A day in the life of Ragnorak

An Vsquid1Apocalypse Quotidian.

A giant ball of steam around a more quickly beaten near smooth planet, still pulverized by swirling giganta scale cyclones wrought with continent sized clouds, whirled antipodes, two cyclopean eyes spinning either side of the globe, around and around, storms worthy of Neptune’s and Jupiter’s.

Salt crystals of silicon and carbon, super heating in the storm, twisted into shredding rope-saws torqued by compressed and corded and stacked jet streams of 2,000 kph of Super Winds.
Over the surface these dropped down to a rule of four cycles, shredding more Earth and lifting up more silicon dust and salt.
The vast Oceans evaporated as the Earth heated in a matter of montsh, to beyond boiling.
The initial salt bottoms have been scoured by decades of jet streams, now just below only the tallest ranges.
These vent methane and natgas in massive lakes and springs, with only the deepest valleys or leeward cliffs containing silicon dunes. These dunes being mined by humans living in the stone.

Of all of the Earthen firmament the granite and marble remain, windblown pinnacles and grand galleries of massive and low sloped salt capped rocks. Over head the banded jets press down to engulf those remaining ridges as the Himalyas, the Andes, the Rockies, the Alps, Kilimanjaro and the Queen Alexandria Ridge in Antarctic.
In these tunnels of stone there lodges and advances man.

Even indolent man. As per Jeffries here.

What sort of man was he?

Oh, he would done the suit, swing on the wires and float on the wings, leaping out in the jet stream from howling tunnels of those highest peaks, (above 4,200). These handful, hammered anew by boulders grinding eons per minute, ever-shrouded and shuddering in the shrieking wind. As good as near the best, but never the elite. Those that did not disappear in the freak ribbons and streamers of the Great Winds. At least the ones near the surface!

Distracted so by such the odd but not uncommon physical and literate, political society was beyond him.

And other than brain injuries, there was nothing left to remark about Jeffries.

Yet, where he had settled, a transparent aluminum window set into the low arcing stone cliff side cave, to viewing the western sky as the Winds now always passes by.
“Are they Jupidorian or Neptunian?” people asked, the Jupidorian being the upper range of damage.

Though in actual effect, of gas and heat and a rain of carbon steam pressed beneath almost perfect sphere of super heated steam, was more like Venus. But so typical had the comparison been, that there laid upon the media an old venture to now colonize Venus, as they had various Moons.
Evidence of other people off the planet. In the news.

The Steam Cloud was but one, and so named. There was no pools of water (except in storage), instead, it was dunes of black sludge, methane rich mud-salts where nothing grew, except some conjectured deep sea vented mutations…also featured in Jeffries media.
Sheer stone mountains ranges remain, shrouded beneath a organic haze thick as night. Yet, Jeffries knew the Seven Super-volcano ten year Bake-off subsides, though the magma remains magma on the surface of the earth for decades it too is cooling.
Jeffries wished for slower winds someday.

All hellish except inside these lavish stone pinnacles.
Carved are the houses, galleries and gardens, of a population of 20 million humanities, some mutated, all living on freely available near infinite power.

The general swirl of humanities agonizing die off creating more mixes and round eyes, like Jeffries, were almost extinct.

Ho-Stein, the French-Caspian-Hmong-Athabaskan, stood on the other axis of Crim-tu, the Irish-Bantu-Taiwanese-Mayan in the ethnic alphabet.

More disturbing is the large percentage of humanity, clearly at least one fourth, are mutations. Some arising from genetic experiments, some from the more staid natural adaptation. Neither could claim a better method, and both produced more monsters than supermen.

A space cables was descending to the Earth, having been created above. No communication with the builders is available, yet there it is visible, descending a few meters daily, ever glimpsed by the sky, full of swarming robot and manned probes, always warring over head, gallantly against the carpet bombing level of casualities.
This, on Jeffreis media, was his reactionary politics. Anti-war, though, he too belonged in the air.
A simple politics not including the people who personally sought his downfall. To this he was ever looking away.
There is great intrigue as to “who has rockets?” that can transport up to the robot satellite, suspected as well as being a cluster of Carboniferous Asteroids.

