inhuman industries present

Tales of the Nevercity

Jasper Fear

This is a promotional chapter for the forth-coming novel Jasper Fear.

Due out October 2011. All Characters within these pages and sub-sequent ‘Tales of the Nevercity’ novels are copyright to L.M.Copsey

1999-2011.

All Illustrations in this promotion are by L.M.Copsey

There are many influences and thanks that will be listed in the full novel, so you’ll just have to wait till then! Ha!

Please feel free to pass this about and tell as many people as pos-sible, or where they can get a copy.

It’s available in print at either personal request or from places listed on the Jasper Fear FB page, which can be found at:

www.inhuman-industries.co.uk

Alternatively a downloadable PDF format is available from:

http://issuu.com/mr_lucius/docs/jasperfear

For any other information please contact me at the following:Lucius@inhuman-industries.co.uk

Enjoy

Dedicated to Cherry Raine.

Automaton: A self-moving machine, or one that has its motive power within itself; applied chiefly to machines which appear to imitate spontaneously the motions of living beings.

Metaphysic: Metaphysics is a branch of philosophy concerned with explaining the fundamental nature of beings and the world

Cognition: Cognition is the scientific term for “the process of thought”. Usage of the term varies in different disciplines; for example in psychology and cognitive science, it usually refers to an information processing view of an individual’s psychological functions. Other interpretations of the meaning of cognition link it to the development of concepts; individual minds, groups, and organizations.

Awakening

I awoke once more to the gloom; the itch strong to pull free from unseen bonds. I feel the feverish pulling and dismembering of my limbs and torso, exposing me to prying eyes. In silence they go their course, delving inside with their own purpose. Their bodies of pure white light hovering above me, tendrils slinking out from within like blind hands of some curious abomination. They pull me apart; but there is no pain or blood, just the phantoms of where my limbs once were. Time to time I would remem-ber them being reattached, or would suddenly be able to rotate my foot on ankle, other times I would wake up alone in this damp concrete room with no memory of what had happened. Markings covered the walls, etched into the concrete all around me, they look like diagrams and scribbles for some unknown machine, cogs and joints and internal engines of curious design. I am not sure where they came from, or who could have taken the time in this place to etch them in, but they have been here as long as I have. I don’t think I believed in the possibility of freedom, I had long lost the drive to fight as I once had, so it was sudden and quite unexpected to find myself free within this damp concrete room. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the orbs hovering around me, but there was nothing, just the same low humming light on the far wall. I sat up without realizing it, in a motion that I had tried a thousand times before, but this time I came up level with the world, no longer just looking up at it, and no long having those looking down on me.

I peered over the side of my bed come prison. The floor the same damp concrete as the walls; I think maybe I was expecting an abyss. Moving my body round, arms and legs working effortlessly despite being immobilized all this time, I stood.

1

Looking around this stark room I have no idea the amount of time I have been here. I am almost afraid to see what is on the other side of the worn metal door that separates me from the unseen world. What if the light is out there, waiting for me, was this some sort of new test, tired of pulling me to pieces and now wanted some new pursuit from me. I slowly eased open the door, expecting the light to come flooding in, but nothing came forth. I peer down the corridor both left and right, greeted by the same mottled damp concrete. I can’t help but feel ominous about being here. It seems too quiet as I step out. I don’t know which way to go, the low lighting makes both directions look identical and turn round unseen corners, I hesitate too long. From the right I see flurries of light starting to spill across the wall as the glow of the orbs approach. Muscles tense and twitch, fight or flight pounds through my chest like weighted butterflies, I look over my shoulder into the room, the diagrams seem to spur me on, tense muscles release in powerful energy. I am gone. They will have to chase me.

I feel strong as I run, although I don’t know where I’m going; it is the op-posite way to those unknown things. I turn corners blindly; the corridors are featureless except for the occasional pipe running across the ceiling, rust gathered round the joints, time taking its toll. I slow down to gather my thoughts; I feel like I could run endlessly round in this maze and still gain no idea of my position. I see no glow approaching, maybe they will leave me be, let me escape, can I escape? I look round for any clues of an exit when the light starts to sneak up one me once more, how have they found me so quickly? Again my body jolts into action and I follow the path ahead. Turning to a new corridor, but have to stop in my tracks. A man stands in shadow blocking my way, head down, his face hidden and hair wild and unkempt. His overalls look as damp and moldy as the walls that surround us. He stands in silence as I ask who he is, approaching with caution. As I get within arms length his face turns out from the shadows, he looks up at the dim lights that line the ceiling, then at me. His face, worn and old, looks familiar to me, I do not know why. His eyes are kind; age has not taken any of the life out of them.

