Bones of an empire: Sneak Peak

Once, not so very long ago, it was a verdant paradise that fed a world.

Monk stood at the edge of the dust bowl that had once been the breadbasket of Knossos, watching the wind sculpt dust devils from the thin dusting of remaining topsoil that had taken millennia to form and mere weeks to destroy. His augmented vision picked out the skeletal remains of rusting farm equipment half-buried in the drifts, their solar panels long since sandblasted to opacity. A century ago, when he’d first arrived on this planet, the fields had stretched endlessly, green and vital, providing food for millions.

The setting suns painted the wasteland in shades of amber and blood. Even after eight decades, the atmosphere hadn’t fully cleared—particulates from the war lingered, turning every sunset into a reminder of what humanity had done to this place. Monk’s synthetic eye automatically adjusted to the dying light as he continued to survey the valley. Here and there in the distance, faint lights glowed from the homesteads of the remaining few brave enough to try making a living on the ravaged land. Brave, or foolishly desperate–he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. He involuntarily shivered as the temperature rapidly dropped.

Something glinted in the distance, catching the last rays of sunlight. Monk’s enhanced vision zoomed in automatically, revealing a piece of metallic debris working its way up through the soil like a stubborn tooth pushing through an aching gum. He’d seen countless similar pieces over the years—fragments of weapons, vehicles, and machines that had torn this world apart in the chaos following the Confederation’s collapse. 

He knelt to exhume the shrapnel and examined it with a practised eye for any functional circuitry or components he might be able to cannibalize for his purposes. It was becoming harder to get replacement parts for his failing cybernetics.

Disappointed, he stuffed the scrap of metal into his pack. It could at least be traded for something useful the next time he visited the village.

A hollow whine pierced the twilight—the sound of a grav vehicle’s repulsors straining against the dust-laden air. Monk’s combat reflexes kicked in, honed over a century of violence. His artificial adrenal pump flooded his system with synthetic hormones, heightening his awareness while his optical implants automatically began tracking for a source.

He didn’t need the threat assessment overlay in his augmented vision to tell him this was trouble. No one came out to the deadlands at night unless they had a good reason. He wondered if Olmec Tlaloc had finally caught up with him after all this time. Truth told he’d wondered why it had taken this long. Monk hadn’t made a point of hiding his existence out here.

The vehicle’s running lights were masked—another bad sign. Professional work too, not the sloppy kind used by wasteland raiders. The craft followed a search pattern, sweeping methodically across the valley floor in expanding circles. They were looking for something. Or someone.

Monk allowed himself a grim smile as he activated his thermal dampeners. The hunters hadn’t come looking for him–or if they had, they were woefully under-briefed and ill-prepared for what they sought.  A century of modifications and upgrades had turned him into a formidable weapon, even if some of those enhancements were starting to show their age.

He had two choices: evade or confront. The smart play was to disappear into the wasteland—he knew every hollow and hiding spot for kilometres. But something about the search pattern nagged at him. They weren’t looking for him but they wanted something in the dead zone. Or someone other than him who didn’t wish to be found.

He glanced back to where he’d seen farmhouse lights earlier. They’d gone dark. He knew from experience that those buildings would now be empty, their occupants having retreated to whatever bolt-hole they’d prepared for such occasions.

His attention returned to the searching vehicle. Bounty hunters, then, obviously on the trail of some hapless soul with a price on their head. 

The familiar weight of his weathered pulse rifle settled into his hands as if drawn there by muscle memory. He’d sworn to himself he was done with other people’s problems, done with the violence that had defined his unnaturally long life. And yet…

A flicker of movement caught his notice—a fleeing figure, small and quick, darting through the spindly corn stalks. The hunter’s quarry, no doubt. Through his scope, he caught a glimpse of prison coveralls and the distinctive gait of someone favouring an injury.

“Getting involved would be monumentally stupid,” he muttered to himself, already knowing what he was about to do. His synthetic muscles tensed as combat routines spooled up in his neural interface, presenting targeting solutions and tactical options.

Sometimes he wondered if his conscience was just another bit of outdated programming, compelling him toward actions that defied logic. Then again, maybe that’s what made him human despite all the modifications—the stubborn inability to simply walk away.

The figure stumbled, going down hard in a cloud of dust. The grav vehicle’s spotlights snapped on, harsh beams cutting through the gathering darkness. Monk sighed, raised his rifle, and prepared to make what was surely another poor life choice.

The grav vehicle’s spotlights swept across the corn rows, seeking their quarry. Its repulsors whined as it shifted position, kicking up more dust. Monk tracked it through his scope, noting the tell-tale signs of military-grade modifications beneath its civilian exterior. Not bounty hunters then. This was something more interesting than a simple prisoner hunt.

