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 Way of the Warrior  (20 ratings)by Igor Raffaele Page 2 of 10 It is not a bad block in any of those senses, as its climatic conditions are
quite average for Hell.
But it's not an easy beat. The presence of four main trade streets and
headquarters of a few
Yakuza and Mafia bosses made it challenging enough to swallow 10 fully trained
knights in 6
years, until I was sent to patrol it, almost as a punishment to the inhabitants
and criminals alike.
I have managed to survive this place for 30 years largely because I walk my
beat every morning,
regardless of modern crimefighting tecniques and technology.
These people do not belong to the law, nor to any crime syndicate: they are mine. I took the responsability to protect them 30 years ago, when I first arrived here from the Temple. A young man in pristine shining armour, I reached my quarters on a rainy night. My trek across the wastelands had left my body tired, and the complete lack of care on people's faces was sapping my resolve just as effectively. Was I not their protector, come to save their lives and immortal souls? I walked on through the unfamiliar streets, heading straight for the address printed on my debriefing documents. I still have that paper somewhere in my quarters, and I take it out when I need cheering up. The obtusely confident tone, and my orders to "proceed with faith" and "smite the infidel" really spoke to me back then, and I guess a man does need something to remind him here and there of how stupid he was. On and on I walked, making my way past the gurgling turrents of brackish water being regurgitated from collectors far above, straining to see in the dank shadows dotted by gharish laser signs belonging to the many sex clubs, badly in need of maintenance as they sizzled in the fine mist. Disappointed and hungry, I reached my quarters, where four thugs were trying to rape a young girl right before my doorstep. The scene was not at all what I had been prepared for, and my mood was close to anger's boiling point. The gritty little picture I was witnessing was as far as possible from what I had hoped, but it definitely gave me my first taste of reality. The little boy who had stealthily broken Temple law to read the Chronicles way past his bed time took the first step towards becoming the man who charged four armed men because they were doing something wrong that night, on his turf. My luggage was stolen while I fought the thugs, and my armour received the first of its many chips, gray, dull badges of honour poked in the shining enamel by the highest judge. The smile of the grateful mother as I returned her daughter made it all worthwhile. Do not talk of justice and freedom to these people, they have lived too long to believe in fairy tales. Show them that you care, and they will make you one of them. I am their knoght. After years of constabulary trudging through life, the morning beat I like the most must be Saba Street. Cutting in half the heart of an ancient commercial centre, this three kilometres long tunnel is always teeming with brisk and sometimes desperate activity, just like a mouldy rug creeps with an active social life. Burrowed in a jungle of buildings and ducts, the street itself is paved in grey concrete flagstones. It should take no more than a few months of digging through the layers accumulated dirt and organic refuse to prove as much; water dribbles constantly from the old splotched walls, who timidly poke out in those rare places where there is no holographic panel or shop front trying to simultaneously blind you, appease you and try to get you to buy something. The loud shops are only the beginning of it, the Silent Ones bless mankind's inventive spirit. Peddlers sell their wares from stalls strewn across the street, sometimes right in the middle of it, and their shouts echo from one side to the other, often bouncing off each other, and making everything said an incomprehensible, but very loud, babble. If what you are looking for exists anywhere on the planet, you can find it on Saba Street, and if you can get it somewhere else, it's probably cheaper to get it here anyway. If what you want does not exist, you'll find someone trying to interest you in the next best thing, sometimes forcefully. Now and then I just stop in wonder and marvel at the things that can be found on the benches. High precision optical implants share a grubby space on a splintery stall with some old fashioned food replicators, just next to a place selling synthetic meats, and they are all shrouded by the very same perpetual mist that affects all the lower levels of the archology, a deadly mixture of the weather control implants exhausts and the good old corrosive industrial refuse. Many, many people move through the blanketing white, appearing and disappearing behind stalls, all trying to make a living, restless ghosts in the mists. Ghosts trying to make a living. I sometimes think I should have enrolled in the poetry classes at the temple. I'd be writing revisions of the Books of the Law, by now. Cozily sitting behind my desk, I'd probably looking forward to being taken into the Council of the Elders by now. Of course human nature being what it is, these being the lower levels of the archology, and thus by reflection the lowest levels of human nature, not everyone is looking for something to buy or sell: some people are looking for prey. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Igor Raffaele, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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