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His hands reach out towards me at surprising speed, palms facing outwards. I stumble back surprised, and his body slumps once more as the life is taken out of him. I look back the way I came, the dull lights slowly creeping up once more. I have no choice. I step towards the old man again and his head snaps up, he looks both worried and relieved, a frail smile dances across his lips. His arms reach forward again, like some ancient stance, and our eyes meet, there is something unseen here.

He moves his right hand to the wall, his palm firmly against it, he closes his eyes and mumbles under his breath, I try to make the words out, but they are his own. His Eyes snap open, having become a brilliant glaze of pure blue, and within his gaze time stands still. I feel such an unknown depth of knowledge and memorry wash over me that I am barely aware that his hand on the wall had begun to glow, and flowing from his fingertips come lines running up and over the walls. I watch as if I am no longer in my own body as they grow and spread across the low ceiling, I realize that I have seen these markings before, this man must be the source of the diagrams in my room. I open my mouth to ask who he is, but I am caught unaware.

The Palm of his left hand touches my chest, immobilizing me. The lines start to spread and flow through my body. I hear soft whisperings from a long lost inner voice. The old man smiles, as his face seems to be returning to its youthful state, I know him, but still his name eludes me. All I know is that he means a great deal to me. It doesn’t last, interrupted, his eyes dart over my shoulder and his old furrowed brow returns. He releases me. They are approaching. As if pulled by some unseen force, he darts past me towards those unknown orbs; his body moving and contorting like a puppet on string. I cannot tell if it is by his own instigation or theirs as they take hold of him with those long tendrils, trying to cease his movement. Through his snapping acrobatics he looks at me and then up at the ceiling, the glowing lines are flowing away and around the corner. I want to help him, but he is giving me time to get away. His message conveyed, attention springs back to the orbs and continued with his twisted movements, their grip on him tightening and pulling him closer.

No mater the speed I moved at the lines seemed to stay ahead of my pace, guiding me to some unseen end, turn after turn, the glow that had coursed through my veins now subsided, but I feel different, something has awoken in me.

3

I follow them round another corner and come to a stop. A door, my door, is in front of me. The lines continue across the ceiling and into the room, I walk slowly and look inside. The lines multiply and start to weave about, reaching the floor and not stopping. They become more frantic, covering up the concrete in a rising amber glow. Images twitch in my memory, faces of strange yet familiar people flashing before my minds eye. What am I starting to remember? I feel an unseen weight and presence around me. As my thoughts and blurred memories turn to darkness and anger, manifesting themselves and bleeding out into this maze as all but my room is extinguished into a pitch-black nothing.

The lines lead me towards the center of the room where a circle of untouched floor is waiting for me. Not seeming to follow any set pattern or scripture, but just flowing, the lines cross into each other over and over again like a child’s enthusiastic scribbling. As they weave out the last of the concrete surrounding me. I can feel tremors all around me, as a sensation of great pressure grows all over my body, pushing in at me from all directions. The room now glowing like molten metal becomes too bright; I try to shade my eyes. The tremors continue, becoming more violent as an immense pulse of energy is released tearing down my prison walls to reveal a suddenly familiar world.

Light floods over me; lowering my hand to take in all my surroundings.

I am back, and I remember who they are.

4

Chapter 1Phase 1

The silhouette of a soldier leans in the entrance of a dugout, the smell of earth and night’s rain heavy in the air. His shoulder against the timber frame of the doorway, he pulls out an old wooden pipe, pads down the tobacco, strikes a match, pauses, and inhales.

This place is hell.

Dawn was just breaking, the beams of golden light filtering through the cracks in the low gray clouds lit up the Officer’s face, his once polished buttons now dull, seemed to suck in and hold the light. Pipe in mouth he looked over the pit, the rain had turned dirt to mud and had caused some of the boarding to sink like spluttering ships lost to murky waters. He hadn’t slept well; none of his men had the past few nights since reaching their destination. It had been The MetaCog’s intention that they find it obviously, but they had expected to meet men in the tunnel maybe, not a great bulkhead door with the MetaCog insignia upon it. There was something eerie about it all, and to add to it his men had started suffering from strange headaches and sickness seemingly induced by an aroma emanating from the earth around it.