Therein, the big cable descending, with a ever more armored Shuttle, duly robotic, testing its deeper and deeper descent, yet always to rise again un-made by energetic stones.

When it could work into the eyes of the hurricane, there was often turbulance from methane, silicon, carbon gas upwinds.
This also meant the Orbiter lowering the cable was probably adrift.

Jefferies had a methane recycling jet rocket, just so designed to leap up quickly into orbit. This was a family secret.

Yet he thought he alone possessed this knowledge, one other knew.

As Jefferies research into the personnel, the personnel plus cargo, he planned to take, was in the make, and regardless to a coup that was planned to take his place.

A coup had begun to play, the first move successful blackmail, depicting Jeffries as sub-human.

And this social wound matched his own real physical mutation, his so far matchless reflexes.
Doubled down now even as the gossip too, of his being the one possessing a rocket ship capable of ‘flying to the boom’.

Jeffries was not oblvious to this however inevitable confrontation, and built in and out of his pink granite karst canyon low keyhole view, spanning as a gallery the tunnels between the two peaks Pitt and Babo. From the keyhole of stone that range for three hundred meters looked out below to bubbling a methane lake, named Rope.
Rope, for whipped into full on, the column of methane expanded up and out of the keyhole like a funnel.
Alongside and sometimes consumed in these convection cells of scouring methane, Jeffries rock palace gallery, kilometers long transparent aluminium windows strips, glowed in the friction of the maisma of howling orange. This dim green filled the corridors flashing a netting of lightning shimmering and overlapping for minutes.
A coruscating swelling tornado methane orange, coal-black streaks super heated red, and flicking out in fire-streaks.

Within which the atmosphere and sound pressures pumped and levitated lightning soaked magnetic blocks and blobs and sometimes even power stations, of iron. This was Jeffries job, to maintain these engines lasting since the earlier 21st century.

Jeffries low arc gallery view connected to interior of stacked single rooms, two columnar nests inside the neighboorly peaks, shielded by the four thousand meter high range looming over it, its Eastern side ramping the wind born stone storm cloud columns mostly up and over.
The earlier, huge blocks of mountains sides also lay, somewhat disintegrated, on the East side.
Those more vigorous typhoons of old the methane pool acceleration reached up and nicked, scouring even more organic and inorganic yields off thousand kilometer per hour boulders, rocks and soil. Smashed, and pulverized into the mists of silicon. Superheated, to rise and then arrange into globe encircling clouds, heavier faster and sharper than cloud of Venus or the rings of Saturn.

Two gigantic “Whorls”, north and south, were super hurricanes that maintained spinning like the great red spot of Jupiter. The mothers of counter-spinning storms offspringing, of dizzying range of size, power, and number constantly from the counter-circulating “Eyes”. E\

But even during the Venusian morphs of down drafting Jet streams of dense scouring crystalline, Jeffries granite remains of Pitt Peaks still endured, an outcropping island in the leeward shadow of a massive 5.000 meter mountain high cradle. These two other peaks housed thousands, and yet cradled Jeffries unique real estate. Its singular pod station a minute nearby, 400 kilometers east.

The massive gorge between was the typical terrain now of Earth, wrought with a thousand Grand Canyons, appeared within the first twenty years of the carbon heating.

Digging old Mines and Caves preceded lavish massive underground and in rock complexes. Most about the same span. Many limestone escarpments housing tens of thousands, the loopy holes sealed by aluminum, steel and carbon sheets.

Robotic tunnelers dug on, even as Jeffries visits those owned by his Mom.

She lived behind one of the thousand of windows scattered across the low saddle pass between Sarina and Greencorn, the two peaks of Beatridge Keep.
Its too had massive windowed faces, atriums of many a public place.

Below, they accessed the ribbon of a gold lake wavering in the deepest sink of the rift between the ranges.
This vein beneath had long smelt and floated at bottom of silicon bereft stone rift, worn and torn into stone ridges descending in rows to meter wide cracks kilometers deep, the nadir of broken rock bottom lands, scoured into wind torn shapes of scythes and razor sharp crystal ridges of metal salt rings, beneath which wavered puddles and ponds of many glittering alloy soups.
Salt deserts, granite and marble edifices, with human settlement glowing out in the night nearest, looming and glimmering over bowlike reseviors of alloys, accessed from the likewise alloy-made robots, who still yet dig their own precipice steep tunnels.

