BZRK: Apocalypse (BZRK 3)

A News Item.

Wellington, NZ. Wellington Police Superintendent Thomas DuPré gave a press conference today in which he discussed the recent suicide of two Wellington Police Department officers, and the attempted suicide by a third, who remains in care at Wellington Hospital.

“All three officers reported seeing strange visions about an hour prior to their suicide attempts. They variously described these hallucinations as involving bizarre insects and strange objects.”

Superintendent DuPré said all three were tested for drugs but results were negative. “It’s possible that this tragic episode is simply a rather horrible coincidence.”

All three incidents occurred nine days ago. The two successful and one attempted suicides were particularly brutal and appeared to be unplanned.

The investigation is ongoing.

Nothing was said publicly about the fact that the three officers, while on their way together to a soccer match a week earlier, had come across an overturned truck on the highway apparently headed to the port.

The truck had appeared to be carrying military grade weapons.

Higher authorities were called in to take over the case. And the three policemen would have nothing further to say on the matter.

[ARTIFACT]

From Deadline Hollywood:

The Academy announced today that Sandra Piper’s name would remain on the ballot for the Best Actress Oscar. There had been suggestions (surely not from studios and press agents tied to competing actresses, heaven forfend!) that the actress’s bizarre suicide would send a bad message to movie lovers and especially young fans. The statement reads in part, “We believe that an Academy Award is given for the work, and only for the work, and should not be affected by the tragedy that took this great talent’s life.”

Comments:

QxT: Sandra Piper was a great lady and a great actress. Shame on those who are trying to prophet from her death.

KeyAgrippa: She was nuts. That’s who we want to show off as a symbol of Hollywood?

Book Guy: Tragedy my ass. She was murdered. I don’t know how. Yet. But I knew Sandra, we worked together on UTD. No way she killed herself, she had everything to live for.

SEVEN

Seven thousand, two hundred and fourteen miles south and a bit east from the watery grave of the Doll Ship, where bloated, bleached-out bodies still fed indifferent fish, a very different sort of vessel was roaring across very different waters. The navy called it an LCAC—landing craft air cushion—a hovercraft some eighty-eight feet long and forty-seven feet wide.

This LCAC was no longer part of the U.S. Navy; it was privately owned, and it had been extensively modified with more efficient turbines, tougher skirts, and integrated deicing systems.

It was one of two in active service in Antarctic waters. The craft were used to carry large cargos ashore and, just as critically, to remove garbage, and to do so in weather that would swat a helicopter down onto the ice.

Environmentalists were determined to keep Antarctica “green,” despite the fact that green was rarely seen on the ice.

The LCACs shuttled back and forth between shore and a refurbished navy-surplus amphibious assault ship now called the Celadon. Celadon being a shade of green. (Her sister ship was the Shamrock.) The LCACs were the Jade Monkey and the Emerald, again, shades of green. But the LCACs were in fact painted white and gray with splashes of rescue-orange.

The particular LCAC arriving in a whirlwind of salt spray and noise was the Jade Monkey, skippered by Imelda Suarez. Suarez—no one called her Imelda—had a four-person crew and a cargo of booze, diesel fuel, and a massive electrical generator covered by a tarp, as well as a climate-controlled steel container filled with potatoes, apples, fresh spinach, grapes, and oranges. The box was painted with the logo of Whole Foods, and indeed all the produce was organic.

For the old-timers the very idea that fresh fruit and meat could be almost (not quite) year-round was astonishing, and it caused quite a bit of grumbling about how easy things had gotten.

It was nearing summer in Antarctica, and there in McMurdo Sound the thermometer showed a pleasant twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. The wind was a noticeable but manageable eighteen knots. The sun was shining. This time of year it shone pretty nearly all day. All in all about as pleasant as you could ask for at McMurdo.

The Jade Monkey floated over the water and up onto gravel, its big black rubber skirts all puffed out and vibrating like a trumpet player’s cheeks. Suarez powered down, and the vehicle came to rest with a disgruntled wheeze of engines and a long, slow fart as the air cushion bled out.

Imelda Suarez was twenty-eight years old, five feet seven inches tall, dark-skinned, weather-beaten but pretty in the right light. She had worked for Cathexis Inc., owner of the Celadon and her two LCACs, for three years, two as skipper of the Jade Monkey.

It was grueling, brutal, often boring, but occasionally terrifying work. Suarez had never lost a cargo, she had never lost a crewman, and she had kept that spotless record by never underestimating the A-factor. The Antarctic factor. The capacity of the most alien of all continents to complicate or obliterate the scheme

s of Homo sapiens.

Antarctica was always out to kill you.