Six weeks previous Officer Fry had received orders from the MetaCog’s Elite Guard in New London. He was given instructions on a top-secret mission that his team, The Uriel, would be starting on with no delay. He was given co-ordinates and plans to where they must precisely and swiftly construct. He had tried to get more information out of them, but the questions fell on deaf ears, he received only one wire informing him that The MetaCog or their Elite guards we’re not to be contacted again till the job was complete.

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The Officer had mulled over the plans, they were to be relocated to the far end of the trenches to excavate and build what his minds eye saw as a yawning pit, dangerous to have on the front line, with three dugouts and a tunnel leading far behind their lines that seemingly stopped in the middle of nowhere. Officer Fry’s men were known as the best at their job, and that was as tunnel constructors, not a job many survived long doing, but that is how they had earned the moniker of The Uriel, after an angel that supposedly took men to their destiny. Fry wanted this job over with quickly, orders were orders and they set to construction.

It took five weeks to build the pit, the twenty foot square, eight-foot deep hellhole. With the three tiered fire steps being the last pieces to be put in place, the steps that led out to no man’s land. They worried Fry, and the men had looked at the plans and had instantly all pointed out the same thing Fry thought, that it was obvious that they were not just unusually staggered for different ranges or some new weap-ons, but steps to climb up and out.

The pit itself was no trouble to construct and build; the only thing that did unnerve the men was being out in the open for too long. The mortar shells and zipping of machine gun fire in the open made them cautious, being used to the dull echoes below ground. They excavated a wall to the back of the trench first enabling his men to start work on the dugouts. The tunnel was to be situated in the middle of the three, they had to construct a fairly steep and long incline in order to compensate for the strange dimensions that the tunnel had to be built too. The average tun-nel was no more a hole to scuttle through, shoulders touching walls and head touching ceiling, but this you could walk down side by side, and the ceil-ing was beyond the average mans reach.

A week into tunneling they had received crates from the MetaCog containing specialized structure supports, the material was odd; it was a bronzed lightweight metal unlike any of them had seen or worked with before. The panels looked fit to line the walls of The MetaCog itself, not a tunnel laying 30ft under soil. The men worked long nights and days, taking it in shifts, with one rotation always working, and as they got deeper, closing in on their target, the headaches had started to occur.

6

At first they had not complained and worked on, but the nausea had started to increase and the men swore they could feel some distant vibrations through the ground. Fry spent time down there as well, but he could never detect the vibrations in the earth. He knew he was pushing the men hard to keep on schedule, but he was not unreasonable. He re-organized the tunneling shifts to see if that would help, but the men could still sense the vibrations, some even started seeing things out of the corner of their eyes, and the further they dug, the more intense it became. And then, they struck metal. Alfie, one of the youngest tunnelers had come rushing out, his face concentrated and fearful as he tried to catch his breath to inform Fry of what they had hit. At first they thought that it could have been an unexploded bomb, or piping from some factory or sewer, but as they uncovered more, what they found it was much more unnerving. On entering the tunnel and walking the considerable distance he reached what they had unearthed. The rest of his men all followed down and stood silently behind as Fry approached the large metal hatchway. There was an odd rotten sweet smell about it; one that he realized had been lingering for a while now. The tunnelers that had uncovered it were sitting on the floor unable to work anymore, their heads filled with nausea and fatigue. Sweating profusely with their colour draining in front of Fry’s eyes. He ordered them to be taken topside immediately.

He stepped forward and touched the metal, running his hand over the in-signia, he could feel vibrations running through it, which must have been the same ones his men had felt as they closed in on this destination. He moved back; faltering in his step, his head starting to swim suddenly, he was not the only one to be suffering either. His men had started putting their hands to their heads or supporting themselves against the walls, lost look drawing upon their faces. Fry, trying to keep his composure ordered everyone topside, he didn’t want to be near this place any longer; he could feel the fear starting to creep up his spine.

