Moore or Less

By Rene Eli Dwa

It is 3027 A.GF, three thousand years after the Devil had been slain during the Great Fall War. However, peace is fragile and not what it appears to be. The nine worlds are under the rule and watchful eye of the church/government, Vitricus, and its army. Religion is no longer taught, but downloaded straight into the mind resulting in complete submission. Cyborgs and A.I. have long failed at their struggle for civil equality. Human-beings called hei-cons possess extraordinary physical abilities. Most wildlife has been donned with human intellect, and the planets are hunting grounds for the demonic, blood-thirsting luxo. Now, a stranger appears in a time of rising chaos. He claims to have an unveiling message that will unmask a corrupt conspiracya dark secret more than thirty centuries old. Accompanied by an ensemble of unlikely allies, the stranger, known only as June, will use all of his excelled skills and astonishing awareness to ensure the distribution of this message. But will it be enough to defeat the Seven and preserve humanitys salvation against a resurrecting, ancient evil?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450056885

Rene Eli Dwa

Though born in Columbia, South Carolina, Rene moved to Fort Lauderdale, Florida at the age of ten. Since childhood, he took pleasure in drawing everything he saw on television and ads. His enthusiasm grew into a passion for creative visual art and music. He never denied being a bit of a closet comic book and video game geek if asked and later decided to achieve a degree in computer animation. “Moore or Less”, Dwa’s début novel, combines his unique gift of wit and love of drawing while creating an exciting universe for the geek in all of us to enjoy.

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Contents

PRELUDE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CODA

GLOSSARY

June.jpg

PRELUDE

WORDS . . . THE DAWN of words marks the superiority of one living being over all others. It is widely thought as the genesis of true intelligence. As drawn characters or acoustic syllables, all words can be woven together as messages of communication across distance and time. This phenomenon has proven to be the most passive and nonmaterialized form of power.

Such a power can transmute small opinions into grand philosophies and disassemble the largest of establishments and foundations down to nothing—akin to words begetting wings of liberation or bondages of oppression. They stir hearts to paths of valiance or down spirals in fear. History itself can be recorded, manipulated, or even fabricated with such words used in such messages. At times, history has even been manufactured.

If a message came into your world that was said to be so paramount that it could change life as we all believe it to be, could you possess the bravery and the will to listen with an open mind and heart? Would you be willing to help in delivering a revelation of knowledge and awareness that would turn into the very salvation of not only your race, but also all races—not only your species, but also all species on every plain, but forfeit your own permit of existence as a result? What if that message wasn’t even yours to share? Would you pay its costs? Would you challenge and risk all to see it distributed to the end?

What degree of belief in a message would encourage or motivate, let alone, merit such urgency, and intern such demands? What degree of belief would stop at nothing to ensure that such a message is never heard? And for both sides, what degrees would persuade some to face the threats that the rest of the world would very well flee from?

—Professor Gregory Crouse

CHAPTER 1

Ice Deserts

Year 3027 A. GF, after the Great Fall . . .

"NO SENSE . . . NONE at all!" are the thoughts that are still potent in the minds of many of the soldiers posted on Antarbanc even after nearly three weeks of infiltrating assault bursts from luxo. With claws impaling human torsos and daggered teeth ripping apart throats, the luxo are dark blood thirsty devils that feed off the hatred of all other living beings. With such speed, such visceral nature, they are the perfect killing machine.

After millenniums of nonactivity, luxo have relentlessly repeated their advancements toward the base as if desperate for something . . . something within the ruined research facility. They slowly cut away at the men’s numbers with strategic precision while flanking in all sorts of odd directions, painting the snow crimson. Their groups’ volume is endless as they seem to respawn from which their fallen corpses lay. These luxo have now made this place hell, as if the planet itself was not brutal on its own to survive.

The icy, desolate wasteland planet is still the last point on every sea star navigation map that any Vitricus Corps military officer would ever desire to be stationed in. No food grows here. Near razor winds act as the planet’s very resentment of any creature even being settled on its surface in the first place. Even daylight does its best to avoid this unholy place. Now luxo accompanies the already unwelcomed elements of this planetary rock. Why here of all places? Why here? Everything stays clear of Antarbanc—everything.

Blast tha Vitricus! their large, long-haired, blond-bearded captain gives as a sound-draining roar expressing his despise toward the very alliance that stationed him and his men here in the first place. "A base . . ." he wonders. "Here . . . of all places . . . A base to guard what? A shut downed research facility? A research facility that has been shut down and abandoned for three thousand years . . . ? Days upon weeks have expired away as requests for desperately needed reinforcements have been left unanswered. Just what are in those nonfunctioning labs that the Vitricus find so important to keep lame? After millenniums and generation after generation of offices and careers held at the Vitricus, does a single soul even remember?"

The Vitricus . . . Once again, they irresponsibly fail to act when truly needed. The captain is not completely dismayed, however. After all, his men could hold their own for they have fought against the likes of these beasts many a time. They are the elite.