The figure in the prison coveralls had taken cover behind the rusted hulk of an ancient harvester. Smart move, using the day-heated metal mass to confuse thermal imaging. But they were effectively trapped now, with the grav vehicle between them and the only viable escape route through the valley.

Monk’s targeting system highlighted four armed figures rappelling from the vehicle’s side hatches. Their movements and coordination betrayed military training. On the ground, they spread out in a familiar formation, pulse rifles at ready positions.

“Last chance to walk away,” Monk muttered to himself, even as his combat systems calculated firing solutions. The synthetic adrenaline was fully deployed in his system now, sharpening his focus to crystalline clarity.

He chose his moment carefully, waiting until the search team had committed to their target. The first shot caught their vehicle’s port repulsor, the pulse blast shorting out its gravitic field. The craft lurched sideways, forcing the pilot to compensate with the remaining engines. Before they could stabilize, his second shot took out the starboard repulsor.

The vehicle dropped to the dusty earth with a satisfying crunch of buckling metal. Monk’s targeting system was already shifting to the ground team, who’d scattered for cover at the first shot. They were good—already coordinating a response, trying to triangulate his position.

But he had been playing this game since before they were born.

Two of the soldiers moved to flank his position while the others laid down suppressing fire. Their targeting was good—professional—but they were shooting at where a normal sniper would be. Monk had learned long ago that the obvious high ground was usually the wrong choice.

His synthetic muscles coiled as he shifted position, the worn servos in his legs whining softly. Eight decades of wear had left their mark, but they still functioned well enough. He triggered his optical camouflage, the ancient tech flickering to life with a familiar static tingle across his skin. It wouldn’t fool modern scanning equipment for long, but it didn’t need to.

The figure in prison garb seized their opportunity, breaking cover to sprint toward a drainage culvert. One of the soldiers spotted the movement and turned to fire. Monk’s shot caught him in the chest before his finger could tighten on the trigger. The soldier’s armour absorbed most of the blast, but the impact sent him sprawling.

“Three targets, all enhanced,” his combat system reported through his neural interface. “Armor configuration and ratings suggest Tlaloc’s special forces.” That was interesting. The Octogarch didn’t deploy his elite units for simple prisoner retrieval.

The remaining soldiers had gone fully defensive now, their helmet sensors sweeping the area. They’d switch to wide-spectrum scanning any second. Monk didn’t wait. He triggered his archived combat routines—old programs from his military days that should have been wiped but weren’t. His consciousness stepped aside as the ancient protocols took control, moving his body with inhuman precision.

The next thirty seconds were a blur of automated violence, his enhanced frame executing maneuvers that would have torn natural muscles apart. When awareness fully returned, three more armoured figures lay motionless in the dust. Non-lethal takedowns—he’d programmed that preference into his combat routines long ago. Too many deaths already stained his conscience.

The prison fugitive had nearly reached the culvert. Monk’s enhanced vision caught a glimpse of their face as they turned to look back—young, female, with the haunted eyes of someone who’d seen too much. Then she was gone, vanishing into the drainage system.

Monk quickly stripped the soldiers of their weapons and communications gear. They’d be unconscious for hours, plenty of time for their quarry to disappear into the wasteland. He was about to melt away himself when something caught his eye—a peculiar insignia on one soldier’s collar, partially hidden under their armour.

He brushed away the dust, revealing a familiar symbol he hadn’t seen in decades. If it was legitimately worn, then he’d really stepped into something he oughtn’t. 

The sight of the Obsidian Order insignia triggered an unbidden memory – his last conversation with Caritas in the hermit’s cave high in the desert hills. The old man had been tending his meagre garden, coaxing life from the damaged soil as he always did.

“Power calls to power, Monk,” Caritas had said, not looking up from his work. “Like recognizes like. That’s why they will keep finding you, no matter how far you run.”

“I left that life behind,” Monk had replied, though even then he’d known it for a lie.

Caritas had finally turned to face him, his eyes sharp despite his advanced age. “Did you? Or did you just change your appearance to fool yourself and those you meet? A ruse to keep your advantage hidden until you’re forced to exploit it. True strength lies not in domination but in knowing why power must be used.” He’d gestured to the struggling plants. “These need protection to grow. Sometimes that means shade from the harsh sun. Sometimes it means cutting away what would choke them.”

Looking now at the unconscious soldiers and the symbol that should not be here, Monk understood what the old man had meant. He couldn’t escape what he was – a weapon, honed over a century of conflict. But he could choose how that weapon was used.

“Well,” he muttered, “this just got considerably more complicated.”