7

Phase 2

He looked out over the pit, the rain beating down and the thunder of shellfire in the distance, the last of the gray sky looming down as dusk approached. The scene before him was saturated in shadows, with the rich orange glow of blazing fires in the distant skyline. He had sent the message to the MetaCog informing them that they had reached the destination, but it had not eased the primal fear that was still trying to take over him like it had taken some of the others; even with the knowledge that relief was coming, the slow long ominous feeling was drifting up and around like a venomous fog. Would he have to be restrained too? Silence fell. Fry looked at his surroundings, the raindrops before him appeared frozen in time, stopped before they could descend into the dirt and add to the mire that was growing around him. He walked into the middle of the pit. The static rain soaking into his clothes, as his touch seemed to break their spell, beneath his feet he could feel tremors, bombs dropping, they had to be close, he ducked out of final instinct but no explosions followed, just the trembling earth. From all sides loose soil started falling in the pit, the tremors becoming more pronounced as if some huge and unseen nameless was marching across the land. Fry turned to the back wall, the dugouts looked like twisted faces shouting into the night as mud erupted from over the edges of the pit flooding down like some great barrier had been removed. It rushed in and around Fry’s legs, rooting him to the spot, the oozing mud somehow taking a grip on him, he could feel it squeeze and snake round his legs as if it was alive.

The shadows around him grew quickly, taking dusk away and becoming a descending darkness, he had not been buried, but something had taken away the last of the light. It felt as if this nameless thing, too huge to see, had cast down this darkness

8

Fry stood inside the infinite blackness. The tremors had stopped, replaced by the single sound of a mechanical whirring, like a clock’s chime preparing to strike. He sensed movement all around him, but couldn’t pinpoint the source from within the unseen. Burning orange light floods down, illuminating all in bril-liant detail. The sudden brightness causing Fry to cower down, shielding his eyes, giving the flowing, lapping mud opportunity to leap up his thighs and towards his arms and face as if it was trying to gain more purchase to drag him down to unknown depths.

The light became more concentrated, the feeling of dread coursing through his veins. As his eyes adjust to the intensity it starts to reveal the source from above. He can see a darker core of the light moving, shifting, and focusing on him while the glare from the burning orange feels as if it is searing his flesh. An insane logic leaps like a spark from vision to brain on what is above him. There is another dark core, there are two beams coming down on him forming one, his mind slips from acknowledging what he is seeing. Eyes, they are monstrous eyes.

Fry stands in petrified awe at the sight above him. Background noise starts to sneak it’s way back to his ears, as the orange beam disappears as if it were never there, plunging everything back into darkness. With the cold and damp starts to seep back into his senses, he stands in front of a titan shadow, the ground rumbles once more as the monstrous being moves off, leaving the world once more in the fleeting light of evening and Fry standing in the middle of the pit, the rain soaking him through. Through a tunneled haze he can hear shouts from his men in the dis-tance, not aware of quite where he is, but in some part of his mind they sounded desperate to get his attention. He looks down, the oozing mud has gone, and he is holding his pistol, he can smell that its been recently fired. Confusion, as the men reach him.

He feels a hand at his shoulder and he turns. ‘Sir...?’

Fry looks blankly through them, like apparitions sprung suddenly from the ground. He turns back towards no man’s, the distant fires now emblazing the sky as night finally falls. His mind starts to sneak back in, turning to his soldiers asks;

9

‘What… what was that?’

The men stand in a semi-circle around him, their tension obvious and strong, Fry can feel that they want to say something, but fear has stopped them, as if they were holding back from admitting something to them-selves.

‘What was what? Sir’ said a young faced soldier.

Fry looked at the boy, and then to the other soldiers before him, realizing that these were not the familiar faces of his men. Disorientated and confused, he stepped back from the men, shadows combined with the glow of the skies playing some devilish trick on his mind. Their faces start to whither before his eyes, cheeks becoming sallow and gaunt, eyes deepening in their sockets. Fry shakes his head in disbelief and rubs his eyes and looks once more, their faces have returned to those of soldiers and not ghouls, but they look blankly on at him with white-scarred eyes, their mouths moving as if in chant, but no voices coming forth. An explosion erupts and flashes across the burning skies above as the soldiers before him turn back into the grotesque undead horde.