It is the others that concern him. Those soldiers know nothing more than years and years of fighting against this world’s treacherous elements. They know nothing of intense combat—not like this. Battles such as these keep the captain’s blood warm even in the cold. If he had known that it would be more than just the slow suffocation of boredom, perhaps, he would not have been so objective to the order of his relocation from Pakkron a year ago. Perhaps . . .

Perrmission to speak frreely, Colonel? Captain Thomas Norton Thompson leans in toward his superior officer’s desk with fingers folded and elbows never leaving the arms of the chair. Col. Francis Romares comes up from behind his desk then closes the blinds to the rest of the building and its busy shuffling going on outside his Pakkron office. He casually sits against the side of his work desk.

Come on, Tom-Tom, says Romares. It’s always been just you and me here in this place.

The 7ft 1in 415 lbs juggernaut shoots up from his chair. "Just what tha fuck is this, Frank? he asks with hands at his waist while pacing in small circles. Even the buckles on his leather-hide long-coat ring in an agitated manner. I mean, what tha ’ell is rreally goin’ on ’erre?"

"Tom, would you please calm down? Romares urges while directing an open palm toward the annoyed, Scottish behemoth. Junis . . . you’re the only guy I know that paces in small figure eights."

"’ow about ya ’ave tha Vitricus rre-station ya to tha cold-sorre warrt on Satan’s asshole rright out of tha fuckin’ blue and see ’ow you go about calmin’ down." He snaps back with his thick accent.

Look. Anyone can plainly see your reason for you being pissed. I don’t like it anymore than you do. You don’t need to have a bloodhound to realize this whole shit stinks to high heaven.

The dark-haired colonel leans over his desk and opens a wooden box. Pulling out two of the finest cigars rugen can buy, Romares hands one to Tom-Tom—a successful attempt in bringing the Viking-like gladiator anywhere close to a smile. That last investigation was a very close one, he states as he lights both sticks before taking a foggy puff off the flavored rolled paper, and extremely risky I might add.

"So . . . ? grumbles the towering soldier as he slightly bends the blinds with his two fingers clamping the cigar to observe the red planet’s military base view. What else is new? Therre brreakin’ me bollocks forr that, arre they? Fucksake . . ."

The men you took down had connections to certain diplomats and ambassadors in the Vitricus Citadel. Obviously, you ruffled some feathers.

"If it werre my way, I’d ’ave tha entirre Vitricus inverrted and dangled by its feet, I would . . . shakin’ all tha bad out wit’ me barre ’ands."

I won’t pretend to know how it must’ve been for you losing Molly and Gretchen the way you did, the colonel slowly sighs, "but you can’t possibly bring the entire operation on its head all by yourself even if you are a hei-con. You want payback, I know. It won’t happen the way you’re going about it. We need something huge enough to rock the walls. That whole network hive of corruption would simply obliterate any compromised evidence. You know that."

Tom-Tom agrees with an exhausted, "Aye . . ."

Tom-Tom pulls more smoky breaths from the cigar to ease his nerves. He makes his way back to the chair and sits as though being defeated after a long fought battle. Romares puts his hand on his dear friend’s shoulder.

You’re a good man, Tom, he confidently reminds him. "You always have been. All of your men are ready and willing to lay down their lives for you in every battle. The Vitricus is just doing this to get you out of their hair for a while. There’s no way I’ll allow them to keep you on that damn ice rock. I’ll get you out of there as soon as I can. Don’t

you worry."

Tom-Tom knows that his old friend means what he says from the heart. It is a friendship that goes far back to their time in the orphanage. He still recalls the footraces Romares would always win between them.

Better luck next time, Romares would say while smiling as he would put his hand on Tom-Tom’s shoulder. Tom-Tom remembers always being out of breath with his hands on his knees and looking up with a smile of his own.

At a young age, they were both recruited into the Vi-corps military in the hope of making names for themselves. Just as on the battlefield, they watched out for one another as they rose through the ranks at the same rate. Tom-Tom could very well have reached title of colonel just as his comrade. He has enough Medals of Honor and Medals of Bravery to have melted down and made a semilife-sized statue of himself to prove it. However, Tom-Tom loves the fight and would never trade it for anything he would consider as a cushy desk job.

Despite Romares’ good intentions, Tom-Tom knows that his dear friend has always been the more naïve of the two. He knows that the Vitricus will have him on that rock a lot longer than either of them would care for. Nevertheless, Tom-Tom nods his head . . .

Like an electric current, a sharp pain shoots through Tom-Tom’s body and jolts him from his ironic memory. A luxo wolf has slipped through the unsuspecting captain’s blind side—chomping down on his forearm. Tom-Tom yells as he feels the monster’s cuspids dig deeper into his flesh and scrape against his bone.

Tom-Tom brings his hands to tightly clenched fists as his skin begins to wrap tightly around each tooth of the rabid dog. Unable to loosen its grip from the man, the luxo hound is now panicked. It seems that the arm it once had a firm hold of now has a hold of him.

As it looks up at the Vi-corps captain, its piercing gold eyes that is filled with amazed confusion is answered by a sly, Anglo-Saxon grin. Tom-Tom’s arms instantly cover themselves with a metallic sheen and shatter the luxo’s canine jaw to bits. As it stumbles onto the cold snowy field, the luxo’s head caves inward under the force of the mighty marvel’s blow.

