Scapegoat Options

[Dantrag]

This is in no way TES related, but I figured I'd share anyway. It's already finished, but I'm going to post it in small parts so that it's easier to read.

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Scapegoat


“You’ll do it, or you will face a court marshal.” The gruff General McDowell commanded threateningly.

“It’s a civilian ship!” replied a young man of eighteen, sitting in a chair with numerous electrodes attached to his head.

“Damn it, Cedric, the Russians are using it to transport weapons! Fire now!” McDowell shouted angrily.

“Yes, Sir.” Cedric replied reluctantly as he flipped the single switch on the arm of his chair.

Instantly, the image of General McDowell’s angry face was replaced with a view of outer space from the vantage point of a starship’s bridge. He was seeing through the eyes of the ship’s captain, made possible through the use of a chip surgically implanted in the Captain’s brain. Cedric was now accustomed to the feeling of having a passive role in someone else’s body, but at first it had been one of the strangest feelings he had ever experienced.

“Fire.” He commanded, repeating the general’s order through the captain’s earpiece.

“Yes, Sir.” The Captain replied.

Cedric had no sooner seen the explosion than an entire fleet of Russian ships pounced on them, seemingly out of nowhere. The United States had attacked a civilian starship. More than enough cause for war.

“Retreat!” Cedric shouted at the captain.

The captain hesitated, panic obviously setting in.

“Retreat!” he repeated again, this time more forcefully. Cedric’s vision was reduced to static before he flipped the switch to return to his own body.

“Wake up, Cedric,” a thick German accent woke him.

[Dantrag]

here you go, maybe it will answer some questions.

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Cedric groggily opened his eyes, slowly returning from the nightmare of his past. He became aware of an ache in his back, probably due to his bed of newspapers and sidewalk.

“What do you want, Franz?” he asked his human alarm clock, and only friend.

“Somebody’s been looking for you.” Franz said flatly as he helped Cedric to his feet.

“The feds?” he asked fearfully.

Franz shrugged. “Don’t know. Real shady looking guy. Maybe he just look to do business.”

“Then why did you act like it was so important, Burger?”

“He had a gun.”

Cedric knew it had to be serious when his friend didn’t react angrily to being called ‘Burger’.

“Was he just another street druggie liking for his next fix, or do you think he was looking to off me?”

Franz shrugged again. “Owe someone money?”

“You know how bad business has been. I owe almost everyone money.”

“Maybe your luck change.” Franz said optimistically.

“Hasn’t in two years, why should it now?” he asked, not expecting to be answered. “Anyway, thanks for the tip, Franz.”

Franz Nuremburger was one of the many German refugees that had immigrated to the United States to escape the war with Russia. Europe was becoming the most war-torn country in the world. The United States had only stayed out of the war by blaming the whole incident with the civilian ship on a ‘Rogue Neural Tactician’. Also known as Cedric Byron Black. Perhaps the similarity of being unfairly put in the middle of governmental issues was the common ground that held Cedric and Franz’s friendship together.

Cedric and Franz then waved their farewells, going their separate ways. Cedric walked through the alleys, no longer revolted by the sight of the mounds of trash or the hideous graffiti that marred formerly proud, functional buildings due to two whole years of hiding from the feds on the streets. In his efforts to stay unnoticed by the government, he was forced to avoid all networked technology, lest his unique ID code become a beacon for them to follow. He happened by an information terminal where a careless passerby had left a newsreel playing on the screen. He paused for a second to listen to the story, absorbing every second of the use of such luxuries.

“This morning, the Secretary of State John Cain was found murdered in his home. Investigators have not revealed the cause of death, but foul play is suspected.”

Cedric selected another news story, happy to use someone else’s ID to access such informational gold. This time, the all-too-famous Ahab Cromwell appeared on the screen. Cromwell was the head of an organization called the Soldiers for Communist America, or SCA. They weren’t actual soldiers, but they fought fiercely on the political front. The organization had gained much prestige over the past couple years, even boasting a few congressional seats.

Cedric stopped watching the screen as he suddenly got the feeling of being watched. He looked around discreetly, trying to spot his unwelcome follower. He failed.

Paranoia set in. He walked at a brisk pace away from the terminal. He put his hand in the pocket of his ragged jeans and gripped the butterfly knife that resided there. He kept looking over his shoulder and saw no one, but he could still feel those eyes piercing him. After what seemed like an eternity of suspenseful fear, he realized that his panic had overridden his sense of direction. He had made a wrong turn and found himself in an alley with a dead end. He turned around quickly to go back the way he came, but he was too slow. Two men that looked like they belonged in a club as bouncers blocked his way.

This post has been edited by Dantrag: Dec 30 2006, 06:31 AM