The monstrous gaunt soldiers lurch fowards, as more thundering skies switch them back to silent chanting. Fry keeps backing away as more fire erupts across the skies as their features flickering again to their emaciated forms, fear, desperation and pain radiating off them, turning their panic into anger and frustration. Fry feels it creep up into his spine, spreading out across his flesh, his skin starts to feel tight, so very tight, the fear now rooted in the core of his brain, looking wildly about him, the pit now full of these desperate dread soldiers, he backs up against the wall of the pit, his back to no man’s land, but he does not stop, the mud envelopes him, sinking backwards, trying to escape the desperate dead faces of all the men before him.

Their screams echo around his skull as he is cocooned in darkness, un-able to move, the faces of the dead and desperate etched into his mind’s eye. It feels as if they are tearing him down, clawing out from the inside of his skull, he opens his mouth to scream, but it fills with the foul oozing mud, unable to spit it out, it forces its way down his throat.

10

Fry woke up frozen in fear. He tried to look about, but the terror kept him pinned down. The moonlight filtered through onto his face light-ing up beads of sweat and nerves, he listened out for familiar sounds of his surroundings, his fellow men, the punctuation of machine gun fire, anything. He felt like he was going insane. It had been six days since the bulkhead had been found, and everyone had made their excuses to not check up on it, and Fry had not forced them to do so. Although the nausea had subsided in some, others still lay bed ridden or worse, their colour not returning, Fry had tried to get in touch with The MetaCog again after informing them of mission accomplished but heard nothing back, relief was coming they had said. So they carried on waiting, a basic watch was set up to make sure the tunnel stayed in tact, but no one had gone near the door itself. And Fry had no problem with that, to hell with The MetaCog.

He swallowed hard, and forced himself to sit up, it was then that his in-ner voice subsided in notice of a few of his men gathered out in the pit, exactly where he had been standing at the start of his nightmare vision. He got to his feet and put his jacket on, and went over to see what was going on.

The men were crowded round a fallen figure. He pushed past them, moving silently, they kept their gaze on the body before them, he looked down to see it was Alfie, his skin now mottled gray and taught against his frame as if he had been laid in some unseen tomb for centuries and not the hour or two it could only have been since Fry had checked on the sick. Flashbacks from his nightmare shot like electricity through his mind, the feel of the dread soldiers back, trying to claw and scrape their way out, the nausea and fear so strong as he staggers back in silence. The men not paying attention, lost in their own worlds, none of them raising their eyes until Fry let out a cry, rousing them out of their personal hor-ror, they turn to see what had caused their Officer to shout aloud.

Fry turned to see what demon he had backed into, Falling to the floor at the sight of the figure facing him.

Before them stood a MetaCog Elite Guard, even in the thin light of the moon the brilliant blue and black uniform stood out, tunic fastened to the neckline, the MetaCog insignia upon his left side. The uniform kept his

11

posture tall and rigid, and tapering down to a single pistol holstered at his waist. But this was not the shock that had caused Fry to fall; it was the mask the soldier wore that had turned his mind upside down. With two pipes leading out of the bottom and over the shoulders to some unseen breathing device, the large slanted half moon eyes that glowed with vivid orange light, that is what had sent Fry over the edge, making him scramble through the mud and tripping once more, whimpering and spluttering, trying to find trembling feet and crawling up the fire steps, babbling and ranting to himself as he entered no man’s land.

All was silent for what seemed like an eternity. The men stood staring at The MetaCog Elite, as he watched Fry’s silhouette stagger and disappear to the flash and thunder of machine gun fire as it echoed through the night and just as suddenly returned to silence.

The Elite brought his hands up to the mask and unclasped the latches letting out a hiss as the front half of the mask was removed to reveal the face beneath. Even with this human face to look at the men were dumbstruck. The Elite, no older than twenty-six had a glare that put him much older than his years, he looked to each one of them, then down to the body on the floor. He stepped forward, and the men all darted back like alley cats scattering to safe ground, but curiosity as it always does, seemed to get the better of them, he was a man of the Cog after all. All eyes stayed on the Elite as he knelt down in front of the body, turning its head. The agent in the ground had worked then.

The Elite stood once more and looked at the men surrounding him. He wondered how these soldiers had survived; anyone that came in contact with the agent should have died by now. They all seemed to have symptoms of the madness, but that could just as easily be fright from the scene they were now facing. He walked over the soldier towards the fire steps, turning, facing in to the pit. There were not enough men to have completed this task so quickly out here. And he had not met any on his journey up the tunnel, where were the rest of them?

