====== Tales of Horizon ======
This page has been reserved for sharing stories from Horizon. Many great or mysterious events have occurred there and in the interest of giving future generations insight into their world, this collection was started. If you feel you can contribute to the growing compendium, please do so, but note that with this freedom must come wisdom on the part of the reader; you cannot take for truth all that you read here. Many strange or horrifying things may be unveiled as fact, while the apparently mundane is pure fabrication. Horizon is a world of mystery and intrigue as much as it is of valor and sacrifice. Tread carefully, dear reader, as you stalk the pages of these tales; you never know what you may find.
When adding a new story of any kind, please leave an open line above and below your story and use the following format:
|==== Name of Story ====|
Type of Story - by Author
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<"hidden Text">
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(Story Text)
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<"/hidden">
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The type of story should be something like "Character Backstory" or "Fan Fiction". Remember to remove all "" signs so the syntax will work.
==== Gone Native ====
Fan Fiction - by Schrodinger
Michael MacPherson had become a successful, well paid, stable professional at the top of the medical-engineering field. In an age of nano-tech medicine, it was vastly important position and he had achieved success that few other fields could offer at the time. He had sacrificed of course, as all great ambitions require and had never regretted it, though from an outside perspective, some might question the extent of his priorities. Where others in his diminishing circle of friends had cultivated relationships, he had neglected them to build a career. Where they had hobbies; he spent the few personal hours he allowed himself exploring every minute development in his field. They had children now; he had schematics.
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He was a proud man nonetheless; justifiably so, given his success and prominence, but at this very moment MacPherson was seriously questioning how nearly one-hundred years of meticulous decision making had left him so far from the stable, comfortable existence he had intended for himself. It all began with the new government. High-handedly titling itself, "The Great Alliance of Terra", it had constructed an entire space fleet for its newly formed "protectorate" military, then immediately deployed it to start a war with their own colony world, which had long been hinting at rebellion. As a byproduct of this massive undertaking and the resulting boom in his chosen industry, he had been elevated from relative obscurity, working on outsourced projects for the aerospace industry, into having his own small business empire. Some risk had been unavoidable in signing up for the project: mostly that he would fully commit his business to the effort, only to have it cancelled by some fickle politician, but he had reasoned that the government looked out for its own, if nobody else, and eventually made the decision to go ahead. At the time, his life plan had been wonderfully accelerated by winning the contracts, growing both his business and his status, though in time he would look back and wonder if this choice had also been ultimately responsible for other, less anticipated changes as well. For now though, the fleet had been victorious in it's rather one-sided war, which was of no surprise to anyone, save perhaps the would-be rebels, considering it was the only space fleet Humanity had ever seen. If any would have pitied them however, tales of their many insurrectionist exploits would silience even the most ardent humanitarian and such examples were widely available on the neural net. Earth, increasingly starved of resources, had invested a vast proportion of its accessible materials in a desperate mass-colonization effort. Having been established on a virgin world brimming with mineral wealth, their express purpose was to revitalize the starving homeworld. In return, they could remain in this land of opportunity henceforth and reap the benefits for the rest of their days. It had seemed such an attractive offer that literal billions of people had assaulted the application offices, yet when time came to fulfil their end of the bargain, they had been nothing but an ungrateful nuissance. Shipments of resources had been left short, or "sabotaged", never to reach Earth at all. Anti-Earth propaganda was circulated, showing little-to-no appreciation for the benevolence of the Earth that had sent them. Within a single day of its deployment, the fleet had silenced the whims of these self-interested malcontents. There had been much parading on the media channels of Earth in response, but for the time being, the fleet had remained active in something the G.A.T. was calling "ongoing peacekeeping operations". Why the entire fleet was still required was anyone's guess; bureaucracies were something MacPherson made no attempt to understand and if not involving him or his carefully maintained life, the matter would normally be dismissed from his busy mind without hesitation. Unfortunately, it turned out that his commitment to the G.A.T. wasn't quite spent.
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Not long after the fleet's inaugural victory and the accompanying excitement, he had found himself being asked to supervise further design adjustments for the fleet. Given his recent windfall of government contracts he had initially been more than happy to receive futher offers, even if his habitual caution prevented him from accepting immediately. It was no secret that MacPherson maintained a rigidly organized life and did all in his power to avoid any form of uncertainty or change. As a direct result, it was with no small inward terror that he was ushered into his own office by a team of darkly suited individuals the following morning. Their leader had informed him that as head engineer for several of the medical systems in the fleet, his direct supervision would be required for something he would only refer to as, "further development". At several points, MacPherson had meekly suggested that he might produce better results in a familiar environment, citing various assistants or resources that he typically relied on. After several such interjections, the dour faced speaker had silenced him with a long look somewhere between boredom and loathing, then bluntly stated that remote work was not an option, after which he continued as though there had been no interruption at all. This oppression went on little more than an hour, though it had felt like eternity. When they had finally gone, he was left with an empty office and a sense of how it might feel to be a hollowed-out log, carried by a cold river to an unknown and almost certainly unpleasant fate. The general nature of the assignment sounded harmless enough: he would be relocated to Horizon in order to oversee some kind of enhancement or redesign of the medical equipment being employed by military personell. As the person who had designed most of the hardware, that much made sense. Where his uneasiness had taken root was the inconsistency between that simple description and the dour man's exceptional vagueness regarding the nature of the new requirements. His reliance on phrases like, "unanticipated circumstances" or "increased importance of medical systems" was like putting a sign post on a swivel. Having been sworn to secrecy before hearing even this much made it clear that the fleet's continued activity near Horizon was more than the media had depicted. Whatever it was, the new government was clearly of the opinion that the people, "didn't need to know". MacPherson wished he didn't need to either.