Lifts were of the rage in massive city underground.

And that is where Jeffries was, now with his Uncle Floyd and Beedee, his bodyguard.
Well, all Uncle Floyd was was a black box that rolled about and had sense enough to tell Jeffries what to do, which was increasing more desperate effort to keep his brain decaying anymore.

Assassins, Uncles in black boxes, a quick trip to visit the Mines. This was Jeffries fate.
Jeffries shuttered the Power Generator Keep, anti pressure seals the u shaped keep.
Meanwhile Jeffries (and Uncle Box, well, okay, Uncle Floyd….though it seemed his real Uncle Floyd was long gone) fast shuttered along, out the mega kilogram Krell doors, inside the antique wind powered tube pod, over the rift of gold, to the Po-Barq central station.

Antique, for mounted forward is fifty caliber gun, belted with live ammo.
An antique that yet announced to the strangers in town Jeffries had formidable resources here in this ancient tech, preserved even during the great recycling.

Only a mad man would have done that.

So into town Jeffries and Uncle Floyd ended their battered and rumbling ride, first down into the crevise and then up, all near seizure speed of 3 g’s.
Yet rolled out they did, more annoyed than adversely stimulated by the over speeding tube dip…the deck fit perfect with the tube and the platform familiarity relieved the disorienting fling.
Jeffries electrically stalled the storage of the Pod. He reversed the magnet lock on the gun, and hoisted the gun and belt, atop off Uncle Floyd. This was done with skeleton assist, a suit he wore wherein in otherwise remained obscure.

While the shaft rocking subsided, Jeffries reset the magnet lock, and transferred the rest of the belt load.

Immediately. almost as if in bureaucratic offense, the Antique Power Plant Pod skipped away, in a right angle, to be shuttered in a chamber, an array of Pod bays serving the subwayesque platform.
No windows existed in the most public places of Po-Barq.
Jeffries and Floyd walked past the few sitters, who turned back to their tablets and unpaused their shows. The few looks up and down said nothing.

“Expect Death!” Floyd said. He always said that, that Uncle Floyd…now he played music.

“Ur gonna die, die, die, you fly, fly, fly

and who will cry, cry, me? Your momma and I

said goodbye so long ago

and you know, I never show for your sake

its a lonely hate, a bitter plate,

you serve it up so well I wished hate

wasn’t so hard baked in how you take

the rocks and winds

your great grandfathers of green Earth

now this stinking orange curse.

What we merit, a mere demon fart

drenching machines and mutants,

a super-powered electrified utopian face

faked, instead feeding the grim monsters

who to soon are to be astronauts,

evolved in vicious shadows, to replace

the silent aristocrats in the heavens

of outer space. Are they oblivious

or just hiding, withholding their medicine

of eternal vitality.”

Sang Floyd, as they sat on the train, scuttling along on rubber wheels through long tunnels of darkness, looping out into a windowed mezzanine, the one on the other side of the rock mounded Mountains, looking right into a cacophony and chaos of collisions.
Sound was counter waved and damped. Yet it was quieter on the looping backing inward.
Somewhere deep within there opened the view down into the cracks, into which a gigantic frame had installed, a honeycomb of tunnels numbering millions of rooftops over an infinite view of descending balconies, windows and elevators. The whole vast establishment, automatically installed by construction bots, was tragically empty due to rampant viral and bacterial blooms.

Yet, infested they were too with mutants and handful of humans, families and tribes, those immune.

Vast internal infinite vistas from within which emerged now fifteen named monsterously atavistic and mutant, former humans. Who knows how many more down there were now groomed in the wretched emptiness?

Drones hovering mere meters below the roof suspended tomb, fire laser occasions so deep down that the beam went beyond the range of Jeffries vision. Once he saw a split second of yellow flicker, but on the train trundled, its rubber wheeling over parallaxing vistas, which left Jeffries with no other chance to see anything alive crawling, flying or moving, this well policed cavern the size of lake snapped closed as Jeffries Pod cloaked in darkness, and approached the enclosure of Zimzum Mining, incorporated.


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