn who possessed both youth and talent, who was gifted with speed of foot and mind, a quick study. So much so that Quinn understood his assignment as soon as the buff of atmospheric entry had eased, when his stabiliser fins sliced into air currents and the first patches of coastline came into view through a thinning cloud layer.
The vast black wedge of a Kraken lurched from the ocean below. Monumentally huge, water appeared to cascade in slow motion off its mountainous hide. Crashing into an ice covered shore, the beast shattered it like porcelain thrown against granite.
Descent rapid, Quinn watched dark specks retreat across the snow, new details coming into focus every second. Huskies came into view, padding onward and dragging sleighs piled with what looked like furs. Women clutched babies to their chests as they fled to the rockier inland. Yet cracks struck over the ice like lightning, swallowing the slowest.
Quinn whispered prayers for the poor primitives. But they wouldn’t have to wait too long for revenge. The Order of Hunter-Assassins had come to claim the great Kraken as a prize. Vengeance for the tribe, glory for me.
Steam looped behind Brother Quinn’s capsule when the heat-shield fell away. Aiming to land ahead of the fleeing tribesmen, the hunter headed for a blanket of snow between rocky outcrops. Oblivious now to the despair carried on the outside winds, the young hunter bit his lip in anticipation of his ‘entrance.’ With a smooth curve he came into land, melting an ice spiral in showmanship before flicking open the bubble glass cockpit. Cold hit him like a wall.
Internal chemical sacs burst and released a warm wash through Quinn’s blood; just one of many engineered ‘augmentations’ possessed by a hunter-assassin of his standing. Quinn stayed seated in the cockpit as tribesmen approached. He fancied he must look like a sky divinity to these primitives, impassive to the freezing gusts, wearing just a thin space-activity-suit, contoured to display his physique. Only thick wrist-guards and heavy boots posed any obvious protection against arctic-conditions. A half-smile tilted across a cheek. Quinn clicked a switch; his capsule hummed gently and hovered a metre above the ground.
Sweat on the passing tribesmen’s hooded and bearded faces testified to their panicked exertions in such a cold climate. Quinn’s inner-ear transmitter crackled with interference, signalling the proximity of the tribe’s Shaman among a nearing group of men and huskies tugging at a sleigh. Strange the signal is so garbled.
The hunter waved to the group, noticing the feathers and sprigs of some type of plant adorning the sleigh. Carvings of mammoth hunts embellished the runners; undoubtedly owned by someone of significance.
“Shaman, I’m Brother Quinn. The Order wishes to take your challenge for the simple glory of it.” But the red-tinted eyes of the hooded men glared back colder than the snow.
“The Shaman is sick. We pulled him from ice water after the attack,” said a tribesman. Behind him a wobbling form, puffed with numerous animal skins, sat up on the sleigh. An old man gasping for breath, black blood seeping through his many layers.
Insulated tubes followed the old man’s jawline, a metal dish embedded in his forehead. Stubs of aerials tented his furred hood. All this confirmed he was the Shaman, a blend of superstition and technology. The only tribesman permitted technological augmentation, to converse with the ‘gods.’ Such men communicated with the satellite dwelling climate controllers, praying for an end to draughts or floods. Wounded. Perhaps his technology is damaged too.
“I know what I must do, Shaman. You rest and recover, let the tribe find a peaceful place to camp,” said Quinn, the roll of his eyes somewhat dismissive of yet another potential lecture from an ancient in a position of authority.
The bearded sleigh-bearers exchanged looks, worry-lines etched deeper into their faces. One approached Quinn, offering a wrapping from his pack. “Inside is a balm made from frost heather. Protection against the stinky things. Use it when you get close…”
Palms raised, Quinn shook his head. “No, I have my own preparations. You can keep your remedies.” I don’t want to burden myself with archaic crap.
Suddenly, the Shaman clapped his hands. Everyone turned towards the old man, even the wind seemed to calm for a moment. “No! Brother Quinn, you listen to me,” but the old Shaman’s words broke under a racking cough.
“Save your breath. I am experienced with these things. One day, and soon, I will be a great master and you will sing songs of my feats. I will observe the beast for a time. When I am satisfied, I will move in for the kill.”
Every word tearing lungs, the Shaman replied “Brother Quinn, don’t be rash. Study the beast well. It is sick…” But Quinn had already sealed himself in his capsule. Rotor blades unsheathed and started to spin, then beat a steady rhythm. Quinn rose off the snowfield in a vortex of sleet and frost, swallowed up minutes later by the big blue sky.
When the Shaman had prayed to his ‘sky gods’ a few days ago, message pinging through the satellite relays, it reached the Order’s Sanctuary immediately after Quinn had received a reprimanded from a master. “Always flipping through time and space, reknitting into the weave of the here and now at points of conflicts without due preparation. You must slow down Brother Quinn. Take time to season the dish before you tuck in.” Quinn indulged his old master, nodded his head, though a stifled yawn betrayed his indifference.
His master had decided to teach Quinn a valuable lesson in humility. “Brother, a Shaman on the world of Behemoth has requested our skills regarding a problematic Kraken. Listen to what you will be told or the consequences will be deadly.” This had pleased Quinn. Only a handful had ever hunted a full grown Kraken. He relished such a lesson on the path to glory.
This thought energised Quinn’s mind while his capsule careered through the sky, leaving the snow tribe behind. I’ll show the Order that I deserve to be spoken of in the hushed tones reserved for legends.
/> The young hunter spent the next week preparing, ‘seasoning his dish’ as his master would say. Buzzing like a gnat around the city-sized Kraken’s foam trail, he made sure to keep safe distance. He observed other snow-tribes farming silver fungus from reeking underwater shit fields; a gift from the Kraken. Yet what should have helped life persist in harsh climes merely baited the beast to return and ravage; as if a malignant energy deliberately compelled it to interfere with Humanity’s survival.
Throughout the northernmost extremes of planet Behemoth Quinn planned his moves, exploring the coastline with its fearing tribes and craggy geography, tracking the Kraken’s path as it vacuumed through deep waters and fed, filtering every morsel of digestible matter. Quinn weaved through crushing whips of froth, dropped survival packages and anchored them ashore