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After agreeing, more-or-less under duress, to leave Earth early tomorrow, he had spent almost the entire morning tying up affairs for the company to operate in his absence, then rushed home to pack, negotiating the swarm of private hovercraft traffic which represented the wealthy and inodolent every lunch-time. After arriving home, he began working through his belongings and deciding what to pack. Using the scant information available, he tried to divine the invaluable from the insignificant, but without any outside pressure to occupy his mind, the reality of what was about to happen started to wear on him. By noon the effort had become woefully unfocused, until almost every surface in the house was littered with clothing, tools and reference material, but his case remained stubbornly empty. He had never liked change. He had never enjoyed travel. Yet somehow, the decades he had spent avoiding those very things had culminated in suffering them to a greater extreme than almost literally anyone on Earth. How? The question and its associated resentment chased him around in the back of his mind. He had just wandered into the living room, pursuing some half-remembered item of importance, when he eventually ground to a halt. Looking around at his home, normally tended to immaculate order, he felt like he had walked in on the scene of some violent burglary. The worst of it was, he had absolutely no idea what to expect and if anyone handled uncertainty badly, it was Michael MacPherson. He crumpled into the clearest patch of sofa he could see, wrestled some previously unseen object from beneath himself and put his head in his hands. For a time he just sat, resenting the universe, the government and anything else that happened to cross his mind. Gradually, as noon marched on into after-noon, the intensity of the mood faded and eventually his attention wandered from the looming cloud of the next day. In his hands, he still had the object pulled from the couch, which had turned out to be an old camping knife from his father. Without anywhere in particular to put it, he had kept it and now he tested it in his hands, balancing the weight, feeling the materials of grip and blade. It was a relic of his boyhood, that knife, a gift from his father during one trip or another and one of many, many efforts from his father to interest a young Michael in anything outdoors. He had learned to tolerate it with time, but had never grown to like it, much to his father's disappointment. Nonetheless, each year he had been dragged out to live in the dirty, insect-ridden wilderness for a month. Looking back, he realised how small a matter it had been. Returning to his present concerns of leaving behind his business and the life he had created for who-knows-how-long, the memory felt like a familiar haven by comparison. Those summers had been unpleasant, but they had always been a known factor in his life. Now, in some undefinable way, the reminder felt like a under-appreciated childhood friend, not seeming special at the time, but a welcome and warming sight after many years. After so long relaxed in the sofa, he suddenly became aware of the time that had slipped away. Looking up, he saw the sky had decayed from warm afternoon into the subtle shades of sunset. It hadn't been all wasted though; at least his inevitable future seemed less ominous now. Finally, he rose to begin packing in earnest, his habitual frown firmly back in place. He moved to lay the knife down behind him, but stopped short, then on a whim, threw it into the bottom of his otherwise-empty case. Who knew, maybe it would help to have a little hair of the dog that had bitten him so many years ago. It certainly wouldn't make things any worse.
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Macpherson had awoken with a deep frown. Possibly the worst night's sleep in his life had been terminated by the sound, not of his alarm, nor even his doorbell, but an unfamiliar voice in his bedroom.
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"Morning, Sir. Ready to go?"
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The voice belonged to a military aide, whose face currently defiled the sacred airspace directly above MacPherson's pillow, with MacPherson quickly building to critical mass between them.
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"How'd you sleep?"
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the aide continued to blare. A quick check on his internal clock informed him that it was 0500, a full two hours before the schedule outlined by the G.A.T. representatives from yesterday. Looking straight up, MacPherson met the vapid gaze that represented the universe in its infinite malice, challenging it to do its worst. His frown deepened. The aide was genuinely waiting for a reply.
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"Poorly."
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"I'm sorry to hear that, Sir. We have a long journey ahead of us."
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MacPherson had enough and began to sit up, wishing to conclude his interaction with this repellant imbicile as quickly and decisively as possible. Halfway to sitting, he was stalled by the passive, yet utterly immobile features still poised directly above him. He lay back down.
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"Not much of a talker, are you?"
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MacPherson had never been a violent man, but he felt very close to a sudden and catastrophic change. Slowly, carefully he made an exaggeration of pulling back the sheets on his bed, swivelling his gaze pointedly at an antique bedside clock, then back to the aide. The eyes maintained their hard, military set, oblivious to MacPherson's white-knuckle grip on self discipline. He willed the aide to melt where he stood. Nothing. Finally, he settled on something he detested, reserved for only the most necessary and idiotic individuals; he would say whatever this fool wanted to hear. Not a soul who worked for him had ever received this treatment; they would have been fired first.
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"I'm just not a morning person."
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"Unfortunately, we need to get moving, Sir; is there anything I can do to help?"
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"You're two hours early."
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"Yes, Sir, I'm sorry, but we've been forced to move the schedule ahead; a few things came up."
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MacPherson's frown tightened into gritted teeth. //Indeed. Things did that, didn't they.// Nonetheless, he finally saw a way out of bed;
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"Hadn't I better dress then?"
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"If that's all you need, Sir, I'll have your bags put on the float now. Please be ready within the next few minutes"
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The aide managed to exit with the air that he had been the one waiting. For just the briefest moment, MacPherson wished he could just close his eyes and cease to exist.
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to be continued.