12

The Elite looked over the soldiers‘Where is the rest of your squad?’ They all looked from one to the other then back at him, staying silent, then as if some unspoken agreement had been reached, the soldier clos-est spoke up. ‘Their… their in the dugouts… sir.’‘Hawthorn, Captain Hawthorn… not sir.’ He replied, he hated people calling him sir, he was not of title, but everyone seemed to think because he was an Elite that he was a sir. ‘Surely that gunfire should have woke them then? No one has rushed out?’

Blank faces looked at him, he thought that these men were too afraid to remember their own names right now let alone tell him where the rest of them had gone.

Losing patience with the gawping faces before him, he walked over to the left dugout, taking out his gun and flicking a switch, a beam of light cut through the darkness and into the gloom. He scanned the room, the empty cots he presumed belonged to the men outside. The cots with the sleeping soldiers though had all suffered the same fate as the man outside, he wondered if it was a painful death as he looked over their emaciated forms, some of which he noted were restrained. They would be happy with the formula’s success; he wondered how long the effects took to reach this state. No matter either way it would put the fear of the gods into the enemy if they discovered bodies like this in their trenches.

He moved to the second tomb, with the same results. Exiting he Looks over the men before him, still horrified, backs against the wall. Hawthorn lifted back up his mask and secured it in place. Took out his pistol and shot the last of the men with precise speed and accuracy. He did not like shooting unarmed men, but they were dead anyway, the agent would have taken care of that eventually. As he saw it, they had they died serv-ing in the name of Lord Cog and Country. All hail the Cog.

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Phase 3

Daylight was fast approaching as Hawthorn moved the bodies of the shot men. Checking the time, the next phase would be beginning soon. All the men killed by the agent had been put in the far right dugout; knowing that they would want to take the bodies back for autopsy. He looked over the pit then made his way back down into the tunnel to the bulkhead door.

On the 15th April 1915, at precisely 6am, the door opened with a pres-surized hiss. From within stepped out two MetaCog Elite Guards, their breathing apparatus and uniform every bit as immaculate as Hawthorns only in a deep red, upon seeing him they both saluted and marched on towards the surface. Next followed The MetaCog scientist Abraham Faust, his white tabard a similar design to Hawthorns only three quarters in length, his breathing apparatus resembled the plague doctors from years passed, Hawthorn had no time for men like him, the sycophant showed less emotion for his fellow man, save for those in charge, than the weapon, but he was one of the minds that had brought the weapon to what it was and insisted that he accompanied them on all training exer-cises, although this would be the first live combat test against the enemy. Faust looked at Hawthorn and nodded, their eyes met but Hawthorn did not acknowledge his presence any more than that.

Faust, un-phased, turned back to the open doorway, and motioned the machine from within. Hawthorn had seen it perform numerous times now and had embraced the machines ability straight away. It filled him with pride, and although he would not admit it to anyone, excitement, to be part of the machines official guard and to watch on as it changed the face of the 20th century.

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The machine took its first step into the tunnel at a slow pace, curious of its surroundings. It looked down at the floor and all around the walls where the agent had worked through the earth from above, the amber glow from its eyes lit up the walls in the dusk of the tunnel. It swung its head towards Hawthorn, its face expressionless, but its metallic eyes looked at him, the inner coils rotating and focusing on his face. Twitching its head to the right while looking at him, concentrating.

Sweeping its head forward again, seemingly satisfied, the machine started on again, walking tall on four long athletic limbs, its arms, longer than its legs, supported its human like torso above the ground, Hawthorn had often likened it to a gorilla’s posture with a mantis’s elegance, the way it moved its head on its sloped neck, back and forth, scanning and memorizing its surroundings, but yet its power was unmistakable. Its telescopic limbs tapered down into needle like tips sinking into the metal of the corridor with ease, leaving indents as it walked up towards the surface.

The last two Elite Guards followed after the machine, again saluting the Captain. He closed the bulkhead door and followed after the Unit. He had watched as the scientists created more and more elaborate designs for the machine, code-named ‘Jasper’, Faust had designed the machines limbs; they were able to retract to different lengths and bend in ways to suit any environment, and within each of them a deadly blade.