The cruel blizzard picks up its aggression and blankets the baron scene in almost complete white. Tom-Tom and his elite men and women have pushed far out into the battle zone. The base guarding the labs by the other proud but average fighters are several clicks behind and more of the common soldier numbers are lost.

"Now that there is actual threat in these white deserts, the Vitricus does nothing?" Tom-Tom asks himself in irritation. The captain has had enough. He charges out into the field toward the enemy’s rows like a rhinoceros. The ground trembles under his steps as if chattering to the cold.

GIVE THE CAPTAIN COVER FIRE!! Sgt. Maj. Brice, the next highest ranking elite soldier on the battle zone, rings out.

BLAST THA FUCKIN’ VITRICUS!!! Tom-Tom bellows. He takes a colossal leap into the air, and with an enraged roar that seems to momentarily blast the blizzard winds backward, he rushes to the ground like a meteor with both fists completely consumed with pure steel.

The icy ground splits under the shocking velocity and opens the planet’s very surface while swallowing the rest of the demonic luxo underneath. The hellish cries from the enemy soon come to a hush. Nothing is heard but the harsh razor winds howling like a banshee’s song. Tom-Tom’s arms return to flesh as they once were. This battle is concluded for now. It is a cycle that has repeated itself for days on end. Until the next luxo assault, victory belongs to the captain and his men.

CHAPTER 2

Lilith’s Proposal

HOURS LATER, SOLDIERS throughout the military base can hear Tom-Tom’s unmistakable heavy footsteps of haste through the main halls toward the communications room. While pulling off his hood and brushing the snowy sands off of his sleeveless long coat, he is informed that orders are to be given by the Vitricus’ United Continents branch. "After weeks of no response whatsoever to our requests for reinforcements while men are being butchered left and right, they lift their heads from the fucking dirt to give orders now?" Tom-Tom thinks to himself on the absurdity of it all. Blood suckers!

The comm room doors slide open as he and Sgt. Maj. Brice approach the communications center, giving them entrance. Inside, Vi-corps tech officers work diligently like ants as MGySgt. Calvin Ross informs the captain that the massive screen overhead is prepped to receive an open link from Vitricus UC. Tom-Tom approves the master gunnery sergeant to patch it through.

Maj. Chestler?! Brice quietly gasps.

A hush runs over the comm room floor as the screen shows a bald, stern chiseled face of a major of the UC Vi-corps. Tom-Tom, however, is unphased as half a smile slowly grows across his face.

Captain Thompson . . . the highly commanding officer greets through the comm screen.

Majorr, Tom-Tom sneers, and to what do I owe this charrmin’ yet incinveniently tarrdy pleasurre?

I understand your frustration, Captain, Major Brad Chestler insists, and I can imagine the angst among your troops and the rest of the Vi-corps stationed there alike. These past three weeks haven’t been a walk in the park, I’m sure.

At least ya’ve been countin’.

Captain, assistance from the Vitricus will be appointed soon enough. However, something has recently come to the attention of the Vitricus Citadel on Albusite 9 that they want investigated.

Tom-Tom’s mastodon knuckles slam down heavily on the dash and shakes every loose cup across the counters. The comm room crew members flinch at the sound of the brute impact. They all halt and remain still.

’ow do ya expect us to carry out orrderrs afterr countless men and women ’ave been paintin’ those snow dunes rred?! Tom-Tom barks. "I ’ave ’alf a mind to rrip this bloody monitorr frrom its mounts and carry it to ourr morrgue and show ya just ’ow serrious this situation rreally is!"

The master gunnery sergeant turns to the sergeant major and quietly asks, "Could he really do that?" Without a word, Brice briefly shuts his eyes and answers the question with a slow nod.

Look Captain, Chestler says as he slightly lowers the tone in his voice, I’m going to make this very clear. This order comes straight from the UC president and could very well have you, your elite men and women, and the entire Vi-corps base off that planet completely.

Tha president of UC, ya say? Tom-Tom asks while slowly raising his fist from the dash.

That’s right, Captain, he confirms with a slight sneer. Apparently, some specifically assigned specialists at the Citadel have been appointed to monitor activity in the labs of the research facility for many years now—the very research facility you and your team have been helping to safeguard.

Activity?? Just what sorrt of activities arre they monitorrin’ let alone hopin’ to find? Dust bunnies? Therre’s no powerr, no cirrcuits, and no generratorrs. Nothin’ therre worrks!

"Well, that’s what was thought, until now. Something lit up their systems."

"So, you’rre serriously tellin’ me that afterr nearrly a month of us rrequestin’ assistance with no rresponse from Vitricus while we get carrved by luxo, tha Vitricus finally decide to brreak theirr silence because of a wee little bleep—?"

That is correct, Captain Thompson, says another face while interrupting the visual transmission to Maj. Chestler. The short-haired, brunette beauty is unfamiliar and dressed too formally to be any Vi-corps official. She has the full, undivided attention of the comm room . . . although it has little to do with her being displayed on screen.

Chestler, now only