Sebastian Francis, the lead designer and scientist, with his assistant Adeline Rose had created the inner mechanics; a secret Sebastian kept very close to his chest. The former scientists had only ever attended one test practice, only Faust had attended them afterwards. He had never fully understood why Sebastian had taken on this project, aware that the machine was created for war, he seemed to dislike its very purpose, which had led him to almost obsessive heights pioneering the mechanical thought process that now resided in Jasper, it had no con-scious to speak of, but he would sometimes see the machine looking at things intensely, like it was trying to process a question in its head, not unlike someone looking at an object they recognized from a picture and seeing it in life for the first time. Automata Sebastian had called it, machine-imitating life.

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Reaching the surface, he saw Jasper, the machine, in its full glory. The bronze plated armor shone dully in the morning light, walking round to its front, he looked up at the blank cast human face. Sebastian had fought to keep that addition, The MetaCog had wanted to make it fierce and monstrous, but he had to admit, the blank emotionless features on the stalking machine seemed to make it more unnerving than any devilish expression could.

The armor that covered its body was a metal based compound called Bronzium, Sebastian had created it when making Jasper’s internal mechanics, but they found in early tests that it could withstand much more aggressive forces than the rest of its body armor at the time. They knew full well that machine gun fire and mines would not stop Jasper, and for all its armor it had the ability to move quickly and skillfully in its own alien mechanical way. Jasper had unnerved some of Hawthorn’s men when it was first unveiled; it was more like a demon from the depths of the earth than a machine. The notion made him smile, how would the enemy react seeing Jasper stalk across the earth?

The four Elite stood in pairs each side of the fire steps, Faust walked round the machine making last minute checks, looking closely at limbs and joints. Satisfied, Faust looked to Hawthorn and nod-ded, then stood back. The MetaCog soldiers stepped forward, turned to the front line and ascended the first set of fire steps, one with a periscope the other with a mortar device. The scoped Elite read out angles and distances and two shells fired out over the wasteland, landing close to the Enemies position with a dull thud, bellowing out thick gray smoke.

They backed down and returned to their positions against the wall. Waiting in tense silence, giving the smoke time to spread across the land. Hawthorn stepped to the side of the machine, he thought of the enemies faces, what would their reactions be as Jasper appeared through smoke and mud. Would they know that it was their end?

Hawthorn, smiling, issues the command;‘Make them Fear, Jasper’The order ran through the machine, triggering off its internal systems one by one. The great engine inside Jasper coming to life, Hawthorn could hear the grinding of great-unseen mechanisms coiling tighter as it started smoothly climbing the steps and into no man’s land.

16

Phase 4

Hawthorn and Faust watched the machine stalk across the dead land, the thick smoke curled in the wind obscuring the enemy’s vision giving the machine the cover it needed. Jasper’s limbs sank into the decimated earth; stabilizing pins shooting out to support it from sinking as it disappears into the ether. The smoke, spreading rapidly, seeped into the enemy’s trenches. Blinding them from the machines approach. The tension mounted as they waited in silence; expecting to hear the whistles and calls of charge any moment, ready and composed to cut them down regardless of the mist. A snipers sights follow a shadow moving in the haze, tracking its movement as it lurches towards them. Waiting patiently for his clear, clean shot, something doesn’t seem right as he makes out the shape. Chills start to run down his spine as he counts four legs, no animals, save the scavenging unholy carrion came here. The world suddenly exploded around him, as terrified shouts of Demon echo through the trenches as the soldiers opened fire on the shaded monster. The machine stood silently taking on the fire, bullets ricocheting of its metal armor causing sparks with each blow. It looked as if it were ablaze within a hail of smoke and bullets. Ceasefire was called, but patters of gunfire still rang out from those close enough to see the beast before them, even though it had stopped moving almost as soon as the assault had started.

From the pit Hawthorn watched in anticipation, he had seen the explosions of light from inside the misty veil as Jasper took on their gunfire. And then silence had fallen save for a few last desperate shots.

Thoughts of victory got the better of him, the machine has done it he thought, it has destroyed and laid waste to all that came before it. Looking away from the field to Faust, the man’s jaw was clenched tight and his mouth thin lipped.

17

‘Stop looking at me and pay more attention to the field’ Faust spat in strong angry tones. Hawthorn, going red, opened his mouth to bark back;‘The damn machine has stopped moving’ carried on Faust.

Hawthorn quickly raised his scope over to the enemy’s lines; through the clearing smoke he could see Jasper standing there, immobile. A sickly feeling spread through out his body, this machine could not get in the hands of the enemy. They would be more likely to survive running across no man’s land and carrying the machine back than return and report of its capture. They would be shot on sight. Neither of them took their eyes off the machine. Sebastian had told them he had made some last minute alterations the night before, but had assured everyone that it would not affect the machines current ability, but would in fact expand it. Hawthorn started to pray to the gods while Faust started cursing Sebastian over and over.

The enemy started to cheer and through the scope the sniper took in all the detail of the monster. It looked insect in nature, its body made up of sections and plated armor, his sights hovered over the creatures face, it looked almost human. He fired off a shot to its head to knock it to the ground but only a small spark and grazed dent appeared. Worry started to creep up in him, this was no monster. It was a machine. He started yelling out to the other soldiers, if his high-powered rifle had not pen-etrated the machine, then their standard issue rifles would have made no impact at all. The soldiers started turning towards it, gripping their guns tightly, the sniper looked back down to the machine, and it was looking directly back at him.

It raised its right arm out of the ground and lurched forward once again as the soldiers called out in frenzied panic that the monster was still alive. It looked directly at the men in front of it. Paralized by fear, unable to stop looking eye to eye at this unstoppable thing approaching them, those that came to their senses opened fire; this time not stopping, and nor did the machine as it entered their trench.

Hawthorn watched through the scope as the machine disappeared. The gunfire went from firing out over no man’s land and into their trenches. He could hear distant shouts and screams taking over from the clacking gunfire as Jasper worked his way through the men.

18

Soldiers started appearing over the top, holding their hands up in surren-der and running blindly, not caring that they had to make way through razor wire and mines. Those that didn’t become entangled in a choking embrace or turn to red mist were gunned down before reaching British trenches. The Elite Guards were on strict orders that no enemy should be left alive.

Hawthorn watched and waited with bated breath as all fell silent again, no gunfire, or echoes of dying men, just the rays of light coming through the clouds illuminating pockets of no man’s land in golden light. He shift-ed feet as he saw movement near where the machine had entered, only in its place a different figure rose up.

The sun broke through and cast the figure of a tall waspish man in shadow, only lit up by a surrounding bronze aura. It started towards the pit with strong steps. Hawthorn looked to Faust, he was still watching the figure as it came closer to them. Faust finally looked away, they exchanged glances, the look in his eyes gave way that he clearly had no clue what was going on, but he had recognised that emotionless face.

As the titan approached, they could see that it was covered in gore, like a vision of some creature that really was from the depths of hell. Hawthorn and Faust looked on in shock as Sebastian’s words rang through their heads, last minute modifications? The machine looked and moved like a man. Hawthorn looked back to Faust, he was en-grossed in the machine once more, his jaw had tightened so much that he thought he could hear teeth cracking.

The machine reached their trench; its plated spiked legs now formed into rudimentary feet, its posture lifted up mimicking the Elite Guards stance, as it stepped down and stood in the middle of the pit. It looked from Faust to Hawthorn; there was something new, something more about the machine apart from its mock human stance. Its eyes focused on the Captain and raised its hand in salute as if it was one of his Elites.

Faust stumbled towards Jasper, not taking his eyes off it. The machine must have stood at no less than seven foot tall; its plated armor had formed down into this man like structure almost seamlessly.

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Jasper looked down at him, Faust moved round to the front of the machine, its mass blocking out the sun making it look like a great bronze idol.‘How could this be...’

Hawthorn stood in awe, his mind blank except for the words; ‘Sebastian, what have you done?…’

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Thank you for taking the time to read this promotional chapter. I hope you’ve enjoyed it. Please feel free to mail any comments to

Lucius@inhuman-industries.co.uk or leave a message on the Jasper Fear FB page.

The full novel will be released in October 2011. For all up to date information please visit www.inhuman-industries.co.uk

All thoughts and suggestions appriciated.

I am also looking for some character and scene art/illustration for the final printed piece. please contact me on one of the above if your

interested.

Thanks you again

Be well